[Training] how it's done

flowers bloom in the rain

The shifting isle rolls under me with its usual restless sway, but I plant my feet, narrow my eyes, and fix on the palm ahead. Its trunk wavers with the movement of the land, making the challenge sharper, more tempting. I flick the first knife, then the second—both strike with a clean thunk, bark splintering around the blades. My lips twitch in a quick, pleased smile before I send the third spinning. It lands too, a solid hit, the metal quivering in the wood.

But when I step closer, the satisfaction fades. All three knives sit firm in the trunk, but not where I wanted them. One leans high, another drifts too far to the left, the third sits low, breaking the line I’d been aiming for. Uneven. Crooked. Mom, dad, most in my family could manage that precision. I'll be damned if I don't figure it out too. 

I yank the first knife free, then the second, each tug sharp and frustrated. The third takes more force, the bark stubborn, and when it finally comes loose, I glare at the tree as though it’s the one at fault for not holding them in a neat, perfect row.

Theea

growing up is a pain

& if you never bleed you're never gonna grow

The palm is still quivering from Theea’s last throw when the shimmer of invisibility peels away like a curtain tugged aside. Flora appears where a blink ago there was only space, curls catching what little light filters through the restless air. Her grin is quick and mischievous, like she’s been standing there all along, watching.

"I’ve tried glaring at plenty of daggers to make them land where I wanted," she offers, tone warm with mock-seriousness, as if this is sage advice from one knife-thrower to another. "Doesn’t work. Stubborn little bastards." She lifts her hand, a flash of feathered steel tumbling end over end before she catches it neat, the motion so casual it might as well be part of her breathing.

All around them the islands drift, edges folding and stretching, bits of land merging and parting in slow, untrustworthy rhythms. The palm itself seems to lean differently each time Flora glances at it, as if it too is in on the game, conspiring with the rest of the archipelago. Flora tips her head toward it with an amused quirk of her lips, eyes bright with challenge.

"Spice and I were just out for a stroll," Flora explains with a grin, before nodding toward the palm. "Do you want a hand? Throwing sharp things is sorta my thing, but if you're a trial-and-error girlie, I totally get that."

flowers bloom in the rain

I start back toward my spot, the ground beneath me tilting in that subtle, untrustworthy way the isles always do. The edges of land fold and stretch like they’re breathing, one strip of sand breaking away even as another drifts closer, the whole archipelago in constant restless motion. I’m still thinking about the crooked line of my knives when Flora simply—appears. One blink there’s nothing, the next there’s her.

I outright scream. The sound rips from me sharp and startled as I stumble back, hand clutching my chest where my heart is hammering like it’s about to break free. “Shit—” The word spills, and then I’m laughing, breathless, my lips shaping into a smile. “Hi, Flora.”

She’s already grinning when a feather of steel flickers into her hand, catching the air with a gleam. She twirls it like it’s no more trouble than spinning a coin, each motion precise, unhurried. My smirk comes easy at that, properly impressed. Gods, it’s a miracle my own hands aren’t nothing but scar tissue from all the times I’ve botched that same trick.

The palm tree I’d been aiming at sways again, quivering in tune with the shifting ground, as if it’s conspiring with the rest of the isle to remind me of my crooked throws. My gaze slips from it back to Flora and her blade, and I nod, grinning with a little wry tilt of my head. [say[“Yeah,” I admit, voice warm but earnest. “Pointers and practice would be great. Especially from you.”

Theea

growing up is a pain

& if you never bleed you're never gonna grow

Flora only grins crookedly at the scream, the picture of unbothered delight, like she hadn’t just shimmered into existence in the middle of a shifting archipelago. "Hey you," she says with casual brightness, as if the whole thing were the most ordinary greeting in the world and not the cause of near cardiac arrest. A gold bangle slides down her wrist as she tips the feathered dagger idly between her fingers, watching Theea with a glint of approval.

When her cousin actually admits she wants pointers, Flora drifts to stand beside her, curls spilling forward as she leans in, conspiratorial. "I had loads of help when I first decided I wanted to get good at this," she admits, her grin softening the confession into something more like camaraderie than boasting. She holds out one of the feather blades for Theea to take, cool metal and poison sheen winking in the restless light. "Easier to practice with mine. They come back to you on their own—saves all that boring walking to collect them."

She nods toward the palm, aqua eyes bright. "And hey—you got them to stick. That’s half the battle. Making your grouping tighter?" She flashes a mischievous smile. "Easy peasy."

