we write out the ends on our palms, then forget to read
Flora laughs, the sound tumbling out warm and easy despite the early chill. Her brows rise a beat later as Zavien slips that oh-so-casual request into the mix. Shrugging, she rolls one shoulder with an effortless grace, curls swaying behind her. "Things always take longer than you think they will." The words come with the sort of knowing cadence that speaks to too many projects gone sideways, too many delays dressed in bureaucratic lace. "You can absolutely keep them a bit longer." Her grin tips sly, golden, but not unkind. "And if it’s looking grim, I can always pop up and lend a hand. Between the two of us—" she waggles her fingers in a vaguely magical swirl "—we could probably channel and get the harder bits wrapped up. Instant scaffolding. No back pain."
When Zavien takes the staff and begins to move, Flora steps back, twirling hers idly while watching with a smirk that slowly melts into something more appreciative. His demonstration is sharp, clean, and effortless. As the staff slices through the air with a whistle and settles perfectly centred on her, she gasps theatrically and offers him a smattering of applause, before straightening and nodding with an exaggerated solemnity. "Alright, alright. Point taken."
Overhead, Spice lets out a curious chime, wings flaring in a loose hover as she mirrors Sol’s attempt at intimidation. It’s not especially convincing—her gleaming white scales and glittering eyes make her look more like an expensive heirloom ornament than a battle-ready beast—but she flutters gamely into position.
Flora eyes her bonded with a raised brow. "You know I’m not going to go easy on you, right?" Then, shifting her grip lower on the staff, she rears back like she’s swinging for the fences and takes a playful swipe at the air where Spice floats. The little dragon dodges easily, spiralling upward in a gust of snowy wingbeats and trilling with delight.
1/4
When Zavien takes the staff and begins to move, Flora steps back, twirling hers idly while watching with a smirk that slowly melts into something more appreciative. His demonstration is sharp, clean, and effortless. As the staff slices through the air with a whistle and settles perfectly centred on her, she gasps theatrically and offers him a smattering of applause, before straightening and nodding with an exaggerated solemnity. "Alright, alright. Point taken."
Overhead, Spice lets out a curious chime, wings flaring in a loose hover as she mirrors Sol’s attempt at intimidation. It’s not especially convincing—her gleaming white scales and glittering eyes make her look more like an expensive heirloom ornament than a battle-ready beast—but she flutters gamely into position.
Flora eyes her bonded with a raised brow. "You know I’m not going to go easy on you, right?" Then, shifting her grip lower on the staff, she rears back like she’s swinging for the fences and takes a playful swipe at the air where Spice floats. The little dragon dodges easily, spiralling upward in a gust of snowy wingbeats and trilling with delight.
1/4
