flora
"Yeah, it’s me," Flora confirms, voice warm with the soft sort of smile that doesn’t need a face to carry it.
At the muttered that’s handy, there’s a ghost of a shrug, barely a shift of air from where she still perches—though invisibly—on the mossy bench. "It is," she allows, "especially right now that I'm a bit of a target." Her tone is dry, but there’s no real edge to it. Just weary humour, the kind that comes from too many weeks spent looking over her shoulder. "I'm trying to keep a low profile after what happened," she adds with another shrug that Colt won't be able to see.
A pause, then a quiet chuckle. "Mmmm, good point." Another moment of silence where her body rocks just slightly, kicking one foot out into the air and disturbing the grasses beneath the bench. "Makes me sleepy, though," she admits. "Last time I had one, I dozed off in the sun and woke up with a tan line in the shape of a dagger." There’s a grin in her voice now, playful again, like the water’s gone still long enough for some of the shimmer to return.
She lets a breath slip out, then asks, more curious than anything, "You ever try making a wish in the dreaming well?" Her voice gentles around the word wish, like it’s something delicate that could dissolve if spoken too loud, the same way you couldn't reveal a wish once it had been made.
At the muttered that’s handy, there’s a ghost of a shrug, barely a shift of air from where she still perches—though invisibly—on the mossy bench. "It is," she allows, "especially right now that I'm a bit of a target." Her tone is dry, but there’s no real edge to it. Just weary humour, the kind that comes from too many weeks spent looking over her shoulder. "I'm trying to keep a low profile after what happened," she adds with another shrug that Colt won't be able to see.
A pause, then a quiet chuckle. "Mmmm, good point." Another moment of silence where her body rocks just slightly, kicking one foot out into the air and disturbing the grasses beneath the bench. "Makes me sleepy, though," she admits. "Last time I had one, I dozed off in the sun and woke up with a tan line in the shape of a dagger." There’s a grin in her voice now, playful again, like the water’s gone still long enough for some of the shimmer to return.
She lets a breath slip out, then asks, more curious than anything, "You ever try making a wish in the dreaming well?" Her voice gentles around the word wish, like it’s something delicate that could dissolve if spoken too loud, the same way you couldn't reveal a wish once it had been made.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
