REICHENBACH'S BAE
Florentine’s eyes sweep up the curved tines of Isorath’s antlers. They are bone white and gleam in the year-weary sun like rich china. She does not think he will shatter as readily, for there is more to this man than that; the way he carries himself is more regal than Flora could ever be. Had the flower girl known that he was once a king, then maybe his deportment would make sense, or maybe, it would give her hope (and despair) that, one day, she might too become so regal.
Upon such a thought, her eyes fly out, out beyond the canopy of trees that stretch away from their balcony in myriad hues of gold and red and orange. She looks toward the hidden sea, for she knows it glistens beyond these autumnal boughs. It pulls from her a sigh, soft with longing, for the life she now may no longer have. Her renegade heart beats its wings for the need to fly, fly, fly away from this heavy crown and its demands like thorns.
Remembering who, what she is, Florentine claws her heart back into her chest, replaces her soul from where it sought to flee and turns her young, young gaze back upon the sage. Her dusk-warm smile grows when he indicates toward the spirits beside him and her stomach twists nervously. “I have never drunk before.” The flower girl breathes, her voice coloured by intrigue. “Well, as a horse I haven’t,” Flora clarifies lightly. “I did when I was human… I got very drunk.” There is a wariness to her now, wise and careful.
“I will try that.” She nudges a bottle forward, rich with its gold alcohol gleaming within. “I am not sure what it is, though.” The young sovereign blinks, suddenly realizing that picking a bottle based upon its aesthetic may not have been wise…
She returns to her tea, inhaling, letting its fragrance play across her tongue when Isorath refers to Denocte’s courtiers and its sovereign. There is only a brief flutter of her gold-dusted lashes in response to his inflection. It seemed her relationship with Reichenbach was quite the topic of conversation. So many had sought to induce a reaction from the both of them.
“Yes,” Florentine hums as her gaze peers up from between her long, long tendrils of golden hair and entwined petals. “Denocte is a place of dreams. I find the company of their sovereign to be particularly pleasant, as you clearly know.” There is a smile upon her lips, but beneath her melodic voice is a violin strain, heralding a growing frustration.
The golden girl sips at her tea, its flavor strong and floral. It leaves a fragrance within her mouth as much as flavor. “It is not an easy pill to swallow, you are right.” The twilight girl agrees gently, her eyes once again fleeing their lavish balcony to fall upon all the lands that she now ruled. “Thank you for asking. The crown is an odd fit, but I trust it may feel more comfortable with time.”
Isorath steers their conversation promptly, deftly, onto the subject of alliances. As swiftly as the hummingbird had come and gone, so Florentine’s gaze flies back to settle upon the sage’s amethyst gaze. She surveys him, once, twice, a third time and she does not rush her consideration, nor does she blush within his gaze.
Gone was the girl shy of tasting her first sip of alcohol (in this world) and instead an older girl replaces her, a creature on the verge of adulthood; a girl forced to grow up in a moment, in the seconds it took for a queen to bow before her successor.
“There was never an alliance officially agreed.” Florentine begins after those long moments of consideration. “Rannveig went to discuss it, but I believe no agreement was reached.” Her lashes fan across her cheek in a blink before rising to let her gaze find her sage’s once more. “If you must know, I have sent our healers to Solterra out of respect for Maxence. In our past meetings he had made it clear that they possess few healers and little medicinal skill. After a fight that saw an end to his reign I saw fit to honour his memory – whether I liked the man or not. So I extended an air of hospitality.”
The hummingbird returns, stirring Florentine’s hair, oblivious to the gravity of this conversation as it searches for more nectar.
“Moving forward from here, I shall keep Dusk’s position guarded regarding all alliances until I have met with all the sovereigns, including Maxence’s successor.” She continues, her gaze set only upon Isorath, “The political tide may be set to change when Solterra’s new ruler takes to the throne.”
Her words trail off, their silence filled with the song of birds and the rustle of falling leaves. The Dusk sovereign quietly takes another sip of her tea, her gaze still riveted upon her courtier.
@Isorath
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
