i could be the reason you can't sleep at night
The dock breathes like a living thing, the air thick with brine and tar and the constant clang and creak of ships shifting against their moorings. Flora moves through it easily, the way someone does who grew up half in the water and half in the trouble that tends to follow it. Salt sticks lightly to her skin beneath the Torchline sun, her curls pinned up in a careless twist that somehow still manages to look intentional, gold glinting at her throat and fingers whenever she passes through a shaft of light.
Spice is looped comfortably around her shoulders, the small white dragon draped like a living scarf, her tail flicking now and again as though she, too, is cataloguing the noise and colour of the port.
The weapon stall sits exactly where it always does, tucked between a rope merchant and a man loudly insisting his maps are both authentic and not stolen, the familiar clutter of blades and oilcloths and steel catching Flora’s eye long before the vendor himself does. She slips up to the counter and leans her forearms against it, weight settling casually through her hip as one of the rings along her fingers taps lightly against the wood. "Moooorning," she says easily, her voice smooth and bright over the harbour’s din. "You have something of mine?"
The vendor disappears beneath the counter and resurfaces with a cloth-wrapped bundle that Flora knows by weight alone, even before the fabric is peeled back. One of her feather daggers rests inside, its pale blade newly honed, the edge catching sunlight in a way that promises quiet, efficient trouble. She turns it once between her fingers, testing the balance, satisfaction curling comfortably through her chest as the familiar weight settles back into her palm.
Perfect.
Sliding the dagger home among its sisters with the fluid familiarity of long practice, Flora straightens from the counter, her gaze drifting idly across the stall while Spice adjusts her grip along the back of her neck, which is when she notices the whetstone, and the person using it. Her grin arrives first, slow and bright, spreading across her mouth before the thought has even fully finished forming.
Pushing away from the counter, Flora drifts a few easy steps across the packed boards of the dock until she’s close enough to lean a shoulder casually against the edge of the worktable Colt has claimed, aqua eyes glancing down briefly at the steady drag of metal over stone before lifting again. "Heyyy," she drawls, amusement curling easily through the word. "You expanding out of ranching?" The smile she flashes is warm and crooked at the edges, curiosity dancing plainly across her face as she folds her arms loosely, Spice’s small white head lifting just enough to peer curiously at the blade moving over the whetstone.
Spice is looped comfortably around her shoulders, the small white dragon draped like a living scarf, her tail flicking now and again as though she, too, is cataloguing the noise and colour of the port.
The weapon stall sits exactly where it always does, tucked between a rope merchant and a man loudly insisting his maps are both authentic and not stolen, the familiar clutter of blades and oilcloths and steel catching Flora’s eye long before the vendor himself does. She slips up to the counter and leans her forearms against it, weight settling casually through her hip as one of the rings along her fingers taps lightly against the wood. "Moooorning," she says easily, her voice smooth and bright over the harbour’s din. "You have something of mine?"
The vendor disappears beneath the counter and resurfaces with a cloth-wrapped bundle that Flora knows by weight alone, even before the fabric is peeled back. One of her feather daggers rests inside, its pale blade newly honed, the edge catching sunlight in a way that promises quiet, efficient trouble. She turns it once between her fingers, testing the balance, satisfaction curling comfortably through her chest as the familiar weight settles back into her palm.
Perfect.
Sliding the dagger home among its sisters with the fluid familiarity of long practice, Flora straightens from the counter, her gaze drifting idly across the stall while Spice adjusts her grip along the back of her neck, which is when she notices the whetstone, and the person using it. Her grin arrives first, slow and bright, spreading across her mouth before the thought has even fully finished forming.
Pushing away from the counter, Flora drifts a few easy steps across the packed boards of the dock until she’s close enough to lean a shoulder casually against the edge of the worktable Colt has claimed, aqua eyes glancing down briefly at the steady drag of metal over stone before lifting again. "Heyyy," she drawls, amusement curling easily through the word. "You expanding out of ranching?" The smile she flashes is warm and crooked at the edges, curiosity dancing plainly across her face as she folds her arms loosely, Spice’s small white head lifting just enough to peer curiously at the blade moving over the whetstone.
