f l o r e n t i n e
It was bleak.
Florentine didn’t do bleak.
Rain tracked like honey tears down her cream cheeks. It dripped from her eyelids, gathering like gems in her lashes. It had been a day of sunshine and showers. Black and gold feuded their way across the sky, setting all below in the Dawn Court to suffer their outfall.
When at last the grey shadows passed and rays of sunlight tumbled down to warm the earth with hazy mists of condensation, Florentine shook the final raindrops from her wings. Her skin tingled, basking in the warmth of this new sunlight. The winds kept her high in the sky, tugging and tangling her already tousled mane and tail.
With violet eyes, she peered down across the Terrastellan lands that rolled by below her. There was not a soul in sight.
Late.
She was indeed late, as suspected. Petals danced in her wake, rolling and toppling as they were carried on the light currents of air that billowed behind her. Then, slowly, they began their idle descent to the grasslands.
The meeting was easy to spot from her vantage point. Amethyst eyes skipped over each face, recognizing none but Rannveig, their monarch. Flora descended like a hawk, the winds whistling its laughter in her ears as she fell towards the rising earth. Long limbs reach out to meet an unfortunately wet patch of muddied earth that sprays over her torso with a chorus of splats. The flower girl pauses, mud adorned and rather surprised. Yet such a wide-eyed look is fleeting for more important matters are at hand.
Casting aside her unfortunate landing, Florentine enters their small gathering in a tangle of anticipation and wildly snarled hair. Blithely she ignores her rather feral appearance – despite the mud has tracked its way up each slender limb, across her stomach and up her throat. In their midst she is damp earth and wild flowers, the wildness of spring set to blossom. With a grin and a graceful dip of her wings – a startling contrast to her bedraggled appearance – Florentine begins chirpily, “Sorry I am late. I am quite looking forward to this meeting.”
The itch of damp skin and gritty earth, draw her eyes to a dirtied limb. Extending it out she huffs gently, placating her new compatriots lightly, “It’s okay, I promise I pay much more attention when I heal than I do when I land.”
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
Florentine didn’t do bleak.
Rain tracked like honey tears down her cream cheeks. It dripped from her eyelids, gathering like gems in her lashes. It had been a day of sunshine and showers. Black and gold feuded their way across the sky, setting all below in the Dawn Court to suffer their outfall.
When at last the grey shadows passed and rays of sunlight tumbled down to warm the earth with hazy mists of condensation, Florentine shook the final raindrops from her wings. Her skin tingled, basking in the warmth of this new sunlight. The winds kept her high in the sky, tugging and tangling her already tousled mane and tail.
With violet eyes, she peered down across the Terrastellan lands that rolled by below her. There was not a soul in sight.
Late.
She was indeed late, as suspected. Petals danced in her wake, rolling and toppling as they were carried on the light currents of air that billowed behind her. Then, slowly, they began their idle descent to the grasslands.
The meeting was easy to spot from her vantage point. Amethyst eyes skipped over each face, recognizing none but Rannveig, their monarch. Flora descended like a hawk, the winds whistling its laughter in her ears as she fell towards the rising earth. Long limbs reach out to meet an unfortunately wet patch of muddied earth that sprays over her torso with a chorus of splats. The flower girl pauses, mud adorned and rather surprised. Yet such a wide-eyed look is fleeting for more important matters are at hand.
Casting aside her unfortunate landing, Florentine enters their small gathering in a tangle of anticipation and wildly snarled hair. Blithely she ignores her rather feral appearance – despite the mud has tracked its way up each slender limb, across her stomach and up her throat. In their midst she is damp earth and wild flowers, the wildness of spring set to blossom. With a grin and a graceful dip of her wings – a startling contrast to her bedraggled appearance – Florentine begins chirpily, “Sorry I am late. I am quite looking forward to this meeting.”
The itch of damp skin and gritty earth, draw her eyes to a dirtied limb. Extending it out she huffs gently, placating her new compatriots lightly, “It’s okay, I promise I pay much more attention when I heal than I do when I land.”
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
