REICHENBACH'S BAE
How long had she been stood there? A day? A month? A year? Time bled away from her and left her as untouched as it once had. It is only the click of feet upon the marble floor that pulls the flower girl back from her timeless wonderings.
Florentine listens to the staccato beat: short and anxious, an endless pacing. All at once, close by, it slowed and stopped. A sigh escaped the Dusk girl’s lips, her eyes upon the seam where the sky met the world below. Sovereignty was a heavy crown to wear. Its dress was awkward upon Florentine’s skin and the girl already felt stifled and raw from its rubbing. Yet she craved a reprieve from her thoughts and longed for a never ending solitude.
For all the ways that this new position did not feel right upon her skin, there was one thing the twilight girl was sure of: She would never let this crown burden her like her father have been by his. Resolute, with but a final look upon the horizon, Flora turns back towards the tower.
A girl of shadow and starlight gives the young monarch pause. The stranger is stood in the darkened corner of the room, the only space where the light of the painting could not reach her. Yet even away from its light, the painting still holds her tightly. Ki-irah is as still and perfect as the mare within the picture; one caught on ethereal motion and the other held still by awe and splendor.
Immune to the whispers of the gods, Florentine had never lingered long before this picture. But now, oh now, seeing the way its grandeur brings this girl to spiritual stillness, the twilight girl begins to wonder what draw these unseen gods have over their followers.
“Do you believe?” Florentine asks from where she stands, framed by the doorway and the world it keeps at bay. Keen on an answer, she steps down from the balcony doors, petals falling from her to tumble across the floor like leaves blowing in from the trees. With each step Flora begins to recognize the midnight-blue skin, the sweep of hair like silver clouds and the horn that rises like some righteous ebony spire. “Ki’irha,” her lips speak the name softly, as if Vespera’s own eyes gazed down from the painting.
Oh to believe. Just for a moment…
“How is your leg? It must be improving if you have climbed all the way up here? Or at least I hope so, or else getting down could be quite the challenge for us.” Her smile turns impish, thoughts of gods and queens and twilight evenings drifting from her mind and she begins to wonder over the impracticalities of carrying another and flying.
@Ki'irha
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
