f l o r e n t i n e
The clatter of hooves upon slate is the scrape of claws upon a mountainside. A dragon it is, that curls its way about the rugged peak and creates hurricanes with its pounding wings.
About the girl’s feet, dragon fire leaps from parchment to parchment, armies falling beneath its onslaught. Its maker is an ugly thing of jagged, black brush strokes and wild, fierce eyes.
Upon the page it is so still, but in her dreams it is alive to terrorise the mountain with the song of Maxence’s demanding feet.
It is not a draconic roar that rouses the girl of flowers, but a king’s demand that pushes its way to every corner of the castle. It is a voice she knows. It is the roar of a lion from a canyon ledge.
With books as her pillow and parchment as her blanket, the girl had dosed in blissful quiet, exhausted by duty and adventure. Yet now she awakens with a start, petals tumbling to brighten old parchment with vibrant amethyst. Upon her cheek, spines of books have drawn a web of whimsical tales and droll, droll histories.
It had been the first time the library books had ever met the girl of flowers and her swift, swift fall to slumber had made them sure they would not see her again soon. She was made for more than the quiet whispers of library books…
Leaving feathers and petals upon her bed of tomes and scrolls, the girl drifts to gaze through a thinly slit window. A flash of leonine teeth and a glimpse of golden trim is all that is needed to tangle her stomach into knots. A huff of irritation has the girl swirling from the window.
“Morozko.” Florentine answers the stranger, Avdotya, as she tumbles, sleep rumpled, from the shadow of the citadel. Sunlight paints her gilded gold, alighting upon ember flecks that burn within the amethyst of her eyes. “His name is Morozko.” She affirms in a voice as soft as twilight light.
Garish scars, livid and broad, summon Flora’s attention as she gazes over the slender warrior girl. Sun-kissed skin shivers for what it may be like to live through the trauma of such battle scars – the girl of flowers would not know, she had not survived her own. A ribcage of broken bones and lungs full of blood were unforgiving injuries to bear.
The ghost of blood upon her tongue has Florentine’s eyes fleeing from Avdotya’s lithe, battle-worn body to settle upon the Lion King. “Maxence,” The twilight girl purrs with a voice of silk and words to play like needles down his spine, “it is a pleasure to see you using your wings. I had begun to think they were just ornamental.” The smile that curls her lips casts away the final vestiges of sleep. It is a sunbaked canyon, tall and red, that plays upon her mind as her eyes trail, the line of feathers as his side.
Across the meadow, vibrant flowers shiver in the breeze, trembling as the tension draws tight between the warriors. There is no mistake the young emissary is the anomaly, yet she seems not to notice as her eyes map the frown lines that darken the Sun King’s face.
“Our Queen Rannveig will come to see you when she is ready, it should not be too long now.” Slender body turns as she slips in place beside Morozko, nose ghosting against his shoulder, a wing against his side. A gesture to ease the tension from his ice-hewn skin.
It is with something akin to regret, that her gaze frees itself from the fire of Maxence’s skin, to settle upon the slim warrior girl once more. “You must be Avdotya.” The twilight girl hums gently, for such scars could only belong to the Sun king’s regent.
“I am Florentine,” It was an introduction, as light and warm as a summer breeze, “forgive me if I do not curtsey, my legs are still a little sore from the canyon your king made me climb.” And ended with a wicked curl of lips.
@Maxence @Morozko @Avdotya
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
About the girl’s feet, dragon fire leaps from parchment to parchment, armies falling beneath its onslaught. Its maker is an ugly thing of jagged, black brush strokes and wild, fierce eyes.
Upon the page it is so still, but in her dreams it is alive to terrorise the mountain with the song of Maxence’s demanding feet.
It is not a draconic roar that rouses the girl of flowers, but a king’s demand that pushes its way to every corner of the castle. It is a voice she knows. It is the roar of a lion from a canyon ledge.
With books as her pillow and parchment as her blanket, the girl had dosed in blissful quiet, exhausted by duty and adventure. Yet now she awakens with a start, petals tumbling to brighten old parchment with vibrant amethyst. Upon her cheek, spines of books have drawn a web of whimsical tales and droll, droll histories.
It had been the first time the library books had ever met the girl of flowers and her swift, swift fall to slumber had made them sure they would not see her again soon. She was made for more than the quiet whispers of library books…
Leaving feathers and petals upon her bed of tomes and scrolls, the girl drifts to gaze through a thinly slit window. A flash of leonine teeth and a glimpse of golden trim is all that is needed to tangle her stomach into knots. A huff of irritation has the girl swirling from the window.
“Morozko.” Florentine answers the stranger, Avdotya, as she tumbles, sleep rumpled, from the shadow of the citadel. Sunlight paints her gilded gold, alighting upon ember flecks that burn within the amethyst of her eyes. “His name is Morozko.” She affirms in a voice as soft as twilight light.
Garish scars, livid and broad, summon Flora’s attention as she gazes over the slender warrior girl. Sun-kissed skin shivers for what it may be like to live through the trauma of such battle scars – the girl of flowers would not know, she had not survived her own. A ribcage of broken bones and lungs full of blood were unforgiving injuries to bear.
The ghost of blood upon her tongue has Florentine’s eyes fleeing from Avdotya’s lithe, battle-worn body to settle upon the Lion King. “Maxence,” The twilight girl purrs with a voice of silk and words to play like needles down his spine, “it is a pleasure to see you using your wings. I had begun to think they were just ornamental.” The smile that curls her lips casts away the final vestiges of sleep. It is a sunbaked canyon, tall and red, that plays upon her mind as her eyes trail, the line of feathers as his side.
Across the meadow, vibrant flowers shiver in the breeze, trembling as the tension draws tight between the warriors. There is no mistake the young emissary is the anomaly, yet she seems not to notice as her eyes map the frown lines that darken the Sun King’s face.
“Our Queen Rannveig will come to see you when she is ready, it should not be too long now.” Slender body turns as she slips in place beside Morozko, nose ghosting against his shoulder, a wing against his side. A gesture to ease the tension from his ice-hewn skin.
It is with something akin to regret, that her gaze frees itself from the fire of Maxence’s skin, to settle upon the slim warrior girl once more. “You must be Avdotya.” The twilight girl hums gently, for such scars could only belong to the Sun king’s regent.
“I am Florentine,” It was an introduction, as light and warm as a summer breeze, “forgive me if I do not curtsey, my legs are still a little sore from the canyon your king made me climb.” And ended with a wicked curl of lips.
@Maxence @Morozko @Avdotya
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