Tilting her head toward the tree, Flora gestures loosely with her empty hand. "Think of it like this: don’t throw with your whole arm. It isn’t about force—it’s about line. Keep your wrist straight, lead from your elbow, and let the weight of the blade carry itself. You’re guiding, not muscling it." She demonstrates the motion slowly once, the dagger balanced perfectly along her fingers.

Then, without breaking stride in her explanation, she flicks another feathered knife free, a swift gleam in the air. It spins end over end, neat and unshowy, before sinking into the palm with a satisfying thunk, almost dead centre where the three crooked throws had marked their uneven row. With a smug little shrug, Flora glances back at her cousin. "See? Nothing to it. Now you go."

---

1/4

bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones.

---

You've encountered the OG random event! This allows you to skip one levelling requirement with the character in this thread. (Unfortunately does not count for characters over level 10, how sad.)

flowers bloom in the rain

Flora drifts up beside me like a soft breeze, all effortless presence and easy confidence, and it’s strangely reassuring to hear she wasn’t always good at this. I know I’m skillful—I can make blades stick, I can fight—but what I want is precision. The kind much of my family seems to breathe without thinking.

When she holds out one of her daggers, my eyes widen just a fraction. I can’t help the little smile that softens my face as I take it, careful and almost tender, like it might vanish if I’m not gentle. The blade feels different in my hand—perfectly balanced, wicked and gleaming like it knows more than I do. I step back to give her room, watching as she flicks her wrist, casual as a shrug, and buries the dagger dead-center between my crooked attempts. My lips purse, narrowing at her with a good-natured glare, before twisting into a dry smile. “Sure. Nothing to it.”

I square my stance, squinting at the tree, and do my best to mimic exactly what she told me. Keep the wrist straight, guide, don’t muscle it. The motion doesn’t feel natural yet, too light compared to the weight I usually put behind a throw. The blade flies almost true, close enough to make my heart leap—but it only clings to the bark for a breath before sliding off, thudding into the ground. I grit my teeth.

The dagger shimmers back into my hand, mocking in its weight. I inhale, reset, and try again. This time it sticks, at least, though it still skews just enough off-center to remind me it isn’t clean. My eyes flick sidelong toward Flora as the knife reappears once more, and I cringe a little, shoulders tensing. “What am I doing wrong?” I ask, frustration creeping beneath the words.

[ training 1/4 ]

Theea

growing up is a pain

& if you never bleed you're never gonna grow

Flora watches the first attempt with an easy patience, arms folded, the crooked grin never slipping into anything sharp. The shimmer of the dagger returning to Theea’s hand earns a little tilt of her head, bracelets chiming as she shifts her weight to one hip. "Honestly? You’re doing great," she says, voice light but firm enough to carry weight. "If that palm was an actual attacker, they’d already be dead six times over. So don’t tear yourself up about it."

She twirls her own blade lazily, feathers glinting as they catch what little sun filters through the shifting skies. "Accuracy takes time. With something like these—" she flips the dagger once, catching it by the hilt again, "—you want to think smaller, not harder. Don’t just throw at the tree, throw at a point. Narrow your focus until there’s only the tiniest mark you’re aiming for. And when you release, it should feel like the blade is an extension of your hand—smooth, one motion, no hitch."

She shifts her stance beside Theea, rolling her shoulders back, weight balanced and loose. For a moment her gaze sharpens, zeroing in on a knot in the palm’s bark, no bigger than a coin. Then she flicks the dagger forward in one fluid line. It spins quick and true, burying itself dead-centre in the knot with a clean, satisfying thunk. The feathers quiver once, then settle, perfectly straight.

Glancing sidelong at Theea, Flora’s grin widens, sly and encouraging all at once. "See? You don’t need to conquer the whole tree. Just one tiny spot at a time."

---

2/4

flowers bloom in the rain

Above, the sun comes in intermittent sunbeams through the clouds. Flora glows in it. She stands with her arms folded, bracelets chiming when she shifts, curls tumbling forward in the breeze. Her grin is easy and crooked, her movements as smooth as if she were born with a dagger in her hand. The way she twirls the blade, how effortlessly she narrows her focus to something no bigger than a coin, makes it clear this isn’t just skill—it’s instinct. Watching her, it hits me all over again how lucky I am she’s my cousin, that someone so dazzling, so precise and sure, is family.

