flora
"The Storm Guard," Flora repeats with exaggerated skepticism, wrinkling her nose as if the name alone carries a whiff of self-importance. His mention of family draws a slight lift of her brows, curiosity sharpening in her expression as she tips her head. "Oh? The same kind of political drama we have here, or did your world have its own unique flavour of it?" Her voice lilts upward with interest, not nosy so much as gently prodding, as if trying to piece together another glimmer of the man across from her.
But whatever answer he might offer is allowed to linger for a moment as he flags down the server and takes care of their order without hesitation. Something about the way he does it—confident, efficient, not remotely bothered by the ritual of it—leaves her faintly charmed, content to sit back and simply nod her approval as he speaks on their behalf.
Flora's grin flashes brighter when he returns his focus to her, and she can’t help the delighted note that slips into her laughter as he bemoans the tedium of the afterlife. "See, that’s exactly what I was worried about," she murmurs conspiratorially, as if they’re sharing a secret beneath the table. "I think I’d go stir crazy too, if everything was just nice all the time. What are you even meant to do if there’s no one around to break your heart or stab you in the back or ruin your carefully balanced wine list with a single truly terrible suggestion?"
She widens her eyes for theatrical emphasis as he turns the question on her, dragging in a breath as if the telling of it might require proper bracing. "Alright," she says, nodding as though settling in for a performance. "Since your life’s been so heartbreakingly lacking in drama, I'll give you the exciting version."
Her voice drops slightly, not in volume but in tone, the edges of her smile sharpening into something that glints with memory. "After Enzo died, I decided I wanted to do something, so I made a bid to become queen of Torchline." She lifts a brow as if daring him to guess how that went, and then answers for him anyway. "It did not go well. I was rejected across the board—too young, too soft, too new, too everything they didn’t want, blah blah."
A small shrug follows, elegant and practiced. "So I patched up the Hanged Man, dragged it from the edge of collapse, and spent the next year proving every single one of them wrong, one by one." She lowers her voice then, not for secrecy but for dramatic flair, her eyes gleaming as if she’s letting him in on a rumour just slightly too juicy to print. "I became queen, and the man who ran the smear campaign against me ended up gutted in an alley a few years later."
But whatever answer he might offer is allowed to linger for a moment as he flags down the server and takes care of their order without hesitation. Something about the way he does it—confident, efficient, not remotely bothered by the ritual of it—leaves her faintly charmed, content to sit back and simply nod her approval as he speaks on their behalf.
Flora's grin flashes brighter when he returns his focus to her, and she can’t help the delighted note that slips into her laughter as he bemoans the tedium of the afterlife. "See, that’s exactly what I was worried about," she murmurs conspiratorially, as if they’re sharing a secret beneath the table. "I think I’d go stir crazy too, if everything was just nice all the time. What are you even meant to do if there’s no one around to break your heart or stab you in the back or ruin your carefully balanced wine list with a single truly terrible suggestion?"
She widens her eyes for theatrical emphasis as he turns the question on her, dragging in a breath as if the telling of it might require proper bracing. "Alright," she says, nodding as though settling in for a performance. "Since your life’s been so heartbreakingly lacking in drama, I'll give you the exciting version."
Her voice drops slightly, not in volume but in tone, the edges of her smile sharpening into something that glints with memory. "After Enzo died, I decided I wanted to do something, so I made a bid to become queen of Torchline." She lifts a brow as if daring him to guess how that went, and then answers for him anyway. "It did not go well. I was rejected across the board—too young, too soft, too new, too everything they didn’t want, blah blah."
A small shrug follows, elegant and practiced. "So I patched up the Hanged Man, dragged it from the edge of collapse, and spent the next year proving every single one of them wrong, one by one." She lowers her voice then, not for secrecy but for dramatic flair, her eyes gleaming as if she’s letting him in on a rumour just slightly too juicy to print. "I became queen, and the man who ran the smear campaign against me ended up gutted in an alley a few years later."
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
