your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora climbs the spiral stairs of the lighthouse without ceremony, sandals scuffing lightly against the worn stone as the wind slips in through the narrow windows and pulls at her curls. By the time she reaches the shrine at the top, her rings are cool against her skin and the sea is a steady roar below.
She moves straight to the candles. One by one, she lights them, leaning in with steady hands until every wick is burning and the small chamber is warmed by gold light. Wax softens and pools; smoke threads lazily toward the open air.
From her bag she takes out pieces of seaglass and arranges them carefully on the stone ledge, pressing them into the shapes of various stars—sharp-pointed, scattered, deliberate. Pale green, ocean-blue, milk-white. They catch the candlelight and throw it back fractured and tender, like bottled starlight.
"Heyyyyy, Safrin," she drawls, rocking back onto her heels, brushing her palms together as if she’s just finished setting a table. "brought something bubbly too, because obviously." She rises and produces the champagne with a flourish, thumb hooking under the wire cage. A twist, a breath, and the cork releases with a sharp, celebratory pop that ricochets around the stone chamber. Foam surges at the mouth of the bottle and she laughs, tipping it just enough to keep it from spilling over her hand.
She takes a long sip straight from the bottle, then steps closer to the shrine, setting it down beside the seaglass stars with deliberate care, like she’s placing a crown. "I was hoping you might help Torchline flex a little more muscle," she continues, rolling one shoulder as if shaking off something invisible. "Nothing too dramatic, but just so when ships pull in, they know exactly whose waters they’re cutting through."
Flora would like a CANNON RQ.
She moves straight to the candles. One by one, she lights them, leaning in with steady hands until every wick is burning and the small chamber is warmed by gold light. Wax softens and pools; smoke threads lazily toward the open air.
From her bag she takes out pieces of seaglass and arranges them carefully on the stone ledge, pressing them into the shapes of various stars—sharp-pointed, scattered, deliberate. Pale green, ocean-blue, milk-white. They catch the candlelight and throw it back fractured and tender, like bottled starlight.
"Heyyyyy, Safrin," she drawls, rocking back onto her heels, brushing her palms together as if she’s just finished setting a table. "brought something bubbly too, because obviously." She rises and produces the champagne with a flourish, thumb hooking under the wire cage. A twist, a breath, and the cork releases with a sharp, celebratory pop that ricochets around the stone chamber. Foam surges at the mouth of the bottle and she laughs, tipping it just enough to keep it from spilling over her hand.
She takes a long sip straight from the bottle, then steps closer to the shrine, setting it down beside the seaglass stars with deliberate care, like she’s placing a crown. "I was hoping you might help Torchline flex a little more muscle," she continues, rolling one shoulder as if shaking off something invisible. "Nothing too dramatic, but just so when ships pull in, they know exactly whose waters they’re cutting through."
Flora would like a CANNON RQ.
