[P] Magnificent

[Florentine]

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Her feet are little more than whispers upon the carpet. Her feet relish the soft beneath them, the cushion so unlike grass. There is nothing here that is like the wild outside these walls. Florentine is made for meadows and forests and wilderness.
 
The girl is the beauty of the sun and that, at least, is captured here. The torchlight turns her into liquid gold and she glitters as lavishly as a necklace. Petals are strewn in her wake and their amethyst is strange upon the reds and golds of the ornate carpets.
 
Polish oak doors heavy and lavish push open to a room of sin and wonder. Liquor pours as nectar from the gods, it is gold in this light – for all is gold here. All has a value more than she can pay. Sin adorns itself in jewels and fine dresses and smiles a queen’s smile. Nothing looks as dangerous as it should.
 
Here is no place for Florentine, yet she steps with eyes that glimmer wide and keen. Oh her gaze is the heat of the sun as it burns upon each table, greedy and consuming. Her heart thrums in her chest and it hums in her veins. Her ears are full of the chink of dice, the rattle of tables and the plaintive duet of violin and piano. Sin has a face here and it is glorious and glamorous and it beckons her in.
 
Even her dagger would have made Flora more fitting. Its chain would have winked in the light, its blade shining in the flicker of flames. But her throat is naked, her torso too, but for the strip of crimson cloth that wraps twice about her ribs and holds her wing tight. It came from a woman so utterly other – oh, she would not have been amiss here and such crimson is blood upon the gilt of Florentine’s skin.
 
She drinks a sip of alcohol – her first? No, Isorath offered her her first. She blinks away memories as diamonds turning from the light. Ah her throat burns, it scolds, her nerves sing with its whispering allure. Her slender limbs grow light as though the air itself blesses her. Florentine dances, high on sin, high on drink. She blinks again, slow, slow. Her lashes flutter with the idle grace of an ornate fan. They kiss her cheekbones and draw shadows across the glow of her smile.
 
A man draws her in, to a table with cards and the hands are dealt swiftly. Florentine is eager, curious. Her heart is a fluttering bird, its wings thrum, thrum against her breastbone as coins merrily jangle and skitter across the table.
 
Florentine’s game has begun.

@Aghavni

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world