There is a full moon blazing overhead when Charlemagne reaches the edge of the sea.
Because he had begun his journey (his adventure, as he preferred to think of it) beneath the shuttered eye of a new moon, he considered this an auspicious sign. If he knew he was already within the borders of Novus, he’d be even more certain of it - but the young unicorn is still unaware that his searching, for the most part, is done.
Even unaware, there’s still a current of excitement running through him, and it becomes a full-throated cry in his blood when he sees the line of silver like a glittering path on the water. With a kick of his heels he is away, racing his heartbeat down to the waves, where the pounding of his hooves is lost in the rush and murmur of sea on sand. The tide tugs at him and he leaps back, laughing, and everything is fine and magic there in the salt-spray.
It isn’t until much later, when he’s resting tangle-haired and tired in the hollow of a dune, that his loneliness sets in again like an ache.
The moon is setting, now, and Charlemagne watches it go and wonders how long it’s been since he spoke to another of his kind. He’d left in secret, with a goodbye only for Erol, and avoided what roads and equines he could until he was well beyond the borders of his people. Beyond there, there were few people to meet: his kingdom had earned a reputation as conquerers both greedy and proud, and few risked crossing their land.
He had thought himself a brave colt and stoic, but weeks with no companionship but birds and squirrels, clouds and rain, was teaching him differently. Now, under the cold, silver beginnings of dawn, he thinks on his sparring partners with something like longing. They’d only had insults for him, sure, but at least it counted as conversation. Charlemagne lets his thoughts run away with him, down a path dark and doubtful, until the sea-birds raise a raucous cry. The unicorn stills, turns his slender head, and watches the gulls scatter and scold.
There is another coming down the beach, colored pearl and rose in the growing dawn. The unicorn scrambles to his feet, scattering sand like gold dust, and simply stares until the stranger is close enough to make out the color of their eyes. Only then does he find his voice - but it is a rough thing, caked in sea-salt and miles of dust.
“Hello!” he cries, softer and less sure than the gulls. “Oh, can you tell me where I am?”
If there is one thing Florentine has learnt, it is that Time enjoys repetition. It is not boring enough to always replay detail for detail. The smaller smaller details will always change. It is these smaller details that keep Flora on her toes and keep her intrigued.
It came as no surprise, therefore, when today Florentine began to witness the unfolding of a familiar repetition. It was a playful pleat in time, one she had seen time and time again. Obedient to this deja vu, and always a willing participant in the games that Space and Time like to play, Florentine steps into the shade of a tree.
She had been in this position at least twice before. Hiding in the dark of a tree, watching a boy playing in the sea – it wasn’t nearly as weird as it sounded… She hoped.
Her amethyst eyes peer out, concealed in the shadow of the tree, the welcoming coot bathing her skin in whisper cold. Her eyes trail the unicorn boy in the water and Flora wonders just how boys manage to get their voices quite so high to squeal like little girls when they are so playful. Normally they just act like gruff, roughty-toughty men. Florentine decided long ago that she preferred the ones who were always set for an adventure.
Time drifted by as the sun slipped lower and lower and the skies bled from pink to red, to purple, and darker still. Silver began to glitter upon the sand and waves. Like a shadow the unicorn finally draws himself from the sea to rest upon a bank.
Flora’s restless limbs shift and finally she abandons her spy post and steps out upon the beach. The sea breeze snags her mane, delighted to tug at the long threads of honey and gold. It worries the lilac flowers and impishly pulls petals from their bearers. In silence the petals tumble and roll before her down the beach and with a huff she dutifully follows their lead.
Hello!
The cry pierces the growing night and Flora blinksm startled. “With a voice like that you will wake up the whole neighbourhood y’know.”
Despite her warning, the girl of flowers continues to reach his side. Her head tilting to better peer at him from beneath the tangle of forelock and flowers. “Do you know, I am not quite sure where we are.” The girl muses softly, her eyes drinking in the painted cliffs, the vibrant sea and the low hanging moon. She takes a step closer to the unicorn boy as she peers out at the beach in a covert manner reserved only for those with the most secret things to tell. It may therefore come as some measure of disappointment to Charlemagne when Flora simply says, “I have heard others referring to this place as Novus. But this particular beach? I am afraid I have no idea.”
