The winds moan with the coming winter. Its breath becomes heavy with cold and the promise of sleet. The chilled ache of joints creak against the impending snow. Upon the peak of the mountain, surrounded and enclosed by carved stone, Florentine listens to the push and pull of seasons as one begins to wax as the other begins to wane.
 
Yet here, Vespera’s altar holds the honey girl so riveted she does not hear the changeable weather. She does not hear the way the seasons drift by, nor the clip of feet upon the cold, cold stone.
 
She had been a frightened bird here once; a creature primed for flight with wings unfurled and a fly-away heart tethered only by a tenuous string of fraying gossamer. This day, however, sees the girl much quieter now. The temple listens to her rambling prayers and whisper them back to her from its lonely, darkened corners.
 
Above those whispering echoes and the sigh of passing winds, the flower girl does not hear the Daybreak boy until he is beside her with words strong enough to drown her repeating prayers.
 
Startled by him, his voice, his presence, Florentine peers up through honeyed hair and golden lashes to settle upon the gold of his septum ring and then onwards, up and up and up as though he were the mountain they had just scaled. Time seems to slow as she looks to him, her gaze broken only by a sheepish blink.
 
“Oh,” Florentine sighs with all the disappointment of a child and none of the assurance of a queen.. “Was that not praying?” Her gaze returns to Vespera’s altar, as if it may reveal to its unworthy worshipper just how she was supposed to give thanks.
 
The flower girl opens her mouth to ask of this Delumine boy (for how could she miss the scent of sun and woodlands and wilderness?) exactly how she was supposed to pray, but her lips are closed by his whisper. Such a confession draws a relieved huff from the flower girl. “Me either!” Florentine declares with a smile more relieved than it could ever be wicked. “I mean, I know the names of the gods…” And she does, for she sweeps a golden wing along each altar assigning it to its associated god. “But their names and their territories in Novus is all I know of them…”
 
Petals fall to the ground as even the whispering corners of the temple fall to silence at her words. Yet, never one to be too perturbed the young Dusk sovereign takes a step towards the stranger, her voice lowering into a conspiratorial whisper, “I am not even sure I believe in them… Do you?”
 
 
 
@Eros

I’ve never seen it done like that before.
 
Florentine blinks. Colour floods her golden cheeks, warm blood making them warm to touch. “Oh.” She exclaims softly, dismay and disappointment rolling over her like a wave. Had her first attempt at prayer had fallen quite so flat? Apparently so, Flora thinks, bemused.
 
The flower girl looks again to the surrounding altars. They stand quiet and shrouded, littered with the occasional gift and utterly silent in the still of the temple. There were still no worshipers to lead her by example and the altars themselves were as unhelpful as the first time she looked upon them for aid. Slowly Flora sweeps her gaze back up to the pale boy and for a moment they simply peer at each other. He was sifting through old memories of what he had been told about prayer, whilst Florentine began warming to the idea that: if prayer was clearly not her thing – did it mean she had to partake at all?
 
However, not one to be defeated upon her first attempt, the golden queen muses gently for a moment more before hedging softly, “Like what?” She asks of Eros quite unhelpfully. Maybe they could fumble their way through prayer together? Though the flower-girl cannot help but think they would be like ships upon an endlessly open sea without a compass.
 
Her breath escapes in a shiver that sways the silk cloth draped reverently over Vespera’s altar. Feathers, golden and grounded, drift along the marble floor with her errant petals, gathering at the foot of the religious table. The Dawn boy, as pale as the snow, draws her attention back to him. Did she know anything more than just the gods’ names?
 
Disappointed, Florentine shakes her head, her hair a beautiful disarray and her eyes just as tangled with thoughtful wonderings. “No, I don’t… Maybe we should have bought them a gift.” With a frown she spies the gifts upon the altar: dried flowers and rich cloth, perfumes, oils… The more she looks, the more Flora sees dusty offerings beside fresh, glowing gifts. “We could have a look at what other people have brought for their deities though…” She takes a step away from Vespera’s shrine and on towards Calligo’s. At the Night goddess’ altar were more flowers but also fruit and perfume. “I am not sure it matters what they like?” The girl asks softly warily, her eyes catching in corners of the temple that seem to move with the shadows. Maybe it did matter…
 
“I have met gods before, in other worlds. But, having been to so many different worlds with different gods I cannot help thinking that they are just like any of us. Is the only difference that their magic is more powerful than we could possess?” She pauses, weighing the words upon her tongue. They were heavy, oh so heavy. Florentine peers back at the snow-white boy, his own lack of confidence buoying and softening her own. “Why should we worship them just for possessing stronger magic? It seems wrong.” Flore breathes, her eyes glittering in the dark. She may not wish to worship them, but she would try, even through her jumbled thoughts.
 
Maybe she was just understanding it all wrong…
 
“No one in this lifetime has seen Vespera, or any of the other gods… what if they are all just made of stories?” And just like that the queen dares to blaspheme, albeit with wide eyes and a racing heart.
 
@Eros