dahlia
You can't buy this fineness
Thunder rouses the sleeping bloom from her slumber, and she stretches beneath the sheets with all the deliberate langour of a big cat. Stormbreak has welcomed her with an emphasis on the storm, and though Dahlia has no feelings either way regarding this world's weather, it's far too early for such nonsense. One might even argue it's still the middle of the night; on bare feet, wrapped in silk and ribbon, she pads from the bed towards the window.
Lightning illuminates her silhouette against the parted curtains. Dahlia peers out into the spidering lanes of the Silk Houses, uncharacteristically vacant in the midst of tonight's tempest, and leans against the window frame. With breath fogging the glass, she considers lightning a lantern and prowling around the Hart for any other sleepless souls. At the very least there might be a barfly to bother.
Lightning illuminates her silhouette against the parted curtains. Dahlia peers out into the spidering lanes of the Silk Houses, uncharacteristically vacant in the midst of tonight's tempest, and leans against the window frame. With breath fogging the glass, she considers lightning a lantern and prowling around the Hart for any other sleepless souls. At the very least there might be a barfly to bother.
Let me see the heat get to it
