Flora
there's no time to waste on loving badly
Wildering House glows like a ruby dropped into the dusk. Every surface, every bannister, every sweep of coral stone seems to pulse with deep red light, caught and refracted through the crystal garlands strung from the balconies. The spirits have been unusually enthusiastic about this theme; they’ve woven shards of translucent brilliance along the doorframes, coaxed firelight into dancing curls, and stirred the air so that the whole place feels warm and indulgent, like the inside of a gemstone.Flora stands in the centre of the grand living room, barefoot on cool stone, watching the last of the preparations unfurl around her. Her curls are piled up in a loose twist to keep the heat at bay, though a few golden tendrils keep escaping in ways she pretends not to notice. Kaisel helped her string the heavier crystal chains across the ceiling earlier, (and once he’d left to get ready, the spirits swept through with invisible efficiency, straightening each strand until it hung in perfect symmetry beneath the stained glass skylight). Said skylight now throws a kaleidoscope of reds, golds, and flashes of white fire across the room, and every motion she makes ripples the colours like something alive.
Spice has taken ownership of the refreshment table, chilling whatever needs chilling, her little white body coiled proudly beside a towering display of alcohol. Flora doesn’t even try to count how many bottles she’s assembled; the selection spans Torchline rum, delicate wines for the less feral guests, and several dangerous-looking decanters she’d picked up on the islands that come with vague warnings and no labels.
Outside, on the patio overlooking the pool, the real spectacle sits: long stone tables covered in platters of raw meat so fresh it still glistens under the torchlight. Open braziers burn steadily nearby, just waiting for an Ancient’s flame to quicken them. The air smells like salt and smoke and the rich, dark promise of something decadent.
Flora adjusts the fall of her dress—red lace, obviously, adorned with golden slit so high as to be dizzying, meant to look like a lick of flame—and looks around the house with a small surge of pride, just waiting for the guest of honour to arrive.
Code stolen from Queen Sky
