flora
Spice sniffs at the dark smoke with her nose wrinkling in immediate suspicion, her pale head tilting this way and that as if trying to decide whether Sicarius is breathing, leaking, threatening, or merely being extremely strange in a way that might still be interesting. The uncertainty lasts only until the younger dragonling comes close enough to inspect her properly, and then whatever delicate calculations are happening behind Spice’s bright little eyes resolve into something far more practical. With a chirp that sounds almost gracious, she stretches one foreleg toward Sicarius and attempts to bite, harmlessly but with great concentration, at one of the exposed bones as though this is a perfectly normal way to begin a friendship.
Flora, who notices this just in time to decide she is not dealing with it unless someone starts screaming, merely lifts her brows in Spice’s direction before looking back to Asta. The repetition of her new title has her practically sparkling, and she bounces her eyebrows with an expression so proud it borders on smug. "mmhmm," she confirms, delighted down to her bare toes, before rolling her eyes with the kind of fond exasperation that has become its own little language where Kaisel is concerned. "Kai is already working on a whole new line of merch, obviously."
As the memory unfolds, Flora does not look at it. She had been there, after all, leaning against those walls and watching Danta wrestle with words that felt too large for the shape of his mouth at the time, and though back then the moment had landed differently, sharper in places where she had still wanted more from Asta than he'd even known he'd been offering, the years have done what they were supposed to do. They have softened the edges without blurring the details, leaving her with the strange, warm luxury of looking back and finding no wound waiting beneath the nostalgia. Instead, she watches Asta, her aqua eyes tracking the way the memory moves through him, the flush across his olive skin, the helpless softening around his dark gaze, the careful collapse of a man who can speak beautifully about nearly anything and still find himself outmatched by a few words spoken just out of earshot.
When he says her name as if she has handed him something too delicate to hold properly, Flora chuckles under her breath, bright and pleased, because really, what is the point of divine power if not using it to make your friends emotionally compromised before breakfast? Then, as he mentions the question she had asked when she’d come back from the room that night, Flora laughs outright, the sound spilling warmly through the bar as she drains the last of her mimosa. "Yeah, well, surprise, surprise, both of you were shit with your words that night," she says, the teasing affectionate enough to take out any sting, especially with the way her eyes remain soft on him over the rim of her glass.
With a sigh, the illusion dissolves from the room, the back of the Hanged Man slipping away until only Wildering House remains again, sunrise and barstools and the strange little court of dragons between them. Flora sets her empty glass down with a gentle click, then lifts her brows at Asta in a silent, shameless question that very clearly asks whether he intends to let the Queen of Torchline stand there tragically mimosa-less in her own home.
"So yeah, anyway," she continues, folding her arms lightly against the edge of the bar as her grin sharpens again. "That ability can either be super cute or cutting, which is very Safrin." Her gaze flicks briefly toward the space where the memory had been, warmth lingering despite the joke, before she draws in a happy little breath and turns the full force of her attention back on the Butcher. "Okay, your turn, and I don’t want you to leave out a single detail."
Flora, who notices this just in time to decide she is not dealing with it unless someone starts screaming, merely lifts her brows in Spice’s direction before looking back to Asta. The repetition of her new title has her practically sparkling, and she bounces her eyebrows with an expression so proud it borders on smug. "mmhmm," she confirms, delighted down to her bare toes, before rolling her eyes with the kind of fond exasperation that has become its own little language where Kaisel is concerned. "Kai is already working on a whole new line of merch, obviously."
As the memory unfolds, Flora does not look at it. She had been there, after all, leaning against those walls and watching Danta wrestle with words that felt too large for the shape of his mouth at the time, and though back then the moment had landed differently, sharper in places where she had still wanted more from Asta than he'd even known he'd been offering, the years have done what they were supposed to do. They have softened the edges without blurring the details, leaving her with the strange, warm luxury of looking back and finding no wound waiting beneath the nostalgia. Instead, she watches Asta, her aqua eyes tracking the way the memory moves through him, the flush across his olive skin, the helpless softening around his dark gaze, the careful collapse of a man who can speak beautifully about nearly anything and still find himself outmatched by a few words spoken just out of earshot.
When he says her name as if she has handed him something too delicate to hold properly, Flora chuckles under her breath, bright and pleased, because really, what is the point of divine power if not using it to make your friends emotionally compromised before breakfast? Then, as he mentions the question she had asked when she’d come back from the room that night, Flora laughs outright, the sound spilling warmly through the bar as she drains the last of her mimosa. "Yeah, well, surprise, surprise, both of you were shit with your words that night," she says, the teasing affectionate enough to take out any sting, especially with the way her eyes remain soft on him over the rim of her glass.
With a sigh, the illusion dissolves from the room, the back of the Hanged Man slipping away until only Wildering House remains again, sunrise and barstools and the strange little court of dragons between them. Flora sets her empty glass down with a gentle click, then lifts her brows at Asta in a silent, shameless question that very clearly asks whether he intends to let the Queen of Torchline stand there tragically mimosa-less in her own home.
"So yeah, anyway," she continues, folding her arms lightly against the edge of the bar as her grin sharpens again. "That ability can either be super cute or cutting, which is very Safrin." Her gaze flicks briefly toward the space where the memory had been, warmth lingering despite the joke, before she draws in a happy little breath and turns the full force of her attention back on the Butcher. "Okay, your turn, and I don’t want you to leave out a single detail."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
