yeah I got heartbreak that I reminisce about
Flora grins at Nikandr, triumphant and golden beneath her mask. "I knew it," she says, wagging her drink at him like it's a smoking gun. "I'm glad to have found at least one thing you're bad at."
Rolling her eyes with theatrical exasperation, she lets out a breathy huff. "And obviously I’ve been in loads of cults," she says, deadpan. "Some I led, some I just looked really good in robes for. This one? Mm." She lifts a hand, twirls her wrist loosely. "Ask me again in a few hours."
The sound of her name draws her attention before she can expand on what exactly her cult resume entails. Flora turns, spying a slip of a girl in mirrored silver and midnight purple weaving through the crowd like moonlight with an agenda. It takes her less than a breath to know who it is—her friend group doesn’t exactly skew brunette—and Flora’s grin breaks wide and unrestrained. "Theea !" she chirps, arms already outstretched. She tugs the younger girl into a hug without hesitation, taking in the glittering edges of her mask and the way the dress flutters like violet flame. "Look at you, showing up like a shattered star."
Releasing her with a squeeze, Flora glances between her and Niki with a blink of surprise. "Wait—you two know each other?" Her brows shoot up. "Theea’s actually my cousin," she adds, tipping her glass toward Niki before arching a golden brow in Theea’s direction. But before she can dive any further into what’s clearly a thread of intrigue, something sparkles on the edge of her vision—less like starlight and more like scandal. She gasps, delight curling through her voice as she spots the hulking silhouette of chainmail and sin striding into view. "Gods, look at Astaroth ," she stage-whispers, gesturing toward the butcher with a sweep of her shot glass, feathers twitching with amusement. "Danta's a lucky man."
She’s still admiring the artful horror of his scars and the leather-on-less-than-leather aesthetic when something else catches her attention—no, someone. Movement by the drinks table. Broad shoulders, messy dark hair, a Ludo costume that barely manages to cover his thighs because Caido never meant for costumes to be worn by someone that tall.
"I’ll be right back," she tells Niki and Theea, already moving.
She doesn’t walk—she glides, cider-glazed and starlit, the crowd parting as if in recognition. And then, with zero hesitation and every ounce of affection, she launches herself at the mountain of a man. "Bassian!" she squeals, arms flung around his neck, legs nearly swept off the floor. "Don’t you dare go for the cider—you’re dancing with me first."
Rolling her eyes with theatrical exasperation, she lets out a breathy huff. "And obviously I’ve been in loads of cults," she says, deadpan. "Some I led, some I just looked really good in robes for. This one? Mm." She lifts a hand, twirls her wrist loosely. "Ask me again in a few hours."
The sound of her name draws her attention before she can expand on what exactly her cult resume entails. Flora turns, spying a slip of a girl in mirrored silver and midnight purple weaving through the crowd like moonlight with an agenda. It takes her less than a breath to know who it is—her friend group doesn’t exactly skew brunette—and Flora’s grin breaks wide and unrestrained. "
Releasing her with a squeeze, Flora glances between her and Niki with a blink of surprise. "Wait—you two know each other?" Her brows shoot up. "Theea’s actually my cousin," she adds, tipping her glass toward Niki before arching a golden brow in Theea’s direction. But before she can dive any further into what’s clearly a thread of intrigue, something sparkles on the edge of her vision—less like starlight and more like scandal. She gasps, delight curling through her voice as she spots the hulking silhouette of chainmail and sin striding into view. "Gods, look at Astaroth ," she stage-whispers, gesturing toward the butcher with a sweep of her shot glass, feathers twitching with amusement. "Danta's a lucky man."
She’s still admiring the artful horror of his scars and the leather-on-less-than-leather aesthetic when something else catches her attention—no, someone. Movement by the drinks table. Broad shoulders, messy dark hair, a Ludo costume that barely manages to cover his thighs because Caido never meant for costumes to be worn by someone that tall.
"I’ll be right back," she tells Niki and Theea, already moving.
She doesn’t walk—she glides, cider-glazed and starlit, the crowd parting as if in recognition. And then, with zero hesitation and every ounce of affection, she launches herself at the mountain of a man. "Bassian!" she squeals, arms flung around his neck, legs nearly swept off the floor. "Don’t you dare go for the cider—you’re dancing with me first."
some real big things I still gotta figure out
