"Blood Sacrifice" (but only fluff allowed)- Seladon, Tavra
Seladon lets out a word not befitting a princess as she stabs her finger for at least the fifth time. She has had lessons in everything, sewing included- the Vapra take their image as the most cultured quite seriously- but that does not mean she is anywhere near mastery. Nor that she enjoys something so tedious, frankly. Still, she owes a gift of thanks to the daughter of the Spriton maudra, and gelfling consider nothing as valuable as the work of one’s own hands. That might make sense for some homebody putting love into every stitch, but as she is constantly reminded, what matters for royalty is maintaining a certain impression- the love may not be there, for the gift or its recipient, but she’ll just have to pretend.
As she unceremoniously sticks the finger in her mouth to stop the bleeding, she hears a whistle from behind her.
“Such language!” Tavra admonishes in a perfect imitation of a tutor neither of them can stand. She looks casual and comfortable in her light training armor, blunted sword resting on her hip. Seladon rolls her eyes.
“You could always come help me, if you’d like to make it easier.” Tavra snorts, grinning playfully.
“Absolutely not. I have bigger things to stab.” She plops onto the bench beside Seladon, smelling of sweat and the yard and the freedom her older sister lacks. “Besides, you do not want my help.” That is certainly true- there was a reason she had been excused from that particular lesson so quickly. “You could always get Brea to finish it,” she adds, grin widening.
“Brea would put her eye out.” Seladon shakes her head, but can’t quite suppress a chuckle at the thought. Little, impossible Brea, too small to hold a needle anyways. She will likely never have the patience for this. She glances back down at the project, and lets out another curse at a spot of blood near the petal of one of the delicately stitched flowers. Tavra is still laughing, and Seladon elbows her in the ribs.
“Hey!” she protests. “Come on, it’s not so bad. They say you haven’t truly created something until you’ve bled on it a bit.”
Seladon rubs her forehead. “Great, a sacrifice to Thra for my embroidery. It doesn’t fit the aesthetic quite as well as it does on your straw dummy.”
Tavra shrugs. “Put another flower over it. No one will know.”
Another flower. Another hour, at this rate. Seladon sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to.” She pauses, contemplating a rare request these days. “...Will you at least keep me company in my suffering?”
Tavra blinks in surprise, and for a moment Seladon thinks she might decline and return to her training. But instead she leans back on her elbows, settling in more comfortably, and her smile softens. “...Sure.”