your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Spice emits a sound that can only be described as a gleeful, frosty cackle, the kind of noise that starts in her throat and ends in a stream of giggles made entirely of ice. She loops tight circles just beyond the reach of Pipsqueak’s fire, twisting midair with all the grace of a smug little hurricane, clearly living her best chaotic life.
Flora watches the dragons with a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth, head tilting lazily toward Koa as he joins her on the island. "Well, you’ve absolutely helped me perfect it," she says, the words warm as a sunbeam despite their content. "Without all the practice bailing on you, I’d probably still be halfway decent at honest communication." Her lashes flutter dramatically as she sighs.
But then as Koa keeps going—bees, of all things—and Flora laughs, a bright, unfiltered sound that echoes faintly off the alien rock around them. "Okay, bees would suck," she agrees, snorting. The absurdity doesn’t soften the tension of the place, though, and even with the laughter still clinging to her lips, her fingers dip into the folds of her sweater. One of her feathered daggers appears in hand, the gold glint of it catching in a sliver of watery light. She twirls it once, lazy and precise, then tosses it casually into the air and catches it by the hilt.
Brows arched, she glances sideways at him. "Sooooo," she says, slow and syrup-smooth, "you still think you’re faster than me?" He had been, once upon a time, in their youth when it seemed like the only pace they ever moved in was a full-on dash.
Flora watches the dragons with a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth, head tilting lazily toward Koa as he joins her on the island. "Well, you’ve absolutely helped me perfect it," she says, the words warm as a sunbeam despite their content. "Without all the practice bailing on you, I’d probably still be halfway decent at honest communication." Her lashes flutter dramatically as she sighs.
But then as Koa keeps going—bees, of all things—and Flora laughs, a bright, unfiltered sound that echoes faintly off the alien rock around them. "Okay, bees would suck," she agrees, snorting. The absurdity doesn’t soften the tension of the place, though, and even with the laughter still clinging to her lips, her fingers dip into the folds of her sweater. One of her feathered daggers appears in hand, the gold glint of it catching in a sliver of watery light. She twirls it once, lazy and precise, then tosses it casually into the air and catches it by the hilt.
Brows arched, she glances sideways at him. "Sooooo," she says, slow and syrup-smooth, "you still think you’re faster than me?" He had been, once upon a time, in their youth when it seemed like the only pace they ever moved in was a full-on dash.
