f l o r e n t i n e
Sand clings to her limbs, digging through hair to rub against her skin. Yet Flora ignores the small, irritating grains. Instead, her eyes fixate upon a rocky projection that leans itself out to sea. Years of weathering the sea surge has left it whittled away to a thin, finger-like projection from the Cliffside. At its heart a small arch begins to frame the rising sun. Light pours through the ancient window casting warm light upon the beach. Beneath its glow, the damp sand shines like golden gems.
The touch of Charlemagne’s muzzle upon her neck, that small display of empathy had eased the girl’s fretful heart. But now it was barely a phantom caress upon her nape. His relieved sigh as she stepped away, that small relaxing of his body, silent but as clear and loud to Florentine as a clanging cymbal, has her own muscles tightening; her heart clenching with rejection yet again. Her eyes close like a door, her wing falling away from its humorous and half-hearted attempt to dry her tears from his skin.
With her chin raised, a scrabbling and gathering together of her spilled pride, the girl continues to mock him with jabs of humour. Like needles they aimed to hurt him, but like needles they do little damage.
Lover Boy, her choice of name has him huffing and her lips twitching at his displeasure. Amethyst eyes steal a glance at him from beneath her tangled, wind-swept forelock. Realization is slow and uncomfortable; she wants him to like her. No one, that she could remember, has ever so openly rejected her. Flora was quite unprepared for how to handle someone who found her presence… irritating.
She wouldn’t be so quick to ask a boy if he liked her from now on. Clearly they were more complex creatures than she ever gave them credit for…
Lover Boy moves past her. His retort, so casually thrown back to her, has Florentine drawing short. Her jaw clenches, her eyes narrow and suddenly, her wings flare. They unravel, stretching wide from where she had held them tight to her slim sides. In a blink they have carried her up and up, over the boy and down to land nimbly, a scant foot before him. Long limbs step close. Then closer and closer still, until all that separates the soft skin of their muzzles is the whispers of their breath. Here, she lets wild adventure meet with scholarly discipline and a flame will surely spark.
His sigh of relief still singing in her hears, Flora opens herself to a surprising vindictiveness she never knew she possessed. Her eyes flit to the pulse at his throat, to the flare of his nostrils as she throws every feminine charm she could muster, his way. She tries to be beautiful, as she never has. She tries to drown him in the scent of wild flowers and mystery and pierce him in the cool of brilliant, amethyst eyes.
In truth, she has not idea whether she succeeded. But it was worth the effort just to watch him squirm…
Florentine waits for a hint of his discomfort. For a flicker of displeasure at her proximity, then, and only then, does she, with ominous gentleness, lift her dagger. Her beautiful dagger, a thing never forged for violence or threats, gleams ominously in the dawn light that slides along its unsheathed blade.
“Just because it’s lost its power, doesn’t mean I wont be able to use it for other things.” She lies and threatens softly, releasing a girl more fierce than she ever knew she possessed.
She lets this moment draw out, pregnant and tense. Her eyes drinking him in, and maybe if Charlemagne was looking, he would see the gleam of mischief that sparks in her eyes.
In a flash her dagger is stowed and hanging innocently at her breast. “I think it’s a darn sight more exciting than your boring books, Scholar Boy.” She says snootily, though her lips wear a wicked smile. In a brief moment of guilt, her muzzle presses to his nape: soft, gentle, apologetic. Keeping her muzzle pressed to his neck, she inhales deeply, dramatically.
“Mmm,” the wild girl hums, her eyes bright with the games she plays at the boy’s expense. “Musty and… boring.” She dances away, her wild mane swirling like a dress decorated with meadow flowers.
“I am not sure you are exciting enough to come up with another name for me.” The dusk girl taunts, her eyes ablaze, her smile wicked. She laughs as she dares him and her eyes are pulled back to the window in the rock. An opening to another world – like those her blade once made.
Returning her gaze to Lover Boy, a wing points to the hole in the rocky sea wall. “Since you do not want my assistance, I am headed off to see what lies beyond that window…” She pauses, her eyes pointedly trailing over his body, her brow lifting archly. “I would offer for you to join me, but I am not sure you are exciting enough.”
@Charlemagne - eek novel time.
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