Oh, if he’d known he was being watched, Charlemagne would have been mortified. Such a display would have earned him a thrashing at home; that kind of foolishness was only permitted in foals. His people were for sparring, not for dancing - lucky, then, he does not know; it might have made it difficult to meet her eye.
Instead, her presence reassures him. She looks lovely and kind and best of all are the flowers that curl in her tangle of hair. Nothing about her looks made for war, and this makes the unicorn bold.
He wrinkles his nose at her response, casting his green-eyed gaze at the world around them. “Nobody else is here,” he says, quite certain in his words (though perhaps he oughtn’t be; he hadn’t seen her for hours, after all) “and besides, morning is coming.” Indeed, the sun was a promise about to be kept, and though he is bleary-eyed and weary and coated in sand and salt, the young unicorn feels eagerness strike in him anew.
It only builds when the young mare speaks again, and validates the hope that beats in his breast. Far from disappointed, the stallion grins and tosses his head, the golden horn catching the first glimmer of morning. Novus! His loneliness washes away like a wave and it takes him a measure of restraint to keep from kissing the girl. “Thank you,” he tells her instead, and his voice is much less coarse this time around. “I was beginning to think I was lost. Now I only have to find the Dawn Court…”
But it seems an easy thing, now, near as the sunrise, just over the horizon. Already he wants to go to it, to see Delumine spread before him, bathed in its namesake. To run off now would be impolite, and he turns back toward the flower-crowned mare and ducks his chin. “I am Charlemagne. Are you hoping to become a scholar, too?”
Charlemagne is right. There is nothing about Florentine that is made for war. The only war she had ever been in had claimed her life. It was rough and loud and red compared to the soft pastel colours of flowers. And Florentine is nothing if not a girl of flowers. They made for lousy weapons, soft as skin and sweet to taste, and yet she had still brought them with valour in her heart.
Away from the anguished cries of war, Flora’s gaze watches the crinkling of Charlemagne nose and the way he peers about the blessedly empty beach. Her eyes follow his, amethyst chasing green, mischief gleaming like the rippling seas. She takes a step closer to the stranger, nape tucked in, lips soft for whispered words. “Maybe that is because you scared them all off?” The suggestion slips out, daringly bold for its soft delivery.
Through a fringe as thicket thick and just as tangled, the wild girl shares Charlemagne’s arriving dawn. The sea is a swelling pool of molten gold, blending out to purple silk that ripples out to the edges of the blue-pink sky.
“Mmm,” The girl hums softly, her pallid skin a canvas for the art of the morning. “You are right, morning is indeed coming.” Whimsically, dream-drunk, her eyes float back to his. A lazy blink of thick dark lashes contrast the sly gleam in her eye when her eyes open once more. “Still doesn’t mean you should wake them all up so soon, Mr Cockrel.”
Sunlight gleams upon his horn, hot and bright – a bold promise of the day to come. The flower girl smiles, “Find the Dawn Court, hm? Keen to be rid of me so soon?” Her voice tumbles an octave lower, mock sadness pouring from her tongue like tears might from her lilac eyes. Up, up her chin lifts, high and proud, her neck a feature of fine lines and golden skin. Charlemagne may have mistaken her for being insulted, were it not for the smile that crept, slow and brilliant across her charcoal lips. “I believe that the Dawn Court may only separated from the Dusk Court - which is where I live – by Amare Creek.” That proud chin lowers slowly, the liquid purple of her gaze rising to consume him. “If you can handle the lovers there, then I can show you where your Dawn Court is.”
She begins to move, wings folded against the tugging sea breeze. Where the zephyr cannot catch her feathers, it tugs petals loose and they flee to swirl about the unicorn’s body. Florentine does not wait for him as she presses on up the beach, wet sand clinging in the snarls of her tail.
“I am absolutely not an aspiring scholar.” Distaste drips from her lips and her tongue clicks as she considers his question further. “You can learn more of this existence through adventures than you ever can chained to a court.” Her voice bears no humour now, but rather echoes with the ache of an eternity witnessed and endured.
