you don't know that you're living 'til you're carrying scars
Flora’s brows lift the moment Thalassa offers baldness as the alternative, the expression lingering just long enough to make it clear she has absolutely no idea what story sits behind that comment, though the crooked grin that follows suggests she’s perfectly content to leave the mystery intact for now. "Oh, I dunno," she says easily, tilting her head as her gaze flicks once toward her horns before returning to Thal’s face. "With those, you could probably pull off bald. Very dramatic. Very intimidating." The laugh that follows is quiet but genuine, warm enough to take any sting from the image before it can settle, and she rolls her eyes lightly at the mention of needing a new drinking spot, a familiar exhale slipping out of her.
"As soon as it’s up again, I’ll send you an invite to the grand opening," she promises, nodding once as if the decision has already been filed neatly into place among the hundred other things that require rebuilding.
The sharper flash in Thal’s expression when she mentions them being gone, earns an answering nod from Flora, a soft breath leaving her chest in agreement rather than commentary. She’d heard the pieces of that story through Asta, enough to understand the edge of relief threaded through the words now, and she doesn’t push it further than that. "Hard same," she says simply, the words carrying the quiet weight of someone who has spent the last year watching the same darkness ripple through too many lives.
When the question turns back on her, Flora tips her head toward the towering trunk beside them, stepping closer until the Mathair fills the corner of her vision with a familiar, towering presence. "I grew up here," she says, the words settling easily into the damp air. "So every Leafchange I like to come back and pay my respects." Her gaze lifts along the vast trunk, following the old scars of smoke and char where the fire once licked up through the bark, and her mouth tilts slightly as memory settles over the moment.
"The last time I saw her, she was infected too," she adds, shaking her head softly. "It took channelling Rae to cleanse her in order to get it out." Her eyes drift across the lingering smudge of ash darkening the bark before she gives a small, pragmatic shrug, the gesture half acceptance and half admiration for the stubborn resilience of old things. "But," she says, tipping her chin toward the tree again, "she looks like she’s doing alright, all things considered."
"As soon as it’s up again, I’ll send you an invite to the grand opening," she promises, nodding once as if the decision has already been filed neatly into place among the hundred other things that require rebuilding.
The sharper flash in Thal’s expression when she mentions them being gone, earns an answering nod from Flora, a soft breath leaving her chest in agreement rather than commentary. She’d heard the pieces of that story through Asta, enough to understand the edge of relief threaded through the words now, and she doesn’t push it further than that. "Hard same," she says simply, the words carrying the quiet weight of someone who has spent the last year watching the same darkness ripple through too many lives.
When the question turns back on her, Flora tips her head toward the towering trunk beside them, stepping closer until the Mathair fills the corner of her vision with a familiar, towering presence. "I grew up here," she says, the words settling easily into the damp air. "So every Leafchange I like to come back and pay my respects." Her gaze lifts along the vast trunk, following the old scars of smoke and char where the fire once licked up through the bark, and her mouth tilts slightly as memory settles over the moment.
"The last time I saw her, she was infected too," she adds, shaking her head softly. "It took channelling Rae to cleanse her in order to get it out." Her eyes drift across the lingering smudge of ash darkening the bark before she gives a small, pragmatic shrug, the gesture half acceptance and half admiration for the stubborn resilience of old things. "But," she says, tipping her chin toward the tree again, "she looks like she’s doing alright, all things considered."
you're either falling in love or you're falling apart
