flora
Above Panacea glides the Sugartide. She’s a sailboat, technically, but only in the loosest sense. Her stained-glass sails shimmer with every tilt of the sun, casting kaleidoscopic colour across the water below—blush pinks, pale jades, honeyed ambers—all dappled and bright as a cathedral of light. Lavender vines curl lovingly up the mast and railings, thick with blooms, and ivy weaves its way along the sides of the hull like it’s been coaxed there by song. She’s beautiful in the way dangerous things are—lovely, fast, and just a little too alive.
At her helm stands Flora, the Queen of Torchline in all her breezy, salt-washed splendour. Her sundress is white and loose, cinched at the waist with gold thread, the hem dancing high in the wind as the sea teases at her legs. Her curls are swept up messily, pinned by sea-glass combs, and her skin glows bronze from days spent beneath the sun. Rings glint on her fingers as she steers, though one hand is lifted now in lazy shading from the light, squinting down at the islands below.
Spice flits beside her in a trail of shimmer and frost, the little white dragon darting ahead in playful spirals, occasionally pausing to snap at a rogue gust or trail her breath in cold curlicues over the rails. It’s Spice who draws Flora’s gaze downward—first with a chirp, then a looping dive over a figure moving across one of the larger islands. A woman, barefoot and basket-laden, her clothes rippling with the wind. Alone.
Flora frowns lightly, then angles the Sugartide down, letting her drift lower until her shadow glides over the shifting sand below. The sails catch the sun and send rainbow flecks scattering across the island as she slows to hover. "Hey!" Flora calls out, one hand raised to wave, the wind tugging playfully at her dress. "You good down there?"
At her helm stands Flora, the Queen of Torchline in all her breezy, salt-washed splendour. Her sundress is white and loose, cinched at the waist with gold thread, the hem dancing high in the wind as the sea teases at her legs. Her curls are swept up messily, pinned by sea-glass combs, and her skin glows bronze from days spent beneath the sun. Rings glint on her fingers as she steers, though one hand is lifted now in lazy shading from the light, squinting down at the islands below.
Spice flits beside her in a trail of shimmer and frost, the little white dragon darting ahead in playful spirals, occasionally pausing to snap at a rogue gust or trail her breath in cold curlicues over the rails. It’s Spice who draws Flora’s gaze downward—first with a chirp, then a looping dive over a figure moving across one of the larger islands. A woman, barefoot and basket-laden, her clothes rippling with the wind. Alone.
Flora frowns lightly, then angles the Sugartide down, letting her drift lower until her shadow glides over the shifting sand below. The sails catch the sun and send rainbow flecks scattering across the island as she slows to hover. "Hey!" Flora calls out, one hand raised to wave, the wind tugging playfully at her dress. "You good down there?"
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
