your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora gasps, hand flying to her chest with mock horror. "Maligning Torchline’s rum in my presence?" she says, scandalised. “"First off, the rum fountain by the docks is literally like drinking luck. And secondly—" she leans forward, brandishing her cup like a weapon, "—as someone who used to own a bar, I can’t let that kind of slander slide." Her grin is casual, teasing, but there’s a note of challenge tucked beneath the sugar. "Next time you’re in Torchline, come find me. I’m sure I can change your mind."
She eases back into her seat, amusement still lingering as she lifts the cup for another sip. At the mention of Safrin, she shrugs, more thoughtful. "Haven’t asked her yet," she admits. Then, with a little flick of her fingers, adds, "But she’s never turned me down for anything before." Such was the benefit of not only being an Accepted, but coming from the family she did.
As Flora explains, it’s the way Damien doesn’t interrupt her that begins to unwind something in her spine. Most people, when she speaks like that—with her heart showing through the shine—either fall over themselves to reassure her or scramble to pick a side. But he just...listens. Like the silence around her isn’t something to be solved. Like she doesn’t need to sell him the dream in order to make it real. And gods, is that disarming.
The almost-compliment, when it comes, slips under her defences like a low tide brushing the shore. Flora’s smile softens, though her shoulder lifts in a shrug more used to brushing off praise than wearing it. "I’ve had some practice doing things for other people," she says, voice quiet but steady. "Most recently getting myself kicked out of my own city to keep my people safe and then being torn up to ribbons by an alien." It's casually enough said, as if out here in Halo the trials and tribulations that Flora had endured for Torchline simply didn't carry the same weight.
The mention of needing more than wood and nails draws a glint in her eye, such that she nods solemnly, before letting her smile curve crookedly. "Obviously. I’ll need doorknobs, too." She sips her whiskey again, savouring the warmth down her throat, before shifting her weight and lifting a brow at him. "I’ll be around for delivery," she says. Then, almost lazily she asks, "Are you doing it yourself, or..do you have people for that?"
As for the offer of staying, Flora shakes her head, braid brushing over her shoulder. "I appreciate it, but I did say I'd make my rounds while I was in Halo since I come this way so infrequently." She rises smoothly, collecting her gloves from the seat and tucking them beneath her arm. Though her words are breezy, her gaze lingers on him a moment longer—curious, unreadable, but quietly appreciative. Something about the steadiness of this place. Of him. It sticks.
"Thanks for the drink. And the wood. I’ll see you in a few days."
She eases back into her seat, amusement still lingering as she lifts the cup for another sip. At the mention of Safrin, she shrugs, more thoughtful. "Haven’t asked her yet," she admits. Then, with a little flick of her fingers, adds, "But she’s never turned me down for anything before." Such was the benefit of not only being an Accepted, but coming from the family she did.
As Flora explains, it’s the way Damien doesn’t interrupt her that begins to unwind something in her spine. Most people, when she speaks like that—with her heart showing through the shine—either fall over themselves to reassure her or scramble to pick a side. But he just...listens. Like the silence around her isn’t something to be solved. Like she doesn’t need to sell him the dream in order to make it real. And gods, is that disarming.
The almost-compliment, when it comes, slips under her defences like a low tide brushing the shore. Flora’s smile softens, though her shoulder lifts in a shrug more used to brushing off praise than wearing it. "I’ve had some practice doing things for other people," she says, voice quiet but steady. "Most recently getting myself kicked out of my own city to keep my people safe and then being torn up to ribbons by an alien." It's casually enough said, as if out here in Halo the trials and tribulations that Flora had endured for Torchline simply didn't carry the same weight.
The mention of needing more than wood and nails draws a glint in her eye, such that she nods solemnly, before letting her smile curve crookedly. "Obviously. I’ll need doorknobs, too." She sips her whiskey again, savouring the warmth down her throat, before shifting her weight and lifting a brow at him. "I’ll be around for delivery," she says. Then, almost lazily she asks, "Are you doing it yourself, or..do you have people for that?"
As for the offer of staying, Flora shakes her head, braid brushing over her shoulder. "I appreciate it, but I did say I'd make my rounds while I was in Halo since I come this way so infrequently." She rises smoothly, collecting her gloves from the seat and tucking them beneath her arm. Though her words are breezy, her gaze lingers on him a moment longer—curious, unreadable, but quietly appreciative. Something about the steadiness of this place. Of him. It sticks.
"Thanks for the drink. And the wood. I’ll see you in a few days."
