[AW] we drew in revelry;

[Florentine]

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

Florentine might be shocked to know how Marisol turned down the girl stood before her in the name of duty. For this creature, adorned in her gleaming war paint, is in every way a fierce and beautiful girl.
 
Slowly, slowly Flora’s gaze drifts down and down with the spiraling curls of Theodosia’s mane. It snags upon the gleaming gems that dangle upon fine chains from the nest of wild roses atop her crown. Her eyes have not missed either the great antlers that rise toward the sky encrusted with quartz. The girl was the soft of snow, her lavender accents the first press of flowers above the snow’s surface.
 
Ah there is something so utterly divine about this girl that for a moment Florentine simply gazes. How could such worldly beauty ever be truly captured upon a page and by her unskilled hand of all things?
 
Gilded lashes, heavy with sudden anxiety, press low low over her eyes. Her own amethyst gaze tumbles away and she laughs as soft as a brush of wind through woodland trees. Florentine takes another drink because oh it is easier. She is numb beneath its golden touch, she turns from stone to warmth and pliable silk. Her smile is sunset bright and full of the bruising purple of a dying sun.
 
There is phoenix fire in the corner of her gaze and her breath catches as, for a moment she looks away and to her travelling companion. Moira Tonnerre stands with Florentine’s brother and how their anguish is a palpable thing! There is no alcohol that can numb the feeling of a racing heart and Florentine’s has taken flight. It runs into her throat, it thrums its worry into her veins and her chest beats with anxiety. There are birds set to escape her, they press their fragile wings again and again to the shell of her chest. They beat and beat and beat and when Floretnine opens her mouth to speak, she is sure they would come tumbling out.
 
But only words do. “Please, sit.” The flower-girl murmurs as her gaze finally frees itself from the snagging thorns that is Moira and Asterion. And when she looks to Theo, oh there is a similar ghost there. Do Asterion and Theo wear the same sorrow? Does rejection slip like an ache through their veins, tasting like tears and feeling like rending souls? Florentine knows, oh she knows what rejection is, to have your heart unspooled before you beneath the ending hands of the one you love.
 
Florentine is wide, wide eyed. Yet she softens every line of her and smiles warmth and dusk-light upon the girl before her. “Thank you.” The once-queen hums. Pencils and pens, paints and charcoal litter the table and paper is strewn.
 
“How are you, Theodosia?” The girl asks soft as evening bells as she starts to draw in curves and arcs.

@Theodosia 

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world