[AW] we drew in revelry;

[Florentine]

i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

Oh anxiety weighs heavy, heavy on her heart. Even as water rained down warm upon the gold of her skin, still it could not cleanse her of her fears as it did the dirt of the Denocte roads. Florentine is a bowstring, the tension of her muscles a plaintive note resounding through her body all the day long. It is a beautiful thing and a sorrowful thing and never has she felt older than she does this night.
 
Yet beneath the floor she drenches with her shower-slick body a Dusk festival continues in merry chaos.  There is laughter that drifts through the tiled floor to drown out the sound of her violin-worries. There is the clank and clink of goblets and glass, a liquor-percussion to the sounds of myriad instruments singing and swelling through Terrastella’s halls.
 
She untangles her hair before a mirror and a girl of deepest gold but there is no phoenix girl standing there also. There is only a memory of fire and star-lit nights where that girl, Moira Tonnerre, should stand. The Dusk girl twines her hair as Moira taught her, for within its tight twines she lays dreams and hopes and vowes this year, as the previous, to stand upon the cliff-side and cast her prayers into the sea.
 
Yet, how much has changed!
 
And how much is still so strangely similar…
 
She is not a queen in love with a king as she once was. There is no gypsy boy who breaks her heart this year, but a fallen god instead, gone, in search of vengeance (though she fiercely wishes him well with every step he takes from her).
 
When she steps through the Great Hall doors, her smile tells nothing of the ghosts of tears that still glisten upon her cheeks. Flora is the girl who always leaves, the girl to run off on her adventures, she is unversed in being left. She thinks of her brother’s sad smile and his hurt touch when she told him of her leaving and oh how she never understood his pain - until now.
 
There is glitter in the gold of her eyelashes, snowflakes and dreams, catching the light from rippling fireplaces. She is achy and weary from travel and worry but the traveller girl smiles and laughs and drinks the warm mead passed her way. She dances because she danced when she saw him last and it feels right to dance again. As Flroentine moves, she forgets and as she forgets her smile grows brighter and warmer and her limbs so very much looser.
 
This girl is glitter (upon her lashes, upon her wings, upon the delicate lines of her face) and gold (over every part of her that light can touch) and her petals are a breeze, swirling about her.  But then she stops and drinks some more, moving to the table of art. Her amethyst eyes glitter as she catches sight of another, “May I draw you?” She breathes with an impish smile and liquor warm breath. And she does not speak of her questionable art skills.

Anyone welcome!

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world