It may be seconds, or it may be hours – that feeling of Time stretching itself between them - as Florentine is quiet, suspended in a silent contemplation that stretches the air so thin. The silence shatters with the echoing song of ringing metal, the only indication that her dagger had been vibrating as if struck by fever. Her gaze sweeps back to Charlemagne’s rolling up the copper of his torso. “No, I am much more content to explore the art of healing.” Then a pause, “Come on Pretty Boy, the day is not long enough for exploring.”
@Charlemagne
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
07-01-2017, 03:47 PM - This post was last modified: 07-01-2017, 03:48 PM by Florentine
“Me?” he says, his voice a step away from scoffing. “I’ve never scared anything.” Probably he should be more guarded with his secrets, but they’ve been held tight for so long; here, in the first blush of morning beside the girl with blossoms in her hair, they push against his lips and beg to tumble out.
It is a lucky thing, then, that she is as talkative as she is approachable, tugging the conversation on like a silver thread. At her joking rebuke (he assumes it is good-natured; he doesn’t want to believe otherwise, not so soon, not of her) he offers only a shy smile. It grows more shy still at her bold talk, sure of itself in a way he is familiar with, playful in a way he is not. The unicorn’s eyes widen, finding hers, an ear twitching sideways. “No!” he begins to protest, but onward her words go, a silver stream laughing out to sea. His guileless green eyes swing up from her smile to her eyes and he would blush before the intensity there, if he could.
She’s just given him a wealth of information and his mind rushes to keep up with it, tucking away geography but snagging on one word in particular. “The - the lovers? What do you mean?” But she’s already away and he jogs to catch up to her, watching petals spin by like lilac snow. The thought crosses his mind, light as one of the flowers, that she is no horse but some sort of forest-nymph, like in Erol’s stories. It worries him that he cannot remember whether they are dangerous.
But it’s enough work keeping up with her and her endless words, the most recent of which make his brow furrow and his gaze slide over to her. “The scholars aren’t chained there,” he says, the insistence in his voice as much to convince himself as her. “It’s just where all the information is gathered. In Delumine you can find anything you’d ever want to know! What are adventures when there’s no understanding?” Like a gull his voices rises, bright and intent, until the sound of metal halts him and his eyes drop down to the dagger around her throat.
He hadn’t seen it before; he’d been too taken with the rest of her, and the coming dawn. Now, though, he stops, disregarding her comment on exploring. Charlemagne is doing his own searching, seizing on the point of the dagger, each glint of light on the metal, the way it sways so at home around her neck. “And what kind of healer,” he asks, a hind hoof dragging a nervous line in the sand, “carries such a weapon? I suppose that’s the necessary first step, is it, injuring something?” Oh, it is a lovely dagger, and a lovely girl, and he wonders how wrong he has been. Lucky thing he did not spill all his secrets.
“You have never scared of anything? She clarifies, her eyes narrowed dubiously. Had the flower girl known this was a secret, a vulnerability he has exposed, she may have been a little softer with the poor boy. Yet Flora, for all her delicate looks and pretty flowers, had been quite the boisterous child. Despite being regarded an ‘adult,’ the vestiges of childhood remain.
The girl’s smile tips up at its corner, her amethyst eyes watching the colour blush around Charlemagne’s cheeks and the shy sway of his eyes. It is the blossoming womanhood that allows Flora to hastily pick up on the cause of the young unicorn’s timid reaction.
“Do you like me?” There is an innocent delight in her question, a pleasant dawning surprise that a strange boy may want to in her company, not just because they were already friends… Her smile is sly and playful and growing.
Even through the pleasure of her recent revelation, the young man’s question captures her attention. She peers at him closely, pausing to wait for him to catch on, to realize what she meant by lovers
Long lashes blink as the time drifts by him, yet he remains innocently oblivious. Flora’s voice drops, when at last she realizes an explanation is indeed required, “You know, lovers…” She pauses again, waiting, hoping…
Nothing.
There is an inhale, deep and steeling, “So,” She begins valiantly, “lovers are a boy and a girl who want to spend more time together. And Amare Creek is their place to, you know, do stuff.” Florentine blinks as she finishes, her amethyst eyes wide, wide open. It is not often that the girl of flowers is shy, but shy she is…
Growing up is embarrassing.
