Ah, would she spread her wings and catch herself? Well, wasn’t that the question upon everyone’s lips, not just Isorath’s? They were also there as a sliver of wondering, a haunting in the dark of the golden girl’s own mind.
Flora arrives at the door, barely feeling the specters of her concerns when the incense begins to lace itself within her mane. The fragrance hangs thick within the air, laying itself upon polished wood and gilding everything as expensively as the gold upon Isorath’s body.
The burning incense pulls Florentine into the common room. From there her amethyst eyes spot the glittering of silver tableware where it bathes, upon the marble balcony, beneath the lazy, afternoon sun.
Beyond the pallid, stone arches of the balcony’s railings, the trees are blended crowns of browns, golds and reds. Sat upon his cushions, Isorath is a compliment to his surroundings. The sun recalls he was a king once and calls his skin to glow in hues of white and gold that gleam and gleam and gleam.
The scent of tea, weak against the overwhelming incense, only just reaches her and the flower girl’s gaze falls to where the teapot’s silver steam spirals into the air.
“I did not think you would truly take me up on my request for tea and something stronger, but I am grateful, Isorath.” The words fall as a murmur past her upturned, grateful lips as Florentine drifts through the gauzy curtains of the doorway. Petals fall to her place upon the cushions and she eyes the furnishings curiously before slowly, carefully, lowering herself upon them. Now was likely not the time to collapse with her usual lack of care and grace…
With slender limbs folded beneath her gilded torso, the young sovereign takes in the older man before her. His eyes are a similar hue to her own, his scales a richer gold than her skin could ever be and his coat was the virgin-white snow of her birth land.
A hummingbird, with fluttering wings, disturbs the flower girl’s thoughts as it flies, with singing wings, about the lavender flowers in her hair. Finally it flits between the sovereign and her sage before hovering over Isorath’s exotic fruits.
Florentine’s gaze lingers upon one, its taste is a heavy and heady memory upon her tongue. “Denocte fruits,” The flower girl observes softly, folding away a memory of Reichenbach giving her one; it was a picture to be opened and recalled another time, but not here, not now.
The girl’s gaze returns to Isorath and she remembers when Rannveig informed her of Isorath’s travels to Denocte. “Tell me of your time in Denocte, Isorath,” the dusk girl asks of him, her eyes curious as she drinks in this boy of gilded words and expensive incense.
“May I have some tea? And then you can tell me of the reasons for your summons.” She wonders what tea percolates within his intricately engraved pot, and the array of exotic teas he has likely amassed within his chambers.
@Isorath
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
