M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
There would be a frown on Moira's carmine face now were she not looking at Bexley's own mirrored reflection. Corners of golden lips turn upward, eyes tilt and the creases about them tell the truth of it all - she is just as amused as Moira is about the whole of the situation and winks. Words have hardly faded between them before the phoenix woman jumps to her own rescue, choosing to defend her noble practice as best she can when she's so near laughter already after moments of nostalgia and sadness passed. "You'd be in good hands, if it were ever you. I won't say we're friends because we've just met, but even so there is no suffering under my care. What's best yet, I'd even sneak you caramel treats." And with that she does laugh, the little strands of silver hair curled just so flies as she tosses her head. Moments pass, her heart beats furiously, and there is a stain upon her cheeks hidden by the crimson. Lucky her she is painted as a sunset or her new companion might see how easily she is wearing her heart on her sleeve.
The heart is a dangerous thing though, something to be treasured and hidden, not a toy to be sewn to cuffs and pinned proudly for all to see. Tonight, on this night of smoke and mirrors and celebrations, she's forgotten that most important lesson. It's almost nice to feel so freely with someone - even if the cake did ruin everything at first.
Instinctively Moira falls into step alongside Bexley, letting the other woman go but a step ahead to guide her toward the pool that would cleanse all but the hardest stains from their skin. Walking alongside her, she almost feels like she's in the halls as a girl. There, she was to be seen, not heard. Her voice was a silent thing, like a caged bird who could not sing for its tongue was tied and eyes were blind. She sees this and then lets it drift off, go with the clouds that gather overhead, pushes it into the depths once more where it can fester and dwell and become a writhing thing too long ignored. It will not trouble her tonight. After all, even Asterion told her tonight is not a night for sorrows. With a stiff upper lip, the phoenix woman turns towards the harps that play, towards the gentle strumming that pulls her nearer, brushes alongside Bexley as she does so.
A furious blush crawls up along her throat until it is a fire upon her face.
Grinning at the ground, she's quick to nod at the ashy words thrown her way. "My geographical skills are rather abysmal, and the names of them even moreso. But I met a man of snow and dust there, we played a game. He's quite curious, Eik is... I think he's sweet. Someday, I intend to paint him."
Only by the blue of Bexley's eyes does Moira manage to follow through the shadows that deepen about them, cutting them off from the others who slip toward the stages, meander about the crowds. Should her heart fill with fear or exhilieration? Should she follow so close to a stranger so that she could rech forward and touch her or leave and make her own path? But surely something so awful wouldn't happen at a celebration. No poison has yet to pass her lips, and there have been no bodies upon the ground. So it's safe, she decides, and pulls herself up to Bexley's side once more in time to catch her name. "Bexley Briar," Moira murmurs, tasting the syllables, dissecting them as you would an insect to learn how it flies, and finding them rather appealing. "Is it nice, even after drink and cake? Let me help you wash," moving near to the water she guides it, pressing it upon Bex's arm until it is a swirling mass. The push and pull is easy for Moira, for she's cleaned a million gashes, enough to last a lifetime. She's learned the way to roll it over your skin and pull away the droplets, to feed the plants with sullied water and not the others in her family. And so she helps, thoughtlessly, letting the cake dry on her own skin until the task at hand is finished.
Only when red is washed from gold, when the fiery woman is dry once more, when they are inches apart, does Moira let the water fall to the ground and offer that kind smile. "There, like it never happened right?"
@Bexley ok mo invade her bubble
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
There would be a frown on Moira's carmine face now were she not looking at Bexley's own mirrored reflection. Corners of golden lips turn upward, eyes tilt and the creases about them tell the truth of it all - she is just as amused as Moira is about the whole of the situation and winks. Words have hardly faded between them before the phoenix woman jumps to her own rescue, choosing to defend her noble practice as best she can when she's so near laughter already after moments of nostalgia and sadness passed. "You'd be in good hands, if it were ever you. I won't say we're friends because we've just met, but even so there is no suffering under my care. What's best yet, I'd even sneak you caramel treats." And with that she does laugh, the little strands of silver hair curled just so flies as she tosses her head. Moments pass, her heart beats furiously, and there is a stain upon her cheeks hidden by the crimson. Lucky her she is painted as a sunset or her new companion might see how easily she is wearing her heart on her sleeve.
The heart is a dangerous thing though, something to be treasured and hidden, not a toy to be sewn to cuffs and pinned proudly for all to see. Tonight, on this night of smoke and mirrors and celebrations, she's forgotten that most important lesson. It's almost nice to feel so freely with someone - even if the cake did ruin everything at first.
Instinctively Moira falls into step alongside Bexley, letting the other woman go but a step ahead to guide her toward the pool that would cleanse all but the hardest stains from their skin. Walking alongside her, she almost feels like she's in the halls as a girl. There, she was to be seen, not heard. Her voice was a silent thing, like a caged bird who could not sing for its tongue was tied and eyes were blind. She sees this and then lets it drift off, go with the clouds that gather overhead, pushes it into the depths once more where it can fester and dwell and become a writhing thing too long ignored. It will not trouble her tonight. After all, even Asterion told her tonight is not a night for sorrows. With a stiff upper lip, the phoenix woman turns towards the harps that play, towards the gentle strumming that pulls her nearer, brushes alongside Bexley as she does so.
A furious blush crawls up along her throat until it is a fire upon her face.
Grinning at the ground, she's quick to nod at the ashy words thrown her way. "My geographical skills are rather abysmal, and the names of them even moreso. But I met a man of snow and dust there, we played a game. He's quite curious, Eik is... I think he's sweet. Someday, I intend to paint him."
Only by the blue of Bexley's eyes does Moira manage to follow through the shadows that deepen about them, cutting them off from the others who slip toward the stages, meander about the crowds. Should her heart fill with fear or exhilieration? Should she follow so close to a stranger so that she could rech forward and touch her or leave and make her own path? But surely something so awful wouldn't happen at a celebration. No poison has yet to pass her lips, and there have been no bodies upon the ground. So it's safe, she decides, and pulls herself up to Bexley's side once more in time to catch her name. "Bexley Briar," Moira murmurs, tasting the syllables, dissecting them as you would an insect to learn how it flies, and finding them rather appealing. "Is it nice, even after drink and cake? Let me help you wash," moving near to the water she guides it, pressing it upon Bex's arm until it is a swirling mass. The push and pull is easy for Moira, for she's cleaned a million gashes, enough to last a lifetime. She's learned the way to roll it over your skin and pull away the droplets, to feed the plants with sullied water and not the others in her family. And so she helps, thoughtlessly, letting the cake dry on her own skin until the task at hand is finished.
Only when red is washed from gold, when the fiery woman is dry once more, when they are inches apart, does Moira let the water fall to the ground and offer that kind smile. "There, like it never happened right?"
@