I try not to let my frustration at myself catch flame, holding onto her words instead. Don’t conquer the whole tree. Just one tiny spot at a time. It’s more than advice about knives to me—it’s a way to look at my approach to being independent and making a difference. Just one small spot at a time.

I set my stance, heart thrumming with the roll of the ground, and narrow my eyes to the knot in the bark. My first throw lands nearly true but slips free, falling uselessly to the earth before reappearing in my hand. My lips press together as I heft the knife, like a promise. Again. Just the knot. Nothing else.

The blade cuts the air in a clean arc, strikes hard into the bark, and this time sticks right at the very edge of the knot. Not Flora’s perfect dead-center, but close enough that triumph bursts through me like sunlight. I can’t help it—my grin splits wide, my whole body bouncing a couple of times. “I hit it! Not dead center, but I actually hit it.”

The dagger appears back into my hand, warm with the echo of the strike. I look at Flora, and my grin softens into something almost shy. “So what’s the likelihood of me getting things in a line today?”

[ training 2/4 ]

Theea

growing up is a pain

& if you never bleed you're never gonna grow

Flora bursts into a sunny smile the instant the blade clings, her whole face alight with the kind of pride that spills over and warms the air between them. "Amazing!!" she beams, eyebrows bouncing with an encouraging lift, bracelets chiming as she claps her hands once in sharp delight. The look on Theea’s face—triumph split wide and unguarded—makes Flora laugh, bright and ringing, a sound that lingers even after she reins it in. Gods, she remembers that feeling. And she remembers being that girl, too: heart on fire, teeth grit with the belief that if she just pushed hard enough right now, life and skill and everything else would fall obediently into line. Flora had tried to bend love that way once, tried to bend the whole world, and learned how unyielding it could be. Still, she wouldn’t hand her cousin the weight of that lesson just yet.

Instead, she grins, sharp with confidence and care. "Likelihood? Guaranteed you’ll be closer than when we started. And that’s all it is, really—muscle memory. It’s not about hitting it once or twice. It’s about hitting it, walking away, and letting your body keep the knowledge like a secret for next time. Otherwise you just wear yourself out chasing perfection." Her dagger twirls lazily between her fingers, the feathers blurring. "Sometimes drilling doesn’t help. Sometimes you gotta trick yourself and switch it up."

Her grin tilts sly, conspiratorial, as she suddenly calls, "Think fast!" Her blade flashes up into the air, spinning bright before slicing clean across the top of the palm. One of the molten pineapples above drops loose. "Quick, hit it!"

---

3/4

flowers bloom in the rain

The wind lifts loose strands from my braid and I brush them back, breathing through the heat in my chest while I listen. Muscle memory—I know that song—but since aging up it’s like someone rewired the instrument. Some things still come on instinct; some things… don’t.

I open my mouth to ask what she means by switching it up when Flora’s grin tilts and she snaps, think fast. Her dagger flashes, bites the palm, and a pineapple jolts free. Next is, quick, hit it, all in one instant.

I gasp and move on reflex. Weight set despite the isle’s slow roll, elbow leads, wrist straight—guide, don’t muscle—and I narrow my world to a single slice of sun-warmed rind. I track the drop, not the whole fruit, feel the blade as an extension of my hand, release in one clean line. The dagger hisses through the air and slices clean through the falling pineapple before burying itself in the trunk with a sharp thunk.

For a heartbeat I just stare like I’ve done something impossible. Then the knife shimmers back into my palm—unfortunately sticky now—and I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face as I look up at Flora like she’s handed me a miracle.

”I was taught to hit moving targets once,” I admit, laughing under my breath. "Somewhere along the way of getting older and taller—and these damn boobs dragging at my shoulders—”—I gesture to my quite well-endowed chest I haven’t figured out how to deal with yet—”—the skill just… dropped. Thank you for helping me find it.

[training 3/4]

Theea

growing up is a pain

& if you never bleed you're never gonna grow

Flora’s grin is radiant, proud in a way that crinkles the corners of her aqua eyes as she watches the pineapple split clean. She hadn’t cared one way or another if Theea missed—failure was half the fun of learning—but the smooth reflex, the way her cousin’s body remembered when her mind didn’t, leaves Flora beaming like she’d known it all along. "Now that’s muscle memory," she says with an approving nod, golden bracelets chiming faintly as she gestures to the neat slice of fruit still dripping against the trunk.