Flora is walking, not quite sure whether to walk faster or slower as he catches up to her. Should she slow to let him catch up and walk with him or walk faster to make him work harder to keep up with her? Why did it even matter? She is mulling over her confusing predicament and stealing glances at him through her (thankfully) long, but (woefully) tangled mane, when he goes back to talking about scholars.
“Terrastella has scholars too.” She chimes, keen to be sure he knows Terrastella is just as good as Delumine. Her brow furrows at his next remark, her nose crinkling, “But adventures help you to know things. Like, you only know there are new things to learn about because someone has gone out and discovered them!”
A wing extends a tip pressing into his side in a playful jab, “You need to get out more, Pretty Boy. Explore.”
Just as her wing has fallen away, Charlemagne’s eyes settle upon the dagger at her breast. Her smile is growing, awaiting his compliment, for it is her finest possession after all and she is rather pleased he is choosing to comment on it.
It takes a moment, however, for Florentine to truly process that his comment was far from the compliment she expected. When she does process his remark, she cannot escape the wonder of how a potential courtship could go quite so wrong, quite so fast.
Were all potential courtships this awkward and this fragile?
“What?” She bleats, shocked that someone could suggest she would cause damage to anyone. “Oh. No, no, I am not like that, I am rather terrible at fighting. I did go to war once but I died.” She placates him gently, still gathering herself from the disastrous left turn this encounter is taking. Yet happy she could prove just how non-violent she is.
“No, my dagger is for my time travel. I have never used it for anything violent. I just chose to be a healer because being a scholar seemed like lots of tedious learning, being a commoner boring because you have nothing to do and I am useless at fighting…” Her petals begin to tumble in earnest and as she watches them fall away, wondering sullenly if they are escaping the awkwardness of this situation…
Valiantly, the girl smiles, her lips curling gently and her voice softening; the less aggressive she could seem, the better, surely? Taking the dagger, slowly, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye, she raises it into the air. “It makes tears in Time and Space – windows, I call them. They allow me to go to anywhere I could ever wish to go.”
With a smile she whispers, “I can show you.” Sure that at last she may be able to bring their encounter back on track – not that the flower girl was even sure what track she wanted them on.
With a flourish and a great deal of gleeful passion, Flora glides the dagger through the air. She waits for the gleam of light, the trembling whisper of Time as it bends beneath her magic. Yet all that comes is the whispering of air, sliced by the descending blade.
Flora blinks.
“Sorry, let me show you again.”
The actions are repeated, only this time with more concentration, which must have been lacking at the last attempt…
Nothing.
Flora blinks again, her heart beating heavily against her chest and growing faster and faster. She and her heart begin to flutter like birds suddenly realizing they are caged. And she is. Only now, now Florentine realizes what her trembling dagger has known all along: their magic is gone. It feels heavy. It feels empty. It is just a dagger – just ornate metal designed for violence and not the artful, subtlety of time travel.
“No, no, no.” She whispers as tears begin to dampen her lashes and tumble down her cheeks. In her ears she hears Pan’s question: would her parents miss her? She now may never know…
“It is just a dagger.” She cries, her voice tremulous, her tears falling in earnest.
Well, if there was one plus her parents (predominantly father) could take from this awkward situation, it would be that any fledgling courtship that could have arisen from this little meeting were well, and truly, dashed.
“Nothing that counts,” he answers primly, but perhaps he had it wrong - maybe he had scared his parents and his people, because he was not what he should have been. Although it was more likely fear wasn’t so much a part of it as robust disappointment.
But there is no lingering on it; she’d caught his reaction to her piercing gaze and he’s back on the defensive, tossing his head in an attempt to be cooly imperious. He’d seen others do it plenty of times; he isn’t sure that he carried it off quite as well. “How should I know? I’ve only just met you,” he points out, sure that there is a large difference between liking somebody and being utterly caught off-guard by them and their flowers and daggers and talk as fast as a stooping hawk.
Ah, then there is the lovers bit.
