your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
The rhythm of hooves on frosted undergrowth announces her before her voice does, the mare’s breath misting into the pine-tinged air like a warning—or a greeting, depending on who’s asking. Flora sits tall in the saddle, her curls twisted into a thick braid over one shoulder and wrapped with a gold-threaded ribbon that glints like sunlight where there is none. A deep green cloak flares around her knees, lined with fur and pinned at her collarbone with a carved shell brooch. Beside her, Spice glides easily through the biting air, white wings catching every stray glimmer of leaf-filtered light, trailing little coils of cool where the wind bites too deep.
The scent of sawdust and sweat hits before the voice does. When it does come, her brows lift, lips parting around a slow smile that’s warmer than the air could dream of being. "Didn’t get this tan around here," she calls back, her voice smooth as poured honey with just enough drawl to make it impossible to tell if she’s teasing or not.
With a practiced swing, she dismounts, boots crunching down into frozen moss and pine needles. Her gaze flicks over the clearing—the felled pine, the half-severed trunk, the sharp-toothed axes and thick-armed men—and then settles on Damien, framed in sawdust and the sort of hush that always follows a fallen giant such that he appears cut from a different forest entirely. "I'm Flora," she offers, excluding her title. Either he knew who she was or he didn't, and if he didn't, all the better to see what his level of care was when dealing with just a random from the coast.
The Doubletake falls into step behind him, tugging her gloves a little tighter against the chill and tilting her head toward the stacked timber ahead. "Sooo, is this the part where I get splinters and pretend I know more than like, three facts at most about wood in the hopes you don't completely take advantage?"
The scent of sawdust and sweat hits before the voice does. When it does come, her brows lift, lips parting around a slow smile that’s warmer than the air could dream of being. "Didn’t get this tan around here," she calls back, her voice smooth as poured honey with just enough drawl to make it impossible to tell if she’s teasing or not.
With a practiced swing, she dismounts, boots crunching down into frozen moss and pine needles. Her gaze flicks over the clearing—the felled pine, the half-severed trunk, the sharp-toothed axes and thick-armed men—and then settles on Damien, framed in sawdust and the sort of hush that always follows a fallen giant such that he appears cut from a different forest entirely. "I'm Flora," she offers, excluding her title. Either he knew who she was or he didn't, and if he didn't, all the better to see what his level of care was when dealing with just a random from the coast.
The Doubletake falls into step behind him, tugging her gloves a little tighter against the chill and tilting her head toward the stacked timber ahead. "Sooo, is this the part where I get splinters and pretend I know more than like, three facts at most about wood in the hopes you don't completely take advantage?"
