flora
Flora stands at the edge of the living room battlefield, arms folded across her chest like a queen surveying a nation that dares to govern itself. A single brow arches with exaggerated suspicion, gaze sweeping slowly across the fortress of blanket towers and cushion ramparts that have colonized her former house. Her mouth purses, unimpressed, but only theatrically so. The twinkle in her aqua eyes is impossible to miss, especially not for someone who knows her well enough to spot the mischief swimming just beneath the surface.
But as he declares no channeling, Flora gasps, dramatic and wounded, hands flying up as if he’s personally robbed her of divine right. "Excuse me?" The words rise like smoke from an elegant bonfire, all hiss and heat and pure indignation. "That is a targeted attack, and you know it." Shoulders squared, she stomps forward (more pout than threat), stopping just close enough to jab a perfectly manicured finger into the soft frog-face on his shirt. "You can channel too, Kai," she says, dragging his name out like honey off a spoon before glancing down at his socks with an expression that's nothing short of scandalised.
Her own outfit might scream comfort, but the fine line between lazy and effortless is one she walks with a strut and a smirk. A white tank top clings in all the right ways, her neckline just tousled enough to say I woke up like this, even though they both know it took three changes and a mirror dance to get it just right. Her sweatpants ride low on her hips, gold bracelets clinking softly when she crosses her arms again with flair. Her curls are half up, half down, a few golden strands spilling like sunbeams against her collarbone.
Behind her, the soft clink of glass on wood echoes faintly from the kitchen, followed by a low, curious snuffle. "Spiiiiiice," Flora calls without looking, tone sharp as a cracked whip. "You can't just go through the cupboards anymore. They aren't yours." There’s a suspicious rustle, a pause, and then the unmistakable sound of a small white dragon sulking.
With a sigh that sounds entirely too put-upon for someone surrounded by plush chaos and frog-shirted company, Flora looks back to Kaisel. "Fine. No channelling." And even as she says it, her hands are already reaching for the nearest blanket, rings flashing. "Hope you're ready to lose. Torchline was basically just one big sandcastle before I became queen."
But as he declares no channeling, Flora gasps, dramatic and wounded, hands flying up as if he’s personally robbed her of divine right. "Excuse me?" The words rise like smoke from an elegant bonfire, all hiss and heat and pure indignation. "That is a targeted attack, and you know it." Shoulders squared, she stomps forward (more pout than threat), stopping just close enough to jab a perfectly manicured finger into the soft frog-face on his shirt. "You can channel too, Kai," she says, dragging his name out like honey off a spoon before glancing down at his socks with an expression that's nothing short of scandalised.
Her own outfit might scream comfort, but the fine line between lazy and effortless is one she walks with a strut and a smirk. A white tank top clings in all the right ways, her neckline just tousled enough to say I woke up like this, even though they both know it took three changes and a mirror dance to get it just right. Her sweatpants ride low on her hips, gold bracelets clinking softly when she crosses her arms again with flair. Her curls are half up, half down, a few golden strands spilling like sunbeams against her collarbone.
Behind her, the soft clink of glass on wood echoes faintly from the kitchen, followed by a low, curious snuffle. "Spiiiiiice," Flora calls without looking, tone sharp as a cracked whip. "You can't just go through the cupboards anymore. They aren't yours." There’s a suspicious rustle, a pause, and then the unmistakable sound of a small white dragon sulking.
With a sigh that sounds entirely too put-upon for someone surrounded by plush chaos and frog-shirted company, Flora looks back to Kaisel. "Fine. No channelling." And even as she says it, her hands are already reaching for the nearest blanket, rings flashing. "Hope you're ready to lose. Torchline was basically just one big sandcastle before I became queen."
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
