f l o r e n t i n e
Florentine had been navigating that wire-thin path between adulthood and childhood for some time now. She slipped between maturity and childish ways as readily as the sea below rolled up upon its beach and then away, back out to sea. But the tide was changing for Florentine. If it began with puberty it most certainly ended with Rannveig’s appointment of her to Emissary.
Maturity was the pull of the tide out into the sea of adulthood. But oh Florentine will not go gracefully into the boring sea of ‘grownupness’; she is too rebellious for that. She escaped the boring rigours of court life in her birth land and there was no space for sorrow in her heart. It has wings and it flies, it soars and refuses to be caught.
Florentine saw the strain ruling had put upon her father. This girl of flowers, this young woman of dusk and glimmering starlight, would carve her own path beneath the title of Emissary. Yet it has her gaze lingering a moment too long on Reichenbach as she wonders, no, hopes he would never lose this carefree, playful demeanour that called to her so.
It suits you better. Morozko had said of the flower she wound about his horn. Her eyes held his, purple dusk-light meeting the lunar glow of impending night. “That may be so,” She acquiesced but with a smile playing across her lips. It was a pleased, charmed little thing – as any woman would wear when complimented with flowers. “But a flower’s beauty extends itself to everyone.”
She had watched the wind tug at the flower she wound around Morozko’s horn. It had unraveled, snagged by the wind, and chased her petals over the cliff edge only to vanish, tumbling down, down to the sea spray below.
It was always painful to watch her flowers wilt or die and she is warning the Night Court’s boy-king not to lose his, when her eyes settle upon a familiar figure within the distance.
Damascus came with a voice so loud it would harken any ear. Behind him his tail billowed out, long and lustrous; a cathedral train of ebony silk. The tall colt’s voice sang Reichenbach’s name (well, his version of it), with such joy that Flora’s attention is cast back to the King of darkness and moonlight. “Well aren’t you just winning hearts wherever you go.” She teased him lightly. “I am not sure you needed my flower to make you any more appealing.”
Then, and only then, as Morozko pulled away from their small number, did she notice Rannveig stood close. She moves closer to her queen, enough to bridge the gap between Reichenbach and his young colt-friend and Rannveig and Morozko. There is a moment, maybe only a split second, where Flora’s eyes flit between the two monarchs their Court line’s drawn with her stranded in between.
The butterflies of unease begin to flutter in her abdomen.
“Your majesties,” the young emissary begins at last, chasing away those nervous flutters with a smile and a welcoming glance cast from beneath her forelock at each gathered courtier. Her wings flare with a swan’s grace, one pointing to each monarch as she introduced them lightly, “King Reichenbach of the Night Court… and Queen Rannveig of the Dusk Court.” The girl paused, amethyst eyes dancing between them to flit away to Morozko and Damascus. “And these handsome boys, for any who might be wondering, are Morozko and I believe, Damascus.” Her lips twitch, though her eyes hold a hint of concern as she drinks in the colt. Florentine had never had a formal introduction with the young courtier, though the winds had more than once carried his name. It was unlikely she would find a colt so similar called Damascus and so she hoped her powers of deduction were on better form than her depleted dagger.
@Rannveig @Reichenbach @Morozko @Damascus
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
Maturity was the pull of the tide out into the sea of adulthood. But oh Florentine will not go gracefully into the boring sea of ‘grownupness’; she is too rebellious for that. She escaped the boring rigours of court life in her birth land and there was no space for sorrow in her heart. It has wings and it flies, it soars and refuses to be caught.
Florentine saw the strain ruling had put upon her father. This girl of flowers, this young woman of dusk and glimmering starlight, would carve her own path beneath the title of Emissary. Yet it has her gaze lingering a moment too long on Reichenbach as she wonders, no, hopes he would never lose this carefree, playful demeanour that called to her so.
It suits you better. Morozko had said of the flower she wound about his horn. Her eyes held his, purple dusk-light meeting the lunar glow of impending night. “That may be so,” She acquiesced but with a smile playing across her lips. It was a pleased, charmed little thing – as any woman would wear when complimented with flowers. “But a flower’s beauty extends itself to everyone.”
She had watched the wind tug at the flower she wound around Morozko’s horn. It had unraveled, snagged by the wind, and chased her petals over the cliff edge only to vanish, tumbling down, down to the sea spray below.
It was always painful to watch her flowers wilt or die and she is warning the Night Court’s boy-king not to lose his, when her eyes settle upon a familiar figure within the distance.
Damascus came with a voice so loud it would harken any ear. Behind him his tail billowed out, long and lustrous; a cathedral train of ebony silk. The tall colt’s voice sang Reichenbach’s name (well, his version of it), with such joy that Flora’s attention is cast back to the King of darkness and moonlight. “Well aren’t you just winning hearts wherever you go.” She teased him lightly. “I am not sure you needed my flower to make you any more appealing.”
Then, and only then, as Morozko pulled away from their small number, did she notice Rannveig stood close. She moves closer to her queen, enough to bridge the gap between Reichenbach and his young colt-friend and Rannveig and Morozko. There is a moment, maybe only a split second, where Flora’s eyes flit between the two monarchs their Court line’s drawn with her stranded in between.
The butterflies of unease begin to flutter in her abdomen.
“Your majesties,” the young emissary begins at last, chasing away those nervous flutters with a smile and a welcoming glance cast from beneath her forelock at each gathered courtier. Her wings flare with a swan’s grace, one pointing to each monarch as she introduced them lightly, “King Reichenbach of the Night Court… and Queen Rannveig of the Dusk Court.” The girl paused, amethyst eyes dancing between them to flit away to Morozko and Damascus. “And these handsome boys, for any who might be wondering, are Morozko and I believe, Damascus.” Her lips twitch, though her eyes hold a hint of concern as she drinks in the colt. Florentine had never had a formal introduction with the young courtier, though the winds had more than once carried his name. It was unlikely she would find a colt so similar called Damascus and so she hoped her powers of deduction were on better form than her depleted dagger.
@Rannveig @Reichenbach @Morozko @Damascus
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