It is dreadfully embarrassing to listen to this pretty stranger describe mating to him, misunderstanding his confusion. He’d had no idea why a creek should be mentioned in conjunction with lovers; his cheeks burn and burn and yet his green eyes meet hers defiantly until finally she finishes her definition and he snorts and looks away. The light was turning pink to gold on the water as the sun crept up; suddenly he finds himself wishing he were out there, among the fish. Sure, he may drown, but at least they wouldn’t make him feel so dreadfully uncomfortable.
“I know what lovers are,” he says quickly, catching up to her again, needing her to know he wasn’t some dumb foal. He chooses not to feel guilty for the measure of scorn that edges his words. “And I know where children come from. I just didn’t know what this creek had to do with it.”
How glad he is to leave that conversation behind, even when the alternative is verbal jousting about the superiority of field work as opposed to lab study (and being called Pretty Boy, which he takes with only an indignant quiver of nostrils, unsure whether it is meant as insult or compliment).
And then there’s the dagger.
He does regret the way her face falls when she processes his question, but the guilt fades quickly as she bravely pushes on. His eyes widen with each sentence, comically round at the point where she says I died. “Excuse me-” he tries to interject, brimming with questions, but on she goes, shedding petals and unlikely words, talking about time travel. Clearly she is mad; he wonders whether he should fear her or feel sorry for her, and settles - for the moment - with only being glad she is not in Dawn Court.
When she lifts the dagger he steps back, but she has his full attention, and fighting all his other feelings and winning is the curiosity that had led him to Novus in the first place. Maybe, he thinks as she continues, he should be more open-minded? It would be wondrous, after all, if she was right - far, far better than her being mad.
And so he is poised, holding his breath, leaning forward while still maintaining that safe distance between them, and his blood is humming with the hope of magic —
nothing.
He nods at her apology, still sucks in a breath the second time but this time his head is cocked, tail swishing at his hocks —
still nothing. She is just a girl in the sand, surrounded by flowers like butterflies, holding a dagger to the air. The panic on her face is unmistakable, and the sorrow that follows, and the tears (Charlemagne has never seen a girl cry; he has only ever known of himself crying) and with each salty tear his fear shrinks down to nothing until he feels only pity, and the remnants of his first curiosity.
“There, there,” he says, trying to sound soothing, though he makes no move to come nearer (making his reassurances effectively useless). “It’s, uh, a very lovely dagger. Quite ornate.” His people weren’t much good for comforting, either.
What Charlemagne truly wants to know is more about this death of hers, but that seemed a terrible impertinent thing to ask about, given the moment. Instead, he finally edges forward, touching his soft, white-snipped nose to her shoulder. Her tears made him nervous, as his own often had, but he would have loved a friend then, too.
“Do you, ah, want to go home? Is there someone we can go see?” It isn’t the first time he’s felt useless in a given situation, but it is the first time he’s felt so badly about it. In his culture, bouts of sadness or bad feeling were often combatted with a nice long spar, but perhaps she was correct in one thing - neither of them were made for war.
Nope, this potential courtship was really not going to plan.
Lifting her chin in an effort to restore her pride, Flora retaliates, albeit more meekly than she might have hoped. “Well there is such a thing as love at first sight you know.” Her voice, for all its natural melody, ends roughly - a verbal jab between the ribs for Pretty Boy. “I thought for a moment you might have been truck by it.”
Her mother has suffered with ‘Love at First Sightis’ (as Flora had enjoyed referring to it as a child). Apparently it was real though Florentine was rather disappointed Pretty Boy hadn’t been struck dumb with a case of it. She hoped to encounter it one day.
With her pride a little wounded, Florentine valiantly keeps her pace along the beach. Since his dismissal of her, where there had once been uncertainty about waiting for Pretty Boy to catch up or charging on ahead and making him work, she had very much decided to make him work to be in her company. A twang of pleasure ripples through her chest as, from the corner of her eye, she spies him scrambling to keep up with her.
Her stride lengthens.
“Hint’s in the name, Lover Boy.” The retort is sharp, yet Flora, being of a near perpetually jovial disposition, cannot help the gentler tones that begin to slip in undetected. Her eyes, like a hawk, watch for that indignant quiver of his nostrils, hoping for something more. All is fair in love and war after all and if this is not going to be potential love, then it would be war.
