flora
Flora has never believed in the idea of a true edge to the world, but standing here again makes her reconsider, the air so thin and sharp it feels like it could shear thought clean in half, the mountains rolling away beneath her in impossible folds of stone and snow. The Sugartide is anchored nearby, small and stubborn against the scale of it all, and Flora leaves her there with practiced trust, Spice fidgeting at her shoulder as the wind tugs at loose curls and the sweater wrapped around her throat. Several unlit torches are balanced carefully in her arms, clean and waiting, and her fingers brush instinctively against the familiar weight of her daggers as she climbs, step by deliberate step, toward the light at the top of the Lighthouse.
The climb is not gentle; the stairs coil and narrow, their stone steps worn smooth by ages from the feet of those who have bested dragons and the odds to reach this place. At the top, the glow is steady and strange and she pauses only long enough to set the torches in place. This is not about guilt or appeasement, not really. It's about acknowledgement of the fact that Flora has gone to other gods for Torchline recently, but wanting to show her gratitude for Safrin by bringing down flame from on high to light her shrine with.
One by one the torches capture the fire, the flame blooming steady and sure and Flora exhales a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding; some vague part of her wondered if fire could even be carried away from this place.
The climb is not gentle; the stairs coil and narrow, their stone steps worn smooth by ages from the feet of those who have bested dragons and the odds to reach this place. At the top, the glow is steady and strange and she pauses only long enough to set the torches in place. This is not about guilt or appeasement, not really. It's about acknowledgement of the fact that Flora has gone to other gods for Torchline recently, but wanting to show her gratitude for Safrin by bringing down flame from on high to light her shrine with.
One by one the torches capture the fire, the flame blooming steady and sure and Flora exhales a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding; some vague part of her wondered if fire could even be carried away from this place.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
