f l o r e n t i n e
Charlemagne is right. There is nothing about Florentine that is made for war. The only war she had ever been in had claimed her life. It was rough and loud and red compared to the soft pastel colours of flowers. And Florentine is nothing if not a girl of flowers. They made for lousy weapons, soft as skin and sweet to taste, and yet she had still brought them with valour in her heart.
Away from the anguished cries of war, Flora’s gaze watches the crinkling of Charlemagne nose and the way he peers about the blessedly empty beach. Her eyes follow his, amethyst chasing green, mischief gleaming like the rippling seas. She takes a step closer to the stranger, nape tucked in, lips soft for whispered words. “Maybe that is because you scared them all off?” The suggestion slips out, daringly bold for its soft delivery.
Through a fringe as thicket thick and just as tangled, the wild girl shares Charlemagne’s arriving dawn. The sea is a swelling pool of molten gold, blending out to purple silk that ripples out to the edges of the blue-pink sky.
“Mmm,” The girl hums softly, her pallid skin a canvas for the art of the morning. “You are right, morning is indeed coming.” Whimsically, dream-drunk, her eyes float back to his. A lazy blink of thick dark lashes contrast the sly gleam in her eye when her eyes open once more. “Still doesn’t mean you should wake them all up so soon, Mr Cockrel.”
Sunlight gleams upon his horn, hot and bright – a bold promise of the day to come. The flower girl smiles, “Find the Dawn Court, hm? Keen to be rid of me so soon?” Her voice tumbles an octave lower, mock sadness pouring from her tongue like tears might from her lilac eyes. Up, up her chin lifts, high and proud, her neck a feature of fine lines and golden skin. Charlemagne may have mistaken her for being insulted, were it not for the smile that crept, slow and brilliant across her charcoal lips. “I believe that the Dawn Court may only separated from the Dusk Court - which is where I live – by Amare Creek.” That proud chin lowers slowly, the liquid purple of her gaze rising to consume him. “If you can handle the lovers there, then I can show you where your Dawn Court is.”
She begins to move, wings folded against the tugging sea breeze. Where the zephyr cannot catch her feathers, it tugs petals loose and they flee to swirl about the unicorn’s body. Florentine does not wait for him as she presses on up the beach, wet sand clinging in the snarls of her tail.
“I am absolutely not an aspiring scholar.” Distaste drips from her lips and her tongue clicks as she considers his question further. “You can learn more of this existence through adventures than you ever can chained to a court.” Her voice bears no humour now, but rather echoes with the ache of an eternity witnessed and endured.
It may be seconds, or it may be hours – that feeling of Time stretching itself between them - as Florentine is quiet, suspended in a silent contemplation that stretches the air so thin. The silence shatters with the echoing song of ringing metal, the only indication that her dagger had been vibrating as if struck by fever. Her gaze sweeps back to Charlemagne’s rolling up the copper of his torso. “No, I am much more content to explore the art of healing.” Then a pause, “Come on Pretty Boy, the day is not long enough for exploring.”
@Charlemagne
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
Away from the anguished cries of war, Flora’s gaze watches the crinkling of Charlemagne nose and the way he peers about the blessedly empty beach. Her eyes follow his, amethyst chasing green, mischief gleaming like the rippling seas. She takes a step closer to the stranger, nape tucked in, lips soft for whispered words. “Maybe that is because you scared them all off?” The suggestion slips out, daringly bold for its soft delivery.
Through a fringe as thicket thick and just as tangled, the wild girl shares Charlemagne’s arriving dawn. The sea is a swelling pool of molten gold, blending out to purple silk that ripples out to the edges of the blue-pink sky.
“Mmm,” The girl hums softly, her pallid skin a canvas for the art of the morning. “You are right, morning is indeed coming.” Whimsically, dream-drunk, her eyes float back to his. A lazy blink of thick dark lashes contrast the sly gleam in her eye when her eyes open once more. “Still doesn’t mean you should wake them all up so soon, Mr Cockrel.”
Sunlight gleams upon his horn, hot and bright – a bold promise of the day to come. The flower girl smiles, “Find the Dawn Court, hm? Keen to be rid of me so soon?” Her voice tumbles an octave lower, mock sadness pouring from her tongue like tears might from her lilac eyes. Up, up her chin lifts, high and proud, her neck a feature of fine lines and golden skin. Charlemagne may have mistaken her for being insulted, were it not for the smile that crept, slow and brilliant across her charcoal lips. “I believe that the Dawn Court may only separated from the Dusk Court - which is where I live – by Amare Creek.” That proud chin lowers slowly, the liquid purple of her gaze rising to consume him. “If you can handle the lovers there, then I can show you where your Dawn Court is.”
She begins to move, wings folded against the tugging sea breeze. Where the zephyr cannot catch her feathers, it tugs petals loose and they flee to swirl about the unicorn’s body. Florentine does not wait for him as she presses on up the beach, wet sand clinging in the snarls of her tail.
“I am absolutely not an aspiring scholar.” Distaste drips from her lips and her tongue clicks as she considers his question further. “You can learn more of this existence through adventures than you ever can chained to a court.” Her voice bears no humour now, but rather echoes with the ache of an eternity witnessed and endured.
It may be seconds, or it may be hours – that feeling of Time stretching itself between them - as Florentine is quiet, suspended in a silent contemplation that stretches the air so thin. The silence shatters with the echoing song of ringing metal, the only indication that her dagger had been vibrating as if struck by fever. Her gaze sweeps back to Charlemagne’s rolling up the copper of his torso. “No, I am much more content to explore the art of healing.” Then a pause, “Come on Pretty Boy, the day is not long enough for exploring.”
@Charlemagne
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
