prompt #idk??? bisect
Inar's hands are worn and callused: a wood warder's hands. Still, she handles each honeysuckle with such care, as if it might fall apart in her grasp at any moment. Lofn watches with quiet fascination as she drags the claw of her thumb down the center of each flower with care and precision; the cut is always clean, and the flower always parts like a butterfly's wings. Or a woman's legs.
"Why do you do that?" Lofn asks, but only once they have gone through several blossoms. Inar holds a flower, freshly split, to her lips with a tenderness rarely afforded to anything but a kiss.
"They are sweeter this way."
Lofn looks down to her hands, full of flowers as they are. A gentle rain begins to fall, and though the dense summer canopy above spares them most of it, a few drops manage to find their way atop her head. They will need to return home soon, lest they find themselves caught in a flood.
Perhaps they are sweeter given such care, but she has no time for it. Lofn shoves the lot of them in her mouth and reaches for her spear. Inar laughs and finishes on her own time.