Well, Flora’s version of war…
However, love and war and bruised egos are forgotten in the wake of her terrible dagger revelation. Hot, wet, snuffly tears replace sass as the agony of her lost power burns deep, deep into her chest. Florentine did not know when exactly her dagger and its power had become so much a part of her, yet the agony of losing it is so sharp it steals the breath from her lungs.
Pretty Boy’s awkwardness is lost to overwhelming tide of Flora’s sadness and not even the lovely girl of flowers and gold can make crying beautiful. Petals fall like snow, a lament for the Winter Court of her childhood and the homeland that she may never see again.
Tears turn to honey upon the cream of her cheeks, Pretty Boy’s touch upon her shoulder was a phantom gesture of sympathy. But it was not and would never be enough for Florentine. Grief has her falling and tangling. She throws herself against her awkward sympathizer as sobs come in earnest. Her face buries into Charlemagne’s skin, her wet cheeks ruining the dry of his hair.
Is there someone you can go see?
She could not longer get home. She could no longer get to her parents. A dejected “No.” muffles against his skin amidst hiccups and snivels. Pretty Boy was a far cry from the comfort of her parents, but he was here and she was desperate. Flora would make him work.
Eventually the tears subside and Florentine steps back, her tear-sticky lashes held together in small, spikey groups. It is unclear how much time she spent lost in grief: seconds, minutes?
A wing fans gently near his skin, incase of any tear-stained patches. There is no charming smile upon her lips, no mischievous twinkle in her eye. The girl of flowers feels but a small part of who she was. Now she is only one half of a whole. The other half of her has been ripped away. Pan knew they were stuck before she did and the pain of realization is razor sharp in her heart.
With a shuddering breath and a valiant effort, she fixes a raw little smile upon her lips and asks, “So, do you want a walk through Amare Creek to your new home, Lover Boy? I can let you hold my dagger if it will make you feel safer.”
First there had been Pretty Boy, and now there was Lover Boy, and Charlemagne wondered what she would call him next.
It was the first that hurt the most, like a barb caught in his skin - he’d been called that one before, usually after being caught out trying to sneak away before sparring practice. Surely it did not apply here, with his coat salty with sweat and seawater and his hair a feral tangle, more snarled than a seagull nest. It is the second, though, that makes his nose wrinkle and brow furrow each time it is used. Charlemagne had never given much thought to love - it had not had much of a place in his society, and he’d always assumed it wouldn’t have any more of one in his life.
Certainly not with someone so…capricious with their moods. The unicorn could hardly keep up. It was fascinating, if a little frightening.
He certainly feels both in measure when she throws herself against him, bringing with her the scent of wildflowers and the damp of tears. To his credit, the boy does not pull away, though he stiffens in the sand, his nostrils quivering with alarm. Tentatively he presses his muzzle to the arch of her neck. Just as he begins to think that perhaps it’s not so bad, being touched and touching in return, she draws away and he looses a breath that is half relief.
He isn’t really sure what the other half is, but the smell of flowers still lingers on his skin. Perhaps, whether her dagger and her wild story were true or not, she is both mad and magic. It could be an enthralling combination.
So carefully is he watching her now that he can tell that the smile she puts on is not a real thing - nothing at all like the beaming expression she’d fixed him with before. He’s sorry for it, and perhaps would say something to truly comfort her and see if he could bring it back -
but then she pulls out Lover Boy again.
Charlemagne sighs, rolling his eyes and turning his gaze instead on the brightening morning. The gulls are waking; the magic of the dawn is past, and the weariness of his journey is settling back on him. She was right. They should move on, and so he starts forward again, in the direction she had been going before the dagger incident. “I don’t know,” he calls over his shoulder. “It doesn’t seem to be doing you much good, does it?”
The question, barbed as it is, makes him feel both a little pleased and a little shameful, and he does not look at her as he adds, “What’s your name, anyway? Or I’ll have to come up with something else to call you.”Dagger Girl or Failed Time-Travel Girl or Wild Story Girl don’t have quite the same ring to them.
And it still feels like quite the wrong moment to ask more about this war she died in. The colt knew plenty of people who had died in battle, but none who had risen again.
