Flora
Flora’s shoulders sag the second smoothing is announced, the promise of lunch doing absolutely nothing to soften the blow in the moment. She drags the back of her hand across her brow and then, with full theatrical commitment, mimes shooting herself in the head in Hawthorn 's direction before breaking into a grin that says she is very much still alive and unfortunately still working.
"Don't even" she laughs toward Colt, shaking her head as she steps down from the wagon. "If this were last season, we’d do all of this and then the memory mud would just wander right back to where it had all started." The image earns a snort from her as she swaps her shovel out for a rake, testing its weight with a small, resigned huff.
She pauses only long enough for Spice to oblige her again, a cool breath washing over her and sending her hair lifting back in a brief, ridiculous moment that looks far more dramatic than the situation warrants. Flora blinks through it, smirking faintly as the strands settle, and then gets to work, nudging and pulling at the dirt with the rake, smoothing down small mounds and redistributing soil where it’s needed.
It’s not elegant, and she’s clearly learning as she goes, but she finds a rhythm soon enough, rake dragging, boots shuffling, sweat and dust slowly winning the argument despite the occasional blast of cold. "Wait, are duck's asses actually flat?" she wonders under her breath with amused skepticism as she adjusts her angle and keeps at it, determined to see the arena properly finished before her arms give out.
"Don't even" she laughs toward Colt, shaking her head as she steps down from the wagon. "If this were last season, we’d do all of this and then the memory mud would just wander right back to where it had all started." The image earns a snort from her as she swaps her shovel out for a rake, testing its weight with a small, resigned huff.
She pauses only long enough for Spice to oblige her again, a cool breath washing over her and sending her hair lifting back in a brief, ridiculous moment that looks far more dramatic than the situation warrants. Flora blinks through it, smirking faintly as the strands settle, and then gets to work, nudging and pulling at the dirt with the rake, smoothing down small mounds and redistributing soil where it’s needed.
It’s not elegant, and she’s clearly learning as she goes, but she finds a rhythm soon enough, rake dragging, boots shuffling, sweat and dust slowly winning the argument despite the occasional blast of cold. "Wait, are duck's asses actually flat?" she wonders under her breath with amused skepticism as she adjusts her angle and keeps at it, determined to see the arena properly finished before her arms give out.
passion is a passing thing, it's accidental chemistry
caught up in a feelin', it can be deceivin'.
this is like breaking for me
caught up in a feelin', it can be deceivin'.
this is like breaking for me
Code stolen from Queen Sky
