with each love i cut loose i was never the same
Flora casts a sidelong glance toward the rage room door, the fiery blooms flickering like a dare. If there’s a secret to staying friends with someone like Danta—sharp of jaw and quicker of tongue—it’s probably the blessed absence of any lingering sexual tension. Friends could have casual sex when there was nothing cloying beneath it, no yearning thrumming under the skin. That she didn’t want him in that way—at least not constantly, not destructively—was what made it possible. Safe. Like a vacation she knew she wouldn’t be tempted to extend. Still, she chuckles softly, the sound low and bright. "Given how this season’s going, I'd probably use it first to smash up everything inside."
But it’s Danta’s divine allegiances that make her eyes narrow with mock betrayal as he predictably picked Dygra over Safrin in a fight. The feigned outrage is quick to melt into a grin, but a little hiss of breath escapes her as she steps through the shrine’s door.
The air shifts. Heavy with iron, thick as a jungle after rain. It fills her lungs with something both rich and strange, and despite the silk of her curls and the jingling of her rings, Flora quiets. The temple demands it. Even if Dygra wasn’t her goddess, Flora can recognise power when she feels it. And respect isn’t the same thing as allegiance.
As Danta makes his introduction, Flora offers a small waggle of her fingers in greeting, rings flashing in the torchlight. "Hiya," she says, her voice carrying that same reverent mischief she used with Frey and, on occasion, Ludo. "I know we haven’t met before, but I’ve heard what you’ve done...how you freed the Ascended after the Voice fell. Took them in when no one else cared. That meant a lot to people I care about."
Her eyes stray to the jagged end of the obsidian slab. "So...thanks for that."
But it’s Danta’s divine allegiances that make her eyes narrow with mock betrayal as he predictably picked Dygra over Safrin in a fight. The feigned outrage is quick to melt into a grin, but a little hiss of breath escapes her as she steps through the shrine’s door.
The air shifts. Heavy with iron, thick as a jungle after rain. It fills her lungs with something both rich and strange, and despite the silk of her curls and the jingling of her rings, Flora quiets. The temple demands it. Even if Dygra wasn’t her goddess, Flora can recognise power when she feels it. And respect isn’t the same thing as allegiance.
As Danta makes his introduction, Flora offers a small waggle of her fingers in greeting, rings flashing in the torchlight. "Hiya," she says, her voice carrying that same reverent mischief she used with Frey and, on occasion, Ludo. "I know we haven’t met before, but I’ve heard what you’ve done...how you freed the Ascended after the Voice fell. Took them in when no one else cared. That meant a lot to people I care about."
Her eyes stray to the jagged end of the obsidian slab. "So...thanks for that."
