flora
The glass dome above the garden catches the late afternoon light, scattering it in soft gold over marble and water alike. The air inside is warm despite the season, carrying the mingled scents of brine and lilies, and Spice is making delighted little trills from her perch on Flora’s shoulder as she sways her way up the columned hall. Sunlight dances on the curve of her gold bangles and catches in her curls, and though she’s barefoot like the locals, the Queen of Torchline moves with the breezy ease of someone who has claimed this place as much as the tide ever could.
She spots him long before she reaches him—impossible not to, really, with all that height and quiet gravitas bent over his desk—and her grin blooms slow and wicked. "Well, well, she calls, voice carrying across the fountain’s soft murmur, "don’t tell me you’re here to swipe a few coins from the fountain while no one's looking." Her gaze flicks pointedly to the fountain, its carved image of Safrin serene and imperious, and she tips her head as though she’s caught him in some great scandal.
Spice, perhaps sensing the jest, flutters from her shoulder to the fountain’s rim, peering down as if searching for evidence of the crime. The dragon’s tiny claws click against the marble, and Flora drifts closer, the scent of coconut oil and saltwater curling in her wake. Though her personal life might be in tatters, she and Hadama had developed a rhythm as reliable as the tides, and so it was with a bright smile that she turned to regard him. "Hey. How've you been?"
She spots him long before she reaches him—impossible not to, really, with all that height and quiet gravitas bent over his desk—and her grin blooms slow and wicked. "Well, well, she calls, voice carrying across the fountain’s soft murmur, "don’t tell me you’re here to swipe a few coins from the fountain while no one's looking." Her gaze flicks pointedly to the fountain, its carved image of Safrin serene and imperious, and she tips her head as though she’s caught him in some great scandal.
Spice, perhaps sensing the jest, flutters from her shoulder to the fountain’s rim, peering down as if searching for evidence of the crime. The dragon’s tiny claws click against the marble, and Flora drifts closer, the scent of coconut oil and saltwater curling in her wake. Though her personal life might be in tatters, she and Hadama had developed a rhythm as reliable as the tides, and so it was with a bright smile that she turned to regard him. "Hey. How've you been?"
I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland
