I'm not giving up, kicking off the rust
He arrives with a bouquet in hand. It’s a mixture of mostly white, yellow, and purple blooms, peppered with random green sprigs, long grasses, and even one mushroom. It looks a bit beat up from the travel from the Greatwoods to here, and something in it is definitely mildly toxic if the red and itchy reaction of his palm is any indicator. He's swapped out holding them for a glass vase though, back before he got on the sky ship home to King's End, so most of the irritation, and the memory of it, has long since faded.
He wanted to bring her something from her home, however creepy it might be, so anything that looked marginally attractive or he had the wherewithal to notice, he plucked. Mateo would surely be aghast, but luckily the dry season has killed most of the plant life that might have been truly horrific to brush so absently against. When he arrives at the House of Midnight, he asks for Flora, expecting her at the bar, but he's instead pointed towards one of the the specialized rooms. Unfamiliar with the unique brothel, but certainly aware of it's purpose, he hesitates at the door. Someone reassures him she's alone though, so his knuckles rap on the barrier briefly before he cracks the door and calls in, "Flo-ro?"
He's immediately entranced by the scape that greets him, a mesh of the woods he'd just been amongst and the sea he's more accustomed to calling her home. It doesn't fit, not really, but it's also so perfectly Flora that he can't help but smile a bit as he steps in and closes the door behind him, re-sealing the images in full as the quiet din of the outside spaces and the light from them is shut out once more. He spots her in the corner, perched like something dark and quiet, too at odds with the golden shine he's accustomed to. "Ro?" he asks as he steps closer, his pace picking up as he recognizes something is fully off, that something is wrong.
He sinks into the tub lip beside her, the bouquet of mixed flora swaying with wild abandon as he's barely aware of it in the rush to be next to her, gaze skipping over new scars he doesn't recall being there the last time he'd beheld her exposed back. Something tightens in his chest, but he tries to work past it, tries to ignore the creeping panic that shouts at him the insane stories had been true and her letter had vastly downplayed her status, that he'd believed it. So he just sinks into the space closest to her, still clothed as his feet touch the water next to hers, his free hand reaching to thread among her fingers. "I think we have different definitions of okay," he says gently, the only thing he can offer that doesn't feel like a shout.
He wanted to bring her something from her home, however creepy it might be, so anything that looked marginally attractive or he had the wherewithal to notice, he plucked. Mateo would surely be aghast, but luckily the dry season has killed most of the plant life that might have been truly horrific to brush so absently against. When he arrives at the House of Midnight, he asks for Flora, expecting her at the bar, but he's instead pointed towards one of the the specialized rooms. Unfamiliar with the unique brothel, but certainly aware of it's purpose, he hesitates at the door. Someone reassures him she's alone though, so his knuckles rap on the barrier briefly before he cracks the door and calls in, "Flo-ro?"
He's immediately entranced by the scape that greets him, a mesh of the woods he'd just been amongst and the sea he's more accustomed to calling her home. It doesn't fit, not really, but it's also so perfectly Flora that he can't help but smile a bit as he steps in and closes the door behind him, re-sealing the images in full as the quiet din of the outside spaces and the light from them is shut out once more. He spots her in the corner, perched like something dark and quiet, too at odds with the golden shine he's accustomed to. "Ro?" he asks as he steps closer, his pace picking up as he recognizes something is fully off, that something is wrong.
He sinks into the tub lip beside her, the bouquet of mixed flora swaying with wild abandon as he's barely aware of it in the rush to be next to her, gaze skipping over new scars he doesn't recall being there the last time he'd beheld her exposed back. Something tightens in his chest, but he tries to work past it, tries to ignore the creeping panic that shouts at him the insane stories had been true and her letter had vastly downplayed her status, that he'd believed it. So he just sinks into the space closest to her, still clothed as his feet touch the water next to hers, his free hand reaching to thread among her fingers. "I think we have different definitions of okay," he says gently, the only thing he can offer that doesn't feel like a shout.
Kaisel
I keep acting tough but maybe I'm not good enough
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
