f l o r e n t i n e
Jasmine and wood smoke drew her in, a reveler about a campfire. Those scents stirred her memories, bound to them as they were, and pulled them forth to play out across her body. She could still feel the starlight upon her skin, playing with the flickering flames from a sea of torches. Denocte had become, to Florentine, a dreamworld of sorts. It was a fitful memory she had yet to revisit.
Until now.
Where Reichenbach was jasmine, wood smoke and starlight, so Florentine was lavender, wild sea breezes and the purple-orange bruises of a dying sun. There was no peaceful death about Florentine. She was too wild and untamed, too brave and unaffected by its clammy-cold, for she knew there was more to come; she welcomed the dusk for the promise of the night and she lived in the veil between them both.
Wings flare as her honeyed body drops into a curtsey - another memory relived that lays a smile across her lips. “Your majesty,” Flora hums. “I am glad to see I am not the only one with an adventurer’s heart.”
Her heart beats also with the thrum of dance, her skin tingling with the touch of the vibrant sea air and it is effortful to lay her wings away to her sides. The winds tug at her, luring the flower girl out, out over the edge of the cliff. She responds, in part, as a stream of petals catch the wind and fall like a banner of swirling silk over the edge.
From her vantage point between them, her eyes drink in a mane as thick and tangled as her own, but black as pitch. A dusk flower, swirling in hues of purple and orange, is plucked from her mane and placed within his. “A gift from The Dusk Court.”
Florentine turns, another poised to settle into the snarls of Morozko’s mane, yet pauses as her eyes meet and slip along the smoothly shaved crest of his neck. Her eyes trail over the rest of him, the flower still hovering, expectantly waiting for any surplus hair. “Well, that is unfortunate.”
Loathe to waste a flower, she lets it twine about his diamond horn. In silence the flower girl drinks him in, pondering whether it made the warrior seem any less a man. Finally she chirps softly, “Purple suits you quite well.” Before her eyes flit away swiftly, leaving the matter quite unresolved.
Amethyst eyes, framed with honeyed gold, settle upon Reichenbach once more, “I am sorry I left the festivities so suddenly. I trust you did not feel too sore the following day? It was quite a wild do you were hosting.”
@Reichenbach @Morozko such sexy boys <3
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
