flora
Flora is halfway up one of the higher barrows when the smoke finally thins enough to make breathing feel less like swallowing sand. The climb is graceless, her lungs burning as she pauses to brace a hand against the cool stone and cough hard enough that her eyes water. LongHeat has been cruel everywhere this season, but there is something uniquely miserable about it here, the smoke clinging low and heavy as though the dead themselves are exhaling their displeasure.
"This is revolting," she mutters hoarsely to Spice between coughs, waving a hand in front of her face as if that might persuade the air to behave. "I swear, I almost prefer the fires back home." The little dragon’s chill is a blessing against her throat, but it does nothing for the way the haze muffles sound and bends distance until the barrows seem to loom and multiply, iron doors blinking in and out of view like half-remembered dreams.
It’s only as she straightens, lifting her gaze to orient herself, that she notices someone ahead through the mist. Flora’s complaints die abruptly on her tongue. The figure is kneeling near one of the stones, brushing ash away with a care that doesn’t read as idle curiosity or survey work, and the sight snaps something into place all at once. Heat prickles uncomfortably at Flora’s cheeks as she realises how her voice must have carried in the hush. "Oh—" she says, softer now, the theatrical edge gone as quickly as it came. One hand lifts in an apologetic little gesture, fingers splayed as if that might undo the interruption. "My bad. I didn’t mean to interrupt." She clears her throat, still rough, and offers a rueful tilt of her head. "I’ll...give you space."
"This is revolting," she mutters hoarsely to Spice between coughs, waving a hand in front of her face as if that might persuade the air to behave. "I swear, I almost prefer the fires back home." The little dragon’s chill is a blessing against her throat, but it does nothing for the way the haze muffles sound and bends distance until the barrows seem to loom and multiply, iron doors blinking in and out of view like half-remembered dreams.
It’s only as she straightens, lifting her gaze to orient herself, that she notices someone ahead through the mist. Flora’s complaints die abruptly on her tongue. The figure is kneeling near one of the stones, brushing ash away with a care that doesn’t read as idle curiosity or survey work, and the sight snaps something into place all at once. Heat prickles uncomfortably at Flora’s cheeks as she realises how her voice must have carried in the hush. "Oh—" she says, softer now, the theatrical edge gone as quickly as it came. One hand lifts in an apologetic little gesture, fingers splayed as if that might undo the interruption. "My bad. I didn’t mean to interrupt." She clears her throat, still rough, and offers a rueful tilt of her head. "I’ll...give you space."
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
