Flora
Flora shrugs, palms brushing the sides of her thighs as the last of the spirits dissipate into saltwind and sparkle. "Maybe," she echoes, the word curling with a grin that’s more teeth than teeth-gritting. If indifference was a knife, then hers had just been sharpened on the bones of a burned-out bar.
She turns just in time to catch Melita’s applause and the Firecracker practically glowing under it, and gods help her, it actually makes her laugh. Not one of those sharp, performative laughs that get tossed out at parties or town meetings, but a real one, from somewhere deep enough to feel fizzy.
And when Melita explains the boop-to-copy situation, Flora’s delight sparks. Her grin widens into something mischievous and lopsided, a little too pleased by the absolute chaos potential. "Of course you can," she says, voice bright with admiration and a touch of disbelief. "That’s epic." Then, with a slow bounce of her brows and a hand sweeping theatrically toward the sea, she declares, "That pretty much makes you the best demigod of them all, right?" She’s only mostly joking.
The slight shift in Melita’s posture doesn’t go unnoticed—Flora’s spent enough time holding her own body like a fortress to recognize it in others—but she doesn’t press. She knows what it’s like to be asked and not ready. To want to keep certain stories folded up like secret letters, unsent and unread. So instead, she just grins. "That's great." Then she blinks, head snapping around with a laugh that nearly sends her off balance. "A sled?" she gasps, hand to her chest like Melita’s just revealed some scandalous affair. "Like a sled-sled? With, like, runners and bells and snow and a whole Deepfrost aesthetic?"
She turns just in time to catch Melita’s applause and the Firecracker practically glowing under it, and gods help her, it actually makes her laugh. Not one of those sharp, performative laughs that get tossed out at parties or town meetings, but a real one, from somewhere deep enough to feel fizzy.
And when Melita explains the boop-to-copy situation, Flora’s delight sparks. Her grin widens into something mischievous and lopsided, a little too pleased by the absolute chaos potential. "Of course you can," she says, voice bright with admiration and a touch of disbelief. "That’s epic." Then, with a slow bounce of her brows and a hand sweeping theatrically toward the sea, she declares, "That pretty much makes you the best demigod of them all, right?" She’s only mostly joking.
The slight shift in Melita’s posture doesn’t go unnoticed—Flora’s spent enough time holding her own body like a fortress to recognize it in others—but she doesn’t press. She knows what it’s like to be asked and not ready. To want to keep certain stories folded up like secret letters, unsent and unread. So instead, she just grins. "That's great." Then she blinks, head snapping around with a laugh that nearly sends her off balance. "A sled?" she gasps, hand to her chest like Melita’s just revealed some scandalous affair. "Like a sled-sled? With, like, runners and bells and snow and a whole Deepfrost aesthetic?"
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
