we show off our different scarlet letters
Even in Leafchange, Flora gleams like a treasure lost in the woods. She’s dressed in a fitted velvet coat of deepest crimson, its long tails cinched at the waist and flaring like a flame with every step. Beneath it, snug black leggings disappear into tall boots, scuffed from wear but polished enough to hint at someone who still cares about appearances. Her rings catch the light like starlight through tree branches, and a pale scarf is wound at her throat more for flair than warmth.
A single feather dagger twirls in one hand, its poisoned tip catching the sun like a glinting wink. The others are buried in her coat pocket, keeping her balance as she wanders just a little too far from the path with very intentional aimlessness. She’d meant to head straight back after seeing Danta—genuinely, she had—but the tangle in her chest won’t sit still, and her thoughts keep spiralling in circles too tight for her ribcage to contain.
The roasted scent of pumpkin finds her before she hears the flickering crackle of flame, and it makes her nose crinkle in something like curiosity. Rounding a bend in the path, she slows—dagger still spinning idly—as her gaze lands on a familiar figure perched on a felled trunk like a brooding gargoyle. The tail is a giveaway. So is the smoulder, both literal and not.
Keeping Danta’s warning in the back of her mind (though it flits about like a moth in a storm), Flora slides into view with the subtle confidence of someone who has survived worse. Her eyes track the dancing flames before rising to Astaroth’s face, unreadable but far from unfriendly.
"Whatever that was," she says, nodding toward the scorched husk of the gourd, "it smells delish." The dagger stills between her fingers and she spins it once, just for the satisfaction of the motion.
A single feather dagger twirls in one hand, its poisoned tip catching the sun like a glinting wink. The others are buried in her coat pocket, keeping her balance as she wanders just a little too far from the path with very intentional aimlessness. She’d meant to head straight back after seeing Danta—genuinely, she had—but the tangle in her chest won’t sit still, and her thoughts keep spiralling in circles too tight for her ribcage to contain.
The roasted scent of pumpkin finds her before she hears the flickering crackle of flame, and it makes her nose crinkle in something like curiosity. Rounding a bend in the path, she slows—dagger still spinning idly—as her gaze lands on a familiar figure perched on a felled trunk like a brooding gargoyle. The tail is a giveaway. So is the smoulder, both literal and not.
Keeping Danta’s warning in the back of her mind (though it flits about like a moth in a storm), Flora slides into view with the subtle confidence of someone who has survived worse. Her eyes track the dancing flames before rising to Astaroth’s face, unreadable but far from unfriendly.
"Whatever that was," she says, nodding toward the scorched husk of the gourd, "it smells delish." The dagger stills between her fingers and she spins it once, just for the satisfaction of the motion.