At Theea’s next words, Flora lets out a sudden, melodic laugh, glancing down at her own chest with a rueful shake of her curls. Not quite as generous as Theea’s, her figure carries the leaner lines of someone who forces themselves up at the crack of dawn every day to run, but her understanding is absolute. "Oh, believe me—I get it. There's always something ready to cause an issue. Sometimes I train in gowns or even fully naked. You never know what you’ll be wearing when the moment hits, so you may as well make it all work for you."

Without warning she slips two daggers into her palms, the steel flashing quick as sunlight on water. She exhales as she throws, breath steady and flowing with each flick of her wrist—one, two—both blades sinking into the tree a hair’s breadth apart. They vanish a blink later, shimmer-swift back into her hands. Flora holds them out toward Theea, curls tumbling forward with the movement, her grin sharp with challenge. "Here. Let’s see you try three at once."

---

4/4

flowers bloom in the rain

The isle heaves under us in a lazy swell, sand sliding off one edge while scrub and vine sidle closer on the other. I can feel every place my body isn’t as lean as it used to be, the soft that crept in when I aged up; skill, sure—but not the sharp, precise kind I want. Watching Flora, I realize how much I’ve been missing.

She throws two like it’s nothing and I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face—impressed, a little dazzled. Then: ”Three?”

I stare down at my knife, then at Flora’s two resting against my palm, brows knitting. I tip my head, breathe in the salt and warm green of the underbrush. ”Alright then,” I murmur.

I set my feet against the isle’s slow roll, shoulders loose. Elbow leads, wrist straight, guide—don’t muscle. I throw in Flora’s rhythm: one—two—three. The first two hit with clean, satisfying thunks, bark splintering. The third—one of Flora’s—skews off with a treacherous shimmy of ground beneath me and goes spinning into the underbrush, leaves thrashing as it disappears. I let out a frustrated sigh through my nose, shaking out my fingers. Gods, that trick feels different—my timing wants to tangle when I chain them together like that.

I glance at the neat pair in the palm and the ragged gap where the third should be, then back to Flora just as her two blades reappear in my hand. ”How do people do that with multiple targets?” I ask, half-wonder, half-growl. ”I’ve seen it, and it seems—insane.”

[ training 4/4 ]

Theea

growing up is a pain

& if you never bleed you're never gonna grow

Flora only laughs when Theea sighs, the sound warm and bright as she nudges her cousin’s shoulder with an easy bump. "Don’t even start beating yourself up," she says, grin flashing as if she’d expected nothing less. "I’ve been throwing these for, what, five years now? Maybe longer? You’re not supposed to pick up three-at-once on the first try. It really is just time and practice."

She tips her head toward the jungle, curls spilling forward as her gaze sweeps the restless green like three perfect targets might magically step out just for them. "Multiple targets is the same thing you’ve already been doing. You pick three spots, and it should still feel like one motion, not three separate ones. You set your intention to do more, and let your body follow." She twirls one dagger, letting the feathers blur into a silver arc before catching it neat again. "The hard part is when things come out of nowhere—that’s all muscle memory. That’s where you turn your brain off and trust the throw."

Her grin tips sly, bracelets chiming as she folds her arms again. "And for practice? You should rope my dad into it. As much poison as these blades carry, Remi barely even feels pain anymore. I think it's a Mort thing. You could throw at him all day and he’d just stand there giving you a thumbs up." A wink, conspiratorial. "Best training dummy you’ll ever get."

flowers bloom in the rain

The wind snags at my braid and I glance at Flora’s warning not to be so hard on myself, but the frown still tugs. "Been throwing knives since I was little," I mutter, rolling a shoulder. "I just… feel like I lost most of it when I got older." I sigh and study the palm—scabbed with marks, none of them exactly where I meant them to be—and tuck another stubborn strand of hair behind my ear. A beat passes, and my mouth quirks despite myself. "The pineapple felt kinda cool, though."

I listen as she talks and watch her play the blade over her fingers like it’s weightless, like it belongs there. Muscle memory—that’s the part I still have. When I don’t see it coming, my body moves before my head can get in the way; the hit lands and only then do I realize I’ve already thrown, like with the pineapple.

Her next suggestion makes my eyes widen. "You mean actually hit him? With a knife?" I blink, baffled, glancing from her dagger to the tree and back again. "He really can’t feel it?"

Theea

growing up is a pain