flowers bloom in the rain
The isle heaves under us in a lazy swell, sand sliding off one edge while scrub and vine sidle closer on the other. I can feel every place my body isn’t as lean as it used to be, the soft that crept in when I aged up; skill, sure—but not the sharp, precise kind I want. Watching Flora, I realize how much I’ve been missing.
She throws two like it’s nothing and I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face—impressed, a little dazzled. Then: ”Three?”
I stare down at my knife, then at Flora’s two resting against my palm, brows knitting. I tip my head, breathe in the salt and warm green of the underbrush. ”Alright then,” I murmur.
I set my feet against the isle’s slow roll, shoulders loose. Elbow leads, wrist straight, guide—don’t muscle. I throw in Flora’s rhythm: one—two—three. The first two hit with clean, satisfying thunks, bark splintering. The third—one of Flora’s—skews off with a treacherous shimmy of ground beneath me and goes spinning into the underbrush, leaves thrashing as it disappears. I let out a frustrated sigh through my nose, shaking out my fingers. Gods, that trick feels different—my timing wants to tangle when I chain them together like that.
I glance at the neat pair in the palm and the ragged gap where the third should be, then back to Flora just as her two blades reappear in my hand. ”How do people do that with multiple targets?” I ask, half-wonder, half-growl. ”I’ve seen it, and it seems—insane.”
[ training 4/4 ]
She throws two like it’s nothing and I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face—impressed, a little dazzled. Then: ”Three?”
I stare down at my knife, then at Flora’s two resting against my palm, brows knitting. I tip my head, breathe in the salt and warm green of the underbrush. ”Alright then,” I murmur.
I set my feet against the isle’s slow roll, shoulders loose. Elbow leads, wrist straight, guide—don’t muscle. I throw in Flora’s rhythm: one—two—three. The first two hit with clean, satisfying thunks, bark splintering. The third—one of Flora’s—skews off with a treacherous shimmy of ground beneath me and goes spinning into the underbrush, leaves thrashing as it disappears. I let out a frustrated sigh through my nose, shaking out my fingers. Gods, that trick feels different—my timing wants to tangle when I chain them together like that.
I glance at the neat pair in the palm and the ragged gap where the third should be, then back to Flora just as her two blades reappear in my hand. ”How do people do that with multiple targets?” I ask, half-wonder, half-growl. ”I’ve seen it, and it seems—insane.”
Theea
growing up is a pain
