oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there
Unplanned as it had been, Anju has not hated sticking around longer in Torchline to hunt down her ring. Finding Flora has been trickier by virtue of the young woman’s flighty habits and strange schedule instead of anonymity; frankly everyone seems to know her, but like a distracted butterfly she flits about.
Enough people have mentioned the Hanged Man in relation to Flora that Anju has taken up post at the beach nearby to check in regularly. It’s not worth the drunkenness to occupy a space at the bar without the bartender getting pissy at her loitering with an empty glass. So it is that she spots golden hair shining like gilded wheat on the patio behind the establishment, and Anju does not withhold the tiny smirk that inches onto her face at the sight. Riya is sent away with a thought so as not to spook her prey, and the Dragoon approaches from directly behind the woman’s seat.
She has had to dress more like the locals given her prolonged stay, which has led to a more feminine look than she is accustomed to; a white tied shirt that leaves her muscled stomach free, cut shorts that fray and fringe at the ends, and flat functional sandals. Her hair is tied on top of her head in a loose knot, allowing her to lean down from behind, hands bracing on the armchairs and ducking close without her long hair betraying her early by tickling at Flora’s skin. Instead her breath does, right below the girl’s ear. “Found you little magpie,” she murmurs.
Enough people have mentioned the Hanged Man in relation to Flora that Anju has taken up post at the beach nearby to check in regularly. It’s not worth the drunkenness to occupy a space at the bar without the bartender getting pissy at her loitering with an empty glass. So it is that she spots golden hair shining like gilded wheat on the patio behind the establishment, and Anju does not withhold the tiny smirk that inches onto her face at the sight. Riya is sent away with a thought so as not to spook her prey, and the Dragoon approaches from directly behind the woman’s seat.
She has had to dress more like the locals given her prolonged stay, which has led to a more feminine look than she is accustomed to; a white tied shirt that leaves her muscled stomach free, cut shorts that fray and fringe at the ends, and flat functional sandals. Her hair is tied on top of her head in a loose knot, allowing her to lean down from behind, hands bracing on the armchairs and ducking close without her long hair betraying her early by tickling at Flora’s skin. Instead her breath does, right below the girl’s ear. “Found you little magpie,” she murmurs.
