karma's a relaxing thought, aren't you envious that for you it's not?
The shoreline is warm silk under her feet, each step pressing crescent moons into the wet sand before the tide rushes in to claim them. The water is cool enough to tease but not chase her out, wrapping over her ankles in quicksilver ribbons before curling back toward the horizon. Sunlight makes a shifting mosaic on the surface, dazzling to look at for too long, so she keeps her gaze ahead, one hand absently brushing at the hem of her knotted shirt where the breeze keeps trying to tangle it around her waist.
Torchline smells like home today—hibiscus and salt, grilled fish somewhere up the beach, a thread of sugar from whatever vendor thought to ply sweets in this heat. It sticks to her skin along with the salt air, making her curls cling in gold-tipped spirals where they’ve fallen from her braid. A far cry from Halo’s furs and frostbite; this is how she’s meant to be—bare-legged in soft linen shorts, shirt loose enough to invite the breeze, every inch of her at ease in the heat.
Spice flies in lazy arcs overhead, white wings scattering little shivers of cold air down to her as if in solidarity with the cooler climate they left behind. The dragon’s shadow skims over the shoreline like an impatient tide, darting ahead and circling back, until something farther up the beach catches Flora’s attention.
Damien, all rolled sleeves and driftwood posture, looks like the sand is one ill-timed gust away from swallowing him whole. There’s a damp patch clinging dark across his shoulder, a certain Halo-man-in-the-tropics stiffness in the way he sits that makes her grin before she’s even angled toward him. She lets the waves claim a few more steps before cutting across the sand, lifting a hand in greeting as the heat soaks into her soles.
"Well," she calls, voice smooth and teasing enough to carry on the salt wind, "look at you—surviving the tropics without combusting. I’m impressed." The smile she gives him is brighter than the torches lining the beach, and wholly unhurried, as if she’s not approaching the man delivering the bones of her future home but an old friend she intends to tease until he grins.
Torchline smells like home today—hibiscus and salt, grilled fish somewhere up the beach, a thread of sugar from whatever vendor thought to ply sweets in this heat. It sticks to her skin along with the salt air, making her curls cling in gold-tipped spirals where they’ve fallen from her braid. A far cry from Halo’s furs and frostbite; this is how she’s meant to be—bare-legged in soft linen shorts, shirt loose enough to invite the breeze, every inch of her at ease in the heat.
Spice flies in lazy arcs overhead, white wings scattering little shivers of cold air down to her as if in solidarity with the cooler climate they left behind. The dragon’s shadow skims over the shoreline like an impatient tide, darting ahead and circling back, until something farther up the beach catches Flora’s attention.
Damien, all rolled sleeves and driftwood posture, looks like the sand is one ill-timed gust away from swallowing him whole. There’s a damp patch clinging dark across his shoulder, a certain Halo-man-in-the-tropics stiffness in the way he sits that makes her grin before she’s even angled toward him. She lets the waves claim a few more steps before cutting across the sand, lifting a hand in greeting as the heat soaks into her soles.
"Well," she calls, voice smooth and teasing enough to carry on the salt wind, "look at you—surviving the tropics without combusting. I’m impressed." The smile she gives him is brighter than the torches lining the beach, and wholly unhurried, as if she’s not approaching the man delivering the bones of her future home but an old friend she intends to tease until he grins.
