Flora
Flora watches Kaisel inventory the backpack with a smugness that grows harder to hide with every new item that appears from it. Water, snacks, matches, pajamas, weapons, pillows, a camera; at this point the thing is less a bag and more a portable breach in reality, and she has to wonder whether he’s packed a second, smaller Sugartide in there just in case. Given that the real Sugartide rests only a short distance behind them, all polished safety and familiar comfort, Flora does briefly consider pointing out that staying aboard technically counts as camping. They would still be outside, they would still be sleeping somewhere that was not their house, there could even be bugs if Kaisel felt strongly enough about the authenticity of the experience.
But he’s so earnestly determined to prove that he can conquer nature when he puts his mind to it that she keeps the thought to herself. Sand hasn’t managed to drive him away from the beach, bugs apparently haven’t broken him either, and now that he's standing at the mouth of a damp underground jungle with a backpack that could probably sustain a small village, she wants to see who wins out between hostile jungle and optimistic himbo.
Like his, Flora's clothes are practical without giving up anything important: fitted cargo pants tucked into rubber boots, a black crop top beneath a light rain jacket, and her curls pulled into a high ponytail so that they stay out of the wet glow and tangled roots ahead. When she glances over at her husband, the smile that catches at one corner of her mouth is crooked enough to make the question on her tongue feel less like curiosity and more like the first of several tests she has just invented for him. "And what counts as a good spot, do you think?" she asks, lifting one brow.
At the mention of predators, Flora turns in a small flourish, catching the bottom of her jacket and pulling it aside just enough to show the daggers strapped against her thigh. "Oh, I’ve got predators covered," she says, letting the fabric fall back into place with a little shrug. Her smile warms as she looks toward the twisting paths beneath the roots. "I’m always down for a sing-along, though."
But he’s so earnestly determined to prove that he can conquer nature when he puts his mind to it that she keeps the thought to herself. Sand hasn’t managed to drive him away from the beach, bugs apparently haven’t broken him either, and now that he's standing at the mouth of a damp underground jungle with a backpack that could probably sustain a small village, she wants to see who wins out between hostile jungle and optimistic himbo.
Like his, Flora's clothes are practical without giving up anything important: fitted cargo pants tucked into rubber boots, a black crop top beneath a light rain jacket, and her curls pulled into a high ponytail so that they stay out of the wet glow and tangled roots ahead. When she glances over at her husband, the smile that catches at one corner of her mouth is crooked enough to make the question on her tongue feel less like curiosity and more like the first of several tests she has just invented for him. "And what counts as a good spot, do you think?" she asks, lifting one brow.
At the mention of predators, Flora turns in a small flourish, catching the bottom of her jacket and pulling it aside just enough to show the daggers strapped against her thigh. "Oh, I’ve got predators covered," she says, letting the fabric fall back into place with a little shrug. Her smile warms as she looks toward the twisting paths beneath the roots. "I’m always down for a sing-along, though."
Fatefully, I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Code stolen from Queen Sky
