karma's a relaxing thought, aren't you envious that for you it's not?
Flora tips her chin just so, watching him the way one might watch dice tumble across a tavern table; eyes sharp for the moment they settle, for the give-away flicker before the verdict is spoken. The twitch of his jaw has her aqua gaze darting there, the curve of her smile spreading slow and crooked when his reply lands entirely too casual for the flush rising beneath it.
She bites the inside of her cheek, holding back the obvious quip about lasting longer, and instead lets her tone smooth into something lighter. "Here in Torchline," she says, lashes low as she studies the colour blooming warm on his cheeks, "our liquor’s allowed to just taste good. It doesn’t need to burn holes in your throat for minutes after just to keep you from freezing solid." Her smirk deepens, twisting wry as the magic works its way into him.
His comment about paint earns her loud, scandalised "Hey!"—half laugh, half protest—as her elbow nudges playfully into his arm. She recovers quickly with a grin, nodding toward the fountain. "But yes. Luck. Every sailor gets a sip before heading out. It’s tradition now, and the sea takes tradition seriously."
When he remarks about Torchline not doing things halfway, she only laughs, shaking her head as sunlight catches on the stack of rings circling her fingers. She holds her hand up, wiggling them before pointing to one in particular, its metal glinting bright. s[ay]"This one?" she says, the grin gone sly. "Controls the stargate we built. I can open it anywhere in Torchline." Her eyes flick to his, mischief bright. "So, just in case you get any ideas while you’re here." The chuckle that follows is warm, wicked, and very clearly a dare.
His request for another round earns him an approving bite of her lower lip. "I’ll join you," she says, dipping her glass back beneath the flow. This time the pour is generous, the etched symbols catching sunlight through the clear liquid. She lifts it, rim brushing her mouth but not yet tipped, her smile curving wide as her eyes lock on his. "Soooo," she says, voice lilting as the surf hisses against the docks behind them, "were you born in Halo—or did you make the punishing choice to live there on your own?"
She bites the inside of her cheek, holding back the obvious quip about lasting longer, and instead lets her tone smooth into something lighter. "Here in Torchline," she says, lashes low as she studies the colour blooming warm on his cheeks, "our liquor’s allowed to just taste good. It doesn’t need to burn holes in your throat for minutes after just to keep you from freezing solid." Her smirk deepens, twisting wry as the magic works its way into him.
His comment about paint earns her loud, scandalised "Hey!"—half laugh, half protest—as her elbow nudges playfully into his arm. She recovers quickly with a grin, nodding toward the fountain. "But yes. Luck. Every sailor gets a sip before heading out. It’s tradition now, and the sea takes tradition seriously."
When he remarks about Torchline not doing things halfway, she only laughs, shaking her head as sunlight catches on the stack of rings circling her fingers. She holds her hand up, wiggling them before pointing to one in particular, its metal glinting bright. s[ay]"This one?" she says, the grin gone sly. "Controls the stargate we built. I can open it anywhere in Torchline." Her eyes flick to his, mischief bright. "So, just in case you get any ideas while you’re here." The chuckle that follows is warm, wicked, and very clearly a dare.
His request for another round earns him an approving bite of her lower lip. "I’ll join you," she says, dipping her glass back beneath the flow. This time the pour is generous, the etched symbols catching sunlight through the clear liquid. She lifts it, rim brushing her mouth but not yet tipped, her smile curving wide as her eyes lock on his. "Soooo," she says, voice lilting as the surf hisses against the docks behind them, "were you born in Halo—or did you make the punishing choice to live there on your own?"
