flora
From somewhere near the mouth of the Spire, a tune rises to meet Asta's own—ever so slightly off-key, over-enthusiastic, unmistakably Flora. She doesn’t appear, not visually, but her presence winds into the air like perfume on a breeze, wrapped in bright irreverence despite the lurking shadows of the Grounds.
"Don’t stab me," she calls, voice sweet as honey, even as it echoes just enough to make her positioning ambiguous. "I was going to give you a hug, buttttttt.." There’s a pause, punctuated by a thoughtful hum and a bit of airily feigned disgust. "But now I see we’re working the butcher chic aesthetic again, and my outfit definitely won't be improved by blood splatter." She makes a tsking noise that does little to hide her amusement.
The gentle sound of her footsteps circles nearer—deliberate but unhurried. "Sooooo," she continues, voice still a touch sing-song, "what are we making today? Something menacing and practical, or purely menacing?"
"Don’t stab me," she calls, voice sweet as honey, even as it echoes just enough to make her positioning ambiguous. "I was going to give you a hug, buttttttt.." There’s a pause, punctuated by a thoughtful hum and a bit of airily feigned disgust. "But now I see we’re working the butcher chic aesthetic again, and my outfit definitely won't be improved by blood splatter." She makes a tsking noise that does little to hide her amusement.
The gentle sound of her footsteps circles nearer—deliberate but unhurried. "Sooooo," she continues, voice still a touch sing-song, "what are we making today? Something menacing and practical, or purely menacing?"
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
