f l o r e n t i n e
Ipomoea is the first to come, and arrive he does to the rhythm of clicking feet upon smooth flagstone. Her amethyst eyes glitter in the soft-low light, now ready for the blush of rose and wreath of flowers atop his crown.
Florentine’s smile is wide as she lifts her nose to better stir the tendrils of her fringe and see the boy in his dawn light. “Ah,” She says, as if surprised, yet her voice is warm with knowing, gentle with welcome. “Ipomoea.” Flora acknowledges him, her muzzle brushing against his shoulder fondly. “Have you seen our eagle again yet?” To the skies her eyes lift, as if hoping, upon a whim, that the creature may fly there, for the pleasure of their gaze.
But alas, the eagle was not one to answer to their whims.
The flower girl’s skin tingles with knowledge of another’s arrival. She steps closer to Ipomoea, to better peer around his slender form and greet their newest arrival.
Yet her eyes descend upon a horn she knows too well, skin she knows the scent of and eyes whose colours haunt her most guilty of thoughts. Her stomach twists, her limbs so suddenly ill at ease. She shifts in place, stirred by his presence, her smile gone, passed like the sun behind the cloud of his stony countenance.
Their silence speaks a thousand words and sheds a thousand tears. And yet they let it draw on, just as tight, just as painful. The girl’s tongue is held tight and then tighter still, until she can no longer bear this stillness of silent words and tears. “Charlemagne.” She breathes at last, cool and pained. Florentine cannot place just what he is to her, she cannot sort the feelings his presence has stirred. He draws her anger, her upset, her every bad quality. She teased him until she drew pain, but only because he had (unknowingly) drawn blood first… Now she is the worst of herself within his presence and she hates it.
Their meeting lived on, within her, far longer than she would have liked. His passion for books awoke a curiosity she could not shift, until at last, she found herself within the Dusk Court library, surrounded by dusty tomes and scrolls of histories long ago lived. She fell asleep too soon, too fast.
She was no sage.
“How are your books?” She asks, with both spite and interest and it arrives upon her voice in a lightly broken melody.
The twilight girl is saved from further struggle when another man arrives. For a moment, still troubled by Charlemagne’s presence, her eyes flit to him and she bears no smile for the Dawn King. Just a lingering frown that is fading, and fading, too slow, too slow.
Her eyes flit to Ipomoea still close, still warm with greeting and she falls into his comforting presence.
You know this young lady?”
All at once, with his quiet words, the Dawn King leaves Florentine a tangle of shyness and longing. It had been so long since she had been called a young lady, the last lips to ever call her so was her father and with her dagger broken, she does not know when she will see his face again – if she ever may…
With thick lashes sweeping her cheek, dusted with Dawn’s new light, her breath fans out. When those lilac eyes open once more, her gaze is upon Kasil, a smile valiantly playing along her lips once again. “We have indeed met before. One morning in the forest, I came exploring and Po was kind enough to grace me with his company for a time.”
@Ipomoea @Charlemagne @Kasil
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
Florentine’s smile is wide as she lifts her nose to better stir the tendrils of her fringe and see the boy in his dawn light. “Ah,” She says, as if surprised, yet her voice is warm with knowing, gentle with welcome. “Ipomoea.” Flora acknowledges him, her muzzle brushing against his shoulder fondly. “Have you seen our eagle again yet?” To the skies her eyes lift, as if hoping, upon a whim, that the creature may fly there, for the pleasure of their gaze.
But alas, the eagle was not one to answer to their whims.
The flower girl’s skin tingles with knowledge of another’s arrival. She steps closer to Ipomoea, to better peer around his slender form and greet their newest arrival.
Yet her eyes descend upon a horn she knows too well, skin she knows the scent of and eyes whose colours haunt her most guilty of thoughts. Her stomach twists, her limbs so suddenly ill at ease. She shifts in place, stirred by his presence, her smile gone, passed like the sun behind the cloud of his stony countenance.
Their silence speaks a thousand words and sheds a thousand tears. And yet they let it draw on, just as tight, just as painful. The girl’s tongue is held tight and then tighter still, until she can no longer bear this stillness of silent words and tears. “Charlemagne.” She breathes at last, cool and pained. Florentine cannot place just what he is to her, she cannot sort the feelings his presence has stirred. He draws her anger, her upset, her every bad quality. She teased him until she drew pain, but only because he had (unknowingly) drawn blood first… Now she is the worst of herself within his presence and she hates it.
Their meeting lived on, within her, far longer than she would have liked. His passion for books awoke a curiosity she could not shift, until at last, she found herself within the Dusk Court library, surrounded by dusty tomes and scrolls of histories long ago lived. She fell asleep too soon, too fast.
She was no sage.
“How are your books?” She asks, with both spite and interest and it arrives upon her voice in a lightly broken melody.
The twilight girl is saved from further struggle when another man arrives. For a moment, still troubled by Charlemagne’s presence, her eyes flit to him and she bears no smile for the Dawn King. Just a lingering frown that is fading, and fading, too slow, too slow.
Her eyes flit to Ipomoea still close, still warm with greeting and she falls into his comforting presence.
You know this young lady?”
All at once, with his quiet words, the Dawn King leaves Florentine a tangle of shyness and longing. It had been so long since she had been called a young lady, the last lips to ever call her so was her father and with her dagger broken, she does not know when she will see his face again – if she ever may…
With thick lashes sweeping her cheek, dusted with Dawn’s new light, her breath fans out. When those lilac eyes open once more, her gaze is upon Kasil, a smile valiantly playing along her lips once again. “We have indeed met before. One morning in the forest, I came exploring and Po was kind enough to grace me with his company for a time.”
@Ipomoea @Charlemagne @Kasil
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
