karma's a relaxing thought, aren't you envious that for you it's not?
Flora shrugs at the mention of Safrin, the motion easy, shoulders rolling as her rings catch the light. "She took a particular interest in Torchline a while back," she says, tone matter-of-fact but not dismissive. "So far, it’s worked out well enough for us."
Her eyes narrow, lips pursing as she tilts her chin up toward him in playful skepticism, letting her agreement land with deliberate dryness. "Must be," she says of the altitude, her smirk betraying her amusement as it tugs crooked at her mouth. The look she flicks at him after makes it clear she doesn’t buy his stubborn verdict for a second, but she's willing to forgo a further argument about it.
As Damien gazes out to sea, Flora takes in the line of his face, watching how the light cuts across his jaw and the sunglasses sharpen the rest. His dry joke about Halo being punishment enough earns a chuckle under her breath—because in her opinion, it is—but she listens with genuine interest as his words settle into something heavier. There’s something undeniably romantic about it, she thinks, making a place that harsh your own. His return to whiskey as if to lighten it again has her laughing outright, bright and sudden, her cheeks pink with rum. "It's the gods’ work you're doing out there, then," she agrees, tipping her glass in mock salute.
When the question returns to her, she glances down into her glass, the magical warmth humming through her veins, before shaking her head lightly. "Not here," she admits. "I was born in the Greatwood, mostly raised by my grandmother." Her voice softens with the memory, though it doesn’t linger there long. "When my twin and I turned sixteen, we moved to Torchline." She pauses, the smile slipping, her words shifting sober. "It was right before the war. He died in it." The admission hangs unadorned, without her usual armour of quips or dramatics, though the way she tips her glass back after speaks louder than anything. The rum burns down her throat in a long swallow, chasing ghosts back into the dark.
By the time she sets it down, her smile is back, bright enough, but it only brushes against her eyes. "And then, well—" she spreads a hand like it explains everything, "I nearly packed it in. But instead, I took over a bar and then became queen." She leans forward a touch, grin twisting into something that only gestures at how blunt a point she'd put on those foundational years of her life. "Y’know. As one does."
Her eyes narrow, lips pursing as she tilts her chin up toward him in playful skepticism, letting her agreement land with deliberate dryness. "Must be," she says of the altitude, her smirk betraying her amusement as it tugs crooked at her mouth. The look she flicks at him after makes it clear she doesn’t buy his stubborn verdict for a second, but she's willing to forgo a further argument about it.
As Damien gazes out to sea, Flora takes in the line of his face, watching how the light cuts across his jaw and the sunglasses sharpen the rest. His dry joke about Halo being punishment enough earns a chuckle under her breath—because in her opinion, it is—but she listens with genuine interest as his words settle into something heavier. There’s something undeniably romantic about it, she thinks, making a place that harsh your own. His return to whiskey as if to lighten it again has her laughing outright, bright and sudden, her cheeks pink with rum. "It's the gods’ work you're doing out there, then," she agrees, tipping her glass in mock salute.
When the question returns to her, she glances down into her glass, the magical warmth humming through her veins, before shaking her head lightly. "Not here," she admits. "I was born in the Greatwood, mostly raised by my grandmother." Her voice softens with the memory, though it doesn’t linger there long. "When my twin and I turned sixteen, we moved to Torchline." She pauses, the smile slipping, her words shifting sober. "It was right before the war. He died in it." The admission hangs unadorned, without her usual armour of quips or dramatics, though the way she tips her glass back after speaks louder than anything. The rum burns down her throat in a long swallow, chasing ghosts back into the dark.
By the time she sets it down, her smile is back, bright enough, but it only brushes against her eyes. "And then, well—" she spreads a hand like it explains everything, "I nearly packed it in. But instead, I took over a bar and then became queen." She leans forward a touch, grin twisting into something that only gestures at how blunt a point she'd put on those foundational years of her life. "Y’know. As one does."
