Flora
The breeze curling in from the Arclight is enough to tease goosebumps across her bare legs, but Flora’s never been the sort to dress entirely for comfort. The hem of her shorts brushes her thighs, the oversized knit sliding off one shoulder in a way that looks careless and is absolutely intentional, hair piled high on her head in a loose knot that’s already sprouting rebellious curls. Spice is nowhere to be seen—likely off harassing hels—but her absence is more than compensated for by the full volume of Flora’s voice.
"You know," she says sweetly, which is always the first warning sign, "it’s the funniest thing. I didn’t ask for a lecture on the dangers of the Cordillera, I asked if you thought I needed different rigging." One hand is on her hip, the other gesturing toward the SugarTide where it rocks lazily in the berth behind them, sails furled and deck freshly scrubbed. "It’s so sweet that you think you’re being helpful, really, but if I wanted to be told not to do something—" she leans in just enough to let the gold in her jewellery catch the light—"I’d go talk to my parents."
The merchant, all ruddy cheeks and patronising smirk, starts to open his mouth again, and Flora tips her chin toward the crates stacked neatly at her feet, blocking his view of the gangplank. "Save it. I'm going, so if you aren't going to tell me what I actually need, you can scurry back to your stall."
Her smile is bright enough to belong on a postcard. Her eyes, decidedly, are not.
"You know," she says sweetly, which is always the first warning sign, "it’s the funniest thing. I didn’t ask for a lecture on the dangers of the Cordillera, I asked if you thought I needed different rigging." One hand is on her hip, the other gesturing toward the SugarTide where it rocks lazily in the berth behind them, sails furled and deck freshly scrubbed. "It’s so sweet that you think you’re being helpful, really, but if I wanted to be told not to do something—" she leans in just enough to let the gold in her jewellery catch the light—"I’d go talk to my parents."
The merchant, all ruddy cheeks and patronising smirk, starts to open his mouth again, and Flora tips her chin toward the crates stacked neatly at her feet, blocking his view of the gangplank. "Save it. I'm going, so if you aren't going to tell me what I actually need, you can scurry back to your stall."
Her smile is bright enough to belong on a postcard. Her eyes, decidedly, are not.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