Sand clings to her limbs, digging through hair to rub against her skin. Yet Flora ignores the small, irritating grains. Instead, her eyes fixate upon a rocky projection that leans itself out to sea. Years of weathering the sea surge has left it whittled away to a thin, finger-like projection from the Cliffside. At its heart a small arch begins to frame the rising sun. Light pours through the ancient window casting warm light upon the beach. Beneath its glow, the damp sand shines like golden gems.
The touch of Charlemagne’s muzzle upon her neck, that small display of empathy had eased the girl’s fretful heart. But now it was barely a phantom caress upon her nape. His relieved sigh as she stepped away, that small relaxing of his body, silent but as clear and loud to Florentine as a clanging cymbal, has her own muscles tightening; her heart clenching with rejection yet again. Her eyes close like a door, her wing falling away from its humorous and half-hearted attempt to dry her tears from his skin.
With her chin raised, a scrabbling and gathering together of her spilled pride, the girl continues to mock him with jabs of humour. Like needles they aimed to hurt him, but like needles they do little damage.
Lover Boy, her choice of name has him huffing and her lips twitching at his displeasure. Amethyst eyes steal a glance at him from beneath her tangled, wind-swept forelock. Realization is slow and uncomfortable; she wants him to like her. No one, that she could remember, has ever so openly rejected her. Flora was quite unprepared for how to handle someone who found her presence… irritating.
She wouldn’t be so quick to ask a boy if he liked her from now on. Clearly they were more complex creatures than she ever gave them credit for…
Lover Boy moves past her. His retort, so casually thrown back to her, has Florentine drawing short. Her jaw clenches, her eyes narrow and suddenly, her wings flare. They unravel, stretching wide from where she had held them tight to her slim sides. In a blink they have carried her up and up, over the boy and down to land nimbly, a scant foot before him. Long limbs step close. Then closer and closer still, until all that separates the soft skin of their muzzles is the whispers of their breath. Here, she lets wild adventure meet with scholarly discipline and a flame will surely spark.
His sigh of relief still singing in her hears, Flora opens herself to a surprising vindictiveness she never knew she possessed. Her eyes flit to the pulse at his throat, to the flare of his nostrils as she throws every feminine charm she could muster, his way. She tries to be beautiful, as she never has. She tries to drown him in the scent of wild flowers and mystery and pierce him in the cool of brilliant, amethyst eyes.
In truth, she has not idea whether she succeeded. But it was worth the effort just to watch him squirm…
Florentine waits for a hint of his discomfort. For a flicker of displeasure at her proximity, then, and only then, does she, with ominous gentleness, lift her dagger. Her beautiful dagger, a thing never forged for violence or threats, gleams ominously in the dawn light that slides along its unsheathed blade.
“Just because it’s lost its power, doesn’t mean I wont be able to use it for other things.” She lies and threatens softly, releasing a girl more fierce than she ever knew she possessed.
She lets this moment draw out, pregnant and tense. Her eyes drinking him in, and maybe if Charlemagne was looking, he would see the gleam of mischief that sparks in her eyes.
In a flash her dagger is stowed and hanging innocently at her breast. “I think it’s a darn sight more exciting than your boring books, Scholar Boy.” She says snootily, though her lips wear a wicked smile. In a brief moment of guilt, her muzzle presses to his nape: soft, gentle, apologetic. Keeping her muzzle pressed to his neck, she inhales deeply, dramatically.
“Mmm,” the wild girl hums, her eyes bright with the games she plays at the boy’s expense. “Musty and… boring.” She dances away, her wild mane swirling like a dress decorated with meadow flowers.
“I am not sure you are exciting enough to come up with another name for me.” The dusk girl taunts, her eyes ablaze, her smile wicked. She laughs as she dares him and her eyes are pulled back to the window in the rock. An opening to another world – like those her blade once made.
Returning her gaze to Lover Boy, a wing points to the hole in the rocky sea wall. “Since you do not want my assistance, I am headed off to see what lies beyond that window…” She pauses, her eyes pointedly trailing over his body, her brow lifting archly. “I would offer for you to join me, but I am not sure you are exciting enough.”
