#matrixs-treasuryofmuses

“Thanks, kid. How old are you?” The copper teifling shot the little druid a tired but sharp toothed smile. It was a hell of a day. Timon’s armor was off to the side, plated dulled bronze. He’d take it to get polished up... and undented at some point. That took coin he didn’t really have...

He looked down to the wound of his arm, flexing his fingers over it... but he had nothing for now. Not even a little bit. He sighed, leaning back, but looked over the kid’s handy work.

“You might have a future in the divine art of fixin’ up.”

It’s a delicate balance. She must not look at Cassia ( to do so might end the interaction then and there, might make the revenant enforce the walls she has built ), but Florence wants to look, wants to admire the crown that has been placed upon her head. It takes willpower. A twitch of the lips is all she allows, at least until Cassia as retreated.

And then Florence lifts a hand, fixing the cower and touching its flowers. “ Did you use the purple blooms ? They’re strong, and one of the few I’ve found that grow throughout the valley. I like them. ”

@matrixs-treasuryofmuses​ asked: ❝  it’s late,  you might as well just stay here.  ❞ Lyssa to Dariax

Dariax looked around the cramped room, a frown flashing across his face. Sure, he was tired but he’d gotten used to a certain standard of living lately. But when he looked back at Lyssa, he got that funny feeling in his stomach and he thought better of saying no. 

          These words were like thorns, digging into their flesh; warnings that they refused to acknowledge. All this time together and yet Fern continued to push them away during the winter season. It was too much after awhile, especially once they realized just how much they fell for the Dryad. The last few words went unseen as they firmly pressed their lips against hers, believing this was the only way to try and begin to get their feelings across.

They’ve taken refuge near the pool’s shore, underneath an ancient tree, and far from the rotting gazebo. It might fall, Florence had said. That pile of wood is older than I am. It’s doomed to fall, and soon.

The pool is pristine and if it weren’t sacrilege in her mind, Florence might have cupped a hand and stolen some of its water. Instead, she lies back in the browning grass. “ I have heard that if you want peace, then prepare for war. ” The words leave a bad taste in her mouth ( she reconsiders drinking from the pool, holiness be damned ).

“ I think it’s horseshit, ” she continues, “ and you’re right, there’s no glory. If they were honest about the battlefield. . . ”

The ranting fades – first into celestial mutters, and then silence. She breathes, calming, and then shrugs. “ There’s nothing to be done, I suppose. ”

I’ve always joked that if Florence were born into nobility, then she would be the problem child. The ‘ rebellious princess ’ trope would be written all over her. She would find the lifestyle to be constricting, demanding, and unsatisfying.

In terms of her main verse: she doesn’t love nobles, but she doesn’t hate them. She’s cautious/ anxious due to past experiences with the Vallakovich and Wachter families ( and in general, due to the difference in social standing ) but is aware that this experience is. . . somewhat unique. The unease also stems from the fact that she’s unable ( or unwilling, it could be both ) to relate to a vast majority of nobles due to the differences in upbringing / status / etc.

But it isn’t like Florence goes out of her way to interact with them, roleplaying excluded.

@matrixs-treasuryofmuses​ asked: “  you don’t get a choice this time.  i’m helping you.  ” Fearne from Motif

Fearne blinks a few times with wide-eyed surprise. She thinks she could take them herself but she isn’t about to turn down assistance. “Oh--oh, Okay!” She exclaims, shooting a bolt of flame towards a nearby Goblin.