flowers bloom in the rain
The wind lifts loose strands from my braid and I brush them back, breathing through the heat in my chest while I listen. Muscle memory—I know that song—but since aging up it’s like someone rewired the instrument. Some things still come on instinct; some things… don’t.
I open my mouth to ask what she means by switching it up when Flora’s grin tilts and she snaps, think fast. Her dagger flashes, bites the palm, and a pineapple jolts free. Next is, quick, hit it, all in one instant.
I gasp and move on reflex. Weight set despite the isle’s slow roll, elbow leads, wrist straight—guide, don’t muscle—and I narrow my world to a single slice of sun-warmed rind. I track the drop, not the whole fruit, feel the blade as an extension of my hand, release in one clean line. The dagger hisses through the air and slices clean through the falling pineapple before burying itself in the trunk with a sharp thunk.
For a heartbeat I just stare like I’ve done something impossible. Then the knife shimmers back into my palm—unfortunately sticky now—and I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face as I look up at Flora like she’s handed me a miracle.
”I was taught to hit moving targets once,” I admit, laughing under my breath. "Somewhere along the way of getting older and taller—and these damn boobs dragging at my shoulders—”—I gesture to my quite well-endowed chest I haven’t figured out how to deal with yet—”—the skill just… dropped. Thank you for helping me find it.
[training 3/4]
I open my mouth to ask what she means by switching it up when Flora’s grin tilts and she snaps, think fast. Her dagger flashes, bites the palm, and a pineapple jolts free. Next is, quick, hit it, all in one instant.
I gasp and move on reflex. Weight set despite the isle’s slow roll, elbow leads, wrist straight—guide, don’t muscle—and I narrow my world to a single slice of sun-warmed rind. I track the drop, not the whole fruit, feel the blade as an extension of my hand, release in one clean line. The dagger hisses through the air and slices clean through the falling pineapple before burying itself in the trunk with a sharp thunk.
For a heartbeat I just stare like I’ve done something impossible. Then the knife shimmers back into my palm—unfortunately sticky now—and I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face as I look up at Flora like she’s handed me a miracle.
”I was taught to hit moving targets once,” I admit, laughing under my breath. "Somewhere along the way of getting older and taller—and these damn boobs dragging at my shoulders—”—I gesture to my quite well-endowed chest I haven’t figured out how to deal with yet—”—the skill just… dropped. Thank you for helping me find it.
Theea
growing up is a pain
