Bless her flowery heart, Florentine manages to resist outright laughter at my nervous shits. Thank the Gods, because I don't think my male ego could handle it. I sense that there's no humor in Damaris either, who has to have noticed with her excellent sense of smell. A smile instead, from Florentine, reveals a crack in her stiff exterior. It's clear the shell she's built around herself will remain strong, but it isn't so impenetrable as to prevent a small lightening of the mood. 'Who knew a good gut could be such a relief.'
But the smile freezes and falls, the brevity fades, and she's turned, beckoning that I follow so we can talk further. I oblige, following without asking any question. Damaris tags along at my heels, eyes keen for any more trickery of nature. (Or any ordinary surprise danger that might stumble upon us.) We follow the queen up a boardwalk, and while the boards clack under her footsteps, they seem to creak more under my own. Creak, but they hold firm. Flowers are the trail between us, and I can't help but wonder how flowers can possibly continue to fall. Does she not run out? Do they come out of her butt like fantasy rainbows?
Flower turds. Better than mine.
But I'm distracted from such ridiculous, childish thoughts when she speaks again. Her words are sobering, turning whatever amusing thoughts I'd held in my head to misery. Missing. I don't know what I had expected Florentine to say. That they were hiding Weir away just to torture me? Whatever the angst between Dusk and Night, I would never expect that of her. Of Florentine, Reichenbach, or Weir. Pain grabs my heart in its grubby hands and starts to squeeze, crunching the delicate organ. I feel real, physical pain, and turn my head suddenly toward my shoulder, as if to scratch a sudden itch - instead biting hard at my flesh as a distraction. I turn my head back, a thin, nearly invisible line of blood coating the crown of my teeth. My hide twitches in response to the small, fresh wound.
Florentine's gaze is out across the swamp, thank the Gods. And just like that, attention is focused on her dagger. Time-space continuum. Cutting between worlds. My stomach flips at the thought, and I push the urge to ask more down inside. 'Damaris, we must have that conversation with her another time. There are many questions to be asked, answers to be had.' Florentine is on to the remainder of my quest as well. Unfortunately.
Florentine's tone sets me on edge, if I wasn't before. Damaris is tense but quiet. "I know that you and Reichenbach were romantically involved. And then you weren't. And now he and Isorath...." I tilt my head with a curious smile tugging irresistibly on my lips, for I had not known that my King had any interest for more than females. Quickly it fades. "And there have been some terrible fights leaving more than a few poor comrades in bloody rags. And Day Court hates Night Court and vice versa, and we are all quickly descending into madness." I conclude firmly and sardonically. What a mess.
Tag: @Florentine
Rosti thoughts | "Rosti speech" | Damaris mindspeak
But the smile freezes and falls, the brevity fades, and she's turned, beckoning that I follow so we can talk further. I oblige, following without asking any question. Damaris tags along at my heels, eyes keen for any more trickery of nature. (Or any ordinary surprise danger that might stumble upon us.) We follow the queen up a boardwalk, and while the boards clack under her footsteps, they seem to creak more under my own. Creak, but they hold firm. Flowers are the trail between us, and I can't help but wonder how flowers can possibly continue to fall. Does she not run out? Do they come out of her butt like fantasy rainbows?
Flower turds. Better than mine.
But I'm distracted from such ridiculous, childish thoughts when she speaks again. Her words are sobering, turning whatever amusing thoughts I'd held in my head to misery. Missing. I don't know what I had expected Florentine to say. That they were hiding Weir away just to torture me? Whatever the angst between Dusk and Night, I would never expect that of her. Of Florentine, Reichenbach, or Weir. Pain grabs my heart in its grubby hands and starts to squeeze, crunching the delicate organ. I feel real, physical pain, and turn my head suddenly toward my shoulder, as if to scratch a sudden itch - instead biting hard at my flesh as a distraction. I turn my head back, a thin, nearly invisible line of blood coating the crown of my teeth. My hide twitches in response to the small, fresh wound.
Florentine's gaze is out across the swamp, thank the Gods. And just like that, attention is focused on her dagger. Time-space continuum. Cutting between worlds. My stomach flips at the thought, and I push the urge to ask more down inside. 'Damaris, we must have that conversation with her another time. There are many questions to be asked, answers to be had.' Florentine is on to the remainder of my quest as well. Unfortunately.
Florentine's tone sets me on edge, if I wasn't before. Damaris is tense but quiet. "I know that you and Reichenbach were romantically involved. And then you weren't. And now he and Isorath...." I tilt my head with a curious smile tugging irresistibly on my lips, for I had not known that my King had any interest for more than females. Quickly it fades. "And there have been some terrible fights leaving more than a few poor comrades in bloody rags. And Day Court hates Night Court and vice versa, and we are all quickly descending into madness." I conclude firmly and sardonically. What a mess.
Rosti thoughts | "Rosti speech" | Damaris mindspeak
Rostislav
more than a drunken fool
