HOTARU
she is a flower, but she isn't soft
when her petals fall, they hit like bullets
when her petals fall, they hit like bullets
Since reopening her spa, Hotaru has spent most of her days within its walls. Though she returns to Deimos most nights, it’s similarly not uncommon for him to find her curled against Atlas’ side, blankets draped over her body and the fire reduced to hot coals. It is as much a home to her as anything else has attempted to be. As such it brings her peace that she desperately needs in the wake of...well, everything that has happened since she awoke in the Wilds.
Getting back into the rhythm of business is simultaneously distracting and rewarding. Seeing people leave with lightened shoulders and relaxed faces brings a sense of accomplishment, and being able to knead and massage out knots and kinks with her hands keeps her from feeling too touch-starved or in need of companionship in the wake of her departure from Torchline and the men she’d been tied to. Though Halo citizens are not a chatty bunch by nature, their guards seem to slip as they melt on her tables, and Hotaru is more than happy to lend her ear both socially and sinisterly. She is a black widow, her silken thread that entrap her victims spun of secrets, and her customers offer them from loosened lips. Nothing so harmful as the crumbling of kingdoms like her youth had offered, but enough gossip to keep her thumb firmly on the pulse of Snowcloak.
Reclining against the check in counter as she awaits further clientele, Hotaru keeps an ear tuned for the door while her attention is taken by the paper in front of her. She’s in need of a new dagger. Sort of lost her last one in Sunjata’s thigh. What an inconvenience.
Getting back into the rhythm of business is simultaneously distracting and rewarding. Seeing people leave with lightened shoulders and relaxed faces brings a sense of accomplishment, and being able to knead and massage out knots and kinks with her hands keeps her from feeling too touch-starved or in need of companionship in the wake of her departure from Torchline and the men she’d been tied to. Though Halo citizens are not a chatty bunch by nature, their guards seem to slip as they melt on her tables, and Hotaru is more than happy to lend her ear both socially and sinisterly. She is a black widow, her silken thread that entrap her victims spun of secrets, and her customers offer them from loosened lips. Nothing so harmful as the crumbling of kingdoms like her youth had offered, but enough gossip to keep her thumb firmly on the pulse of Snowcloak.
Reclining against the check in counter as she awaits further clientele, Hotaru keeps an ear tuned for the door while her attention is taken by the paper in front of her. She’s in need of a new dagger. Sort of lost her last one in Sunjata’s thigh. What an inconvenience.
