I'd burn my house down just to hear them scream my name
LongNight has a frankly rude habit of arriving as if Flora hasn’t spent the entire season knowing exactly when it’s coming, which is, of course, why she’s on the Ahi Coast now, weeks earlier than she normally would be, standing barefoot in the white sand with a strip of ribbon pinched between two gold-ringed fingers and a frown on her face. Behind her, the jungle gives up its dead wood in groaning bundles and uneven piles as a handful of Torchline soldiers haul branches, drift-rotted logs, and old stormfall out from beneath the palms.
"No, not there," Flora calls, lifting her chin toward one of the piles before the soldier carrying it can drop it beside the others. She glances down at the rough sketch she’s drawn into the sand with the tip of one of her daggers, the lines already being softened by the breeze and the occasional lazy creep of water across the shore. Her idea is simple enough in theory: enough bonfires to keep the Ahi Coast bright during LongNight, spaced far enough apart that people can move between them safely, close enough that the dark doesn’t get to pool too thickly between the flames. In practice, the beach is longer than it looks, the old wood is less cooperative than she’d like, and every measurement she makes seems to depend on whether she’s accounting for dancers, drunk idiots, children, companions, or whatever someone will inevitably decide to summon, shift into, or set down in the middle of a walkway.
"No, not there," Flora calls, lifting her chin toward one of the piles before the soldier carrying it can drop it beside the others. She glances down at the rough sketch she’s drawn into the sand with the tip of one of her daggers, the lines already being softened by the breeze and the occasional lazy creep of water across the shore. Her idea is simple enough in theory: enough bonfires to keep the Ahi Coast bright during LongNight, spaced far enough apart that people can move between them safely, close enough that the dark doesn’t get to pool too thickly between the flames. In practice, the beach is longer than it looks, the old wood is less cooperative than she’d like, and every measurement she makes seems to depend on whether she’s accounting for dancers, drunk idiots, children, companions, or whatever someone will inevitably decide to summon, shift into, or set down in the middle of a walkway.
I've carried hopes & heavy day dreams, but i'm all done with sleepin'
