flora
The docks are a blistering ribbon of sun-bleached planks beneath Flora’s feet, every step setting up another protest from the wheelbarrow she’s muscling along toward the ships, its weight a stubborn, sloshing argument she doesn’t have the energy to win politely. Bottled fountain water clinks and knocks together with each jolt, glass sweating as much as she is, the heat slicking her spine and gathering at her temples until a trickle finds its way down between her shoulder blades. LongHeat has no mercy, and Torchline never pretends otherwise. She’s in shorts and a tank top, hair scraped up with more determination than grace, looking far less like a queen than a woman who’s been awake too long and volunteered for one more necessary thing because someone had to.
"Careful with that pallet—no, not there, yes—Stormbreak, all of it," she calls over her shoulder, voice carrying easily despite the grit in it, hands tightening on the handles as another question sails her way and she answers without turning, momentum carrying her forward through the press of sailors and merchants and the glittering, dangerous friendliness the port wears like a smile. The smell of salt and pitch and sun-warmed rope coats the air, hels cutting overhead, and Flora keeps moving because stopping would mean noticing just how tired she is.
The dock dips without warning, a treacherous knot in the planks catching the wheel at the worst angle, and the barrow lurches hard enough to steal a sharp curse from her. "Fuck—" Glass clatters, the sound bright and accusing, and several bottles bounce free, skittering across the boards with a wild little dance that sends them rolling toward a woman standing just beyond the wheelbarrow’s nose.
Flora brakes herself with a grunt, already crouching, fingers darting out to corral what she can before the rest make a break for it, sweat darkening her temples as she looks up with a crooked, apologetic grin that’s more weary than charming but sincere all the same. "Sorry," she says breathlessly, snagging one bottle and then another as they continue to escape her grasp, glass clicking softly as they roll on.
"Careful with that pallet—no, not there, yes—Stormbreak, all of it," she calls over her shoulder, voice carrying easily despite the grit in it, hands tightening on the handles as another question sails her way and she answers without turning, momentum carrying her forward through the press of sailors and merchants and the glittering, dangerous friendliness the port wears like a smile. The smell of salt and pitch and sun-warmed rope coats the air, hels cutting overhead, and Flora keeps moving because stopping would mean noticing just how tired she is.
The dock dips without warning, a treacherous knot in the planks catching the wheel at the worst angle, and the barrow lurches hard enough to steal a sharp curse from her. "Fuck—" Glass clatters, the sound bright and accusing, and several bottles bounce free, skittering across the boards with a wild little dance that sends them rolling toward a woman standing just beyond the wheelbarrow’s nose.
Flora brakes herself with a grunt, already crouching, fingers darting out to corral what she can before the rest make a break for it, sweat darkening her temples as she looks up with a crooked, apologetic grin that’s more weary than charming but sincere all the same. "Sorry," she says breathlessly, snagging one bottle and then another as they continue to escape her grasp, glass clicking softly as they roll on.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
