Flora
The Greatwood hums with the hush of late LongHeat, will o’ wisps blobbing lazily somewhere high in the canopy. Invisible though Flora is, the forest seems to recognise her footsteps anyway—soft and barefoot, brushing through moss and root in a rhythm as familiar as her name.
Flora drifts between the trees in a loose flowered sundress, the fabric catching now and then on a wild bramble or wind-shifted leaf. She doesn’t rush. There’s no need to—not today. The heat is thick but not heavy, softened by the shade overhead and the occasional drift of cooler air from unseen streams.
She walks with her fingers grazing the bark as she goes, a hand trailing like a whisper across the trunks. “Just me,” she murmurs to an old maple, its branches creaking in the breeze. “I’m going to see Niki for tea. Nothing dramatic, promise.” She pats the side of the tree as if in reassurance, smile curling though no one can see it. “Well. Probably.”
A few birds flutter above her, startled more by her absence than her presence. Somewhere off to the left, a squirrel chatters like it’s trying to call her bluff. Flora ignores it with the practiced dignity of someone who’s had too many opinions thrown her way lately, and keeps walking—soft, secret, sun-dappled—as she heads toward the tea house.
Flora drifts between the trees in a loose flowered sundress, the fabric catching now and then on a wild bramble or wind-shifted leaf. She doesn’t rush. There’s no need to—not today. The heat is thick but not heavy, softened by the shade overhead and the occasional drift of cooler air from unseen streams.
She walks with her fingers grazing the bark as she goes, a hand trailing like a whisper across the trunks. “Just me,” she murmurs to an old maple, its branches creaking in the breeze. “I’m going to see Niki for tea. Nothing dramatic, promise.” She pats the side of the tree as if in reassurance, smile curling though no one can see it. “Well. Probably.”
A few birds flutter above her, startled more by her absence than her presence. Somewhere off to the left, a squirrel chatters like it’s trying to call her bluff. Flora ignores it with the practiced dignity of someone who’s had too many opinions thrown her way lately, and keeps walking—soft, secret, sun-dappled—as she heads toward the tea house.
Fatefully, I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Code stolen from Queen Sky
