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+---- Thread: [P] . your company's fine but i get on better with mine (/showthread.php?tid=1982)
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RE: . your company's fine but i get on better with mine - Moira - 06-11-2018
M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
He is the ash that rained down to the ground when her wings burned. He is the storms that her family was born from. He is the moon in all its glory, the night in all its splendor. He is a masterpiece as he stills.
Even the breath he breathed halts as her lips press against him, her eyes close as an electricity that crackles in his veins, in hers, runs from one to the other. When she pulls back, it is like she caught fire. An abrupt sliding away to look down, to look to the left, to the right, anywhere but at him. Only when she sees a glow does Moira dare peer into those depthless silver eyes again, see the blinding white upon his forehead with markings she does not know. Is it a tongue she could learn? Curiosity blinds her, tugs her. Perhaps her quest for knowledge will always be her downfall, perhaps that will be her undoing when the end finally comes. The phoenix is grateful that today is not the day to celebrate her death. Between them, a living, breathing entity has come to be. Tension, as thick as fresh cream on milk, so dense she can cut it with just a flick of her tail, slithers down her spine, down his, until it is a slick, oily thing in the air.
If she were smarter, Moira knows she should have left. But she rises to the challenge, footsteps echoing his own to sit opposite the table and steady her beating heart, master her heaving lungs. Merely touching him is enough to push her senses into overdrive.
The only boys Moira kissed before were out of familial fondness.
She cannot tell you why her lips have been forever emblazoned upon gossamer cheek, shimmering black satin. Her only reason is that she's as captivated as she is loathing of the man before her.
When first meeting, she roared, consumed by an anger as a lion feasts upon its kill. Now, that anger sparks, that emotion zaps her once more as he asks - no, demands - to know her fears. Terror tickles her tongue, pictures flash in those amber eyes. Could she lay her heart on the table for just the folding of a paper? With her mind working overtime, she bites her lip and pretends to mull it over. All the while, the crane floats lazily through the air above them. Wings flap. One. Two. Three. Her heart matches the rhythm, her blood flowing to the beat of the drum he makes on the wind.
Moira Tonnerre nods at last, with a great and terrible sigh.
"When you close your eyes, I imagine you see faces and places. People. Things." It is soft, like the beating of a butterfly's wing, "I see fire. I see chains. I see smoke. Ruination. Damnation. There is only hatred that comes with flight. If we had gods, I would have prayed. Only our ancestors walk beside us, guide us on our journey. Mine, you see, were, and always have been, flightless." She meets his silver eyes, her own haunted, tortured, as defiant as they are dead. "It is the way of things. But my mother flew through the skies, she sang with the storms and danced with the wind. She is as beautiful as she was wild... Giselle gave me her wings upon my birth, and that will always be my greatest downfall. The chains were frozen so they would bite and burn. Any movement... Most days I did not move. Have you smelled what it is for hair to be ablaze? Acrid. Putrid. I'll never forget what it's like to catch fire and be born again. Each year my feathers returned. I think they still have trophies of the ones they plucked, ashes of those they burned, etchings of that which was frozen or chained or cut.
"I never asked.
"I learned that with things pitiful, broken things there only comes pain and suffering. There comes the rush of adrenaline that tells you to fight or flee, but I was not given the option of either. They were larger. There were dark rooms. Small rooms. Out of the way so none could hear. They kept me there so I was out of the way and you could not hear my screams. I screamed until my throat was raw, until my lips were cracked and my tears dried and began again. Time after time I returned to those chambers. Feathers have been bandaged more than they have been free. If I did not have them, perhaps things would be different now."
She chokes on the words, spits them out as she would a poison, detests every little whisper that escapes past her lips. Why could she not be mute now? It would be better. Easier.
Moira does not wish to look into his eyes any longer, she has no desire to see the emotions he may feel - if any at all. Her ghosts are all on the table now, leering eyes, taunting whispers. It is a cavernous door opened, one she's kept shut so long... Briefly she wonders if this is worth it. Secretly, she hopes it will be. But in such a dark hour, in such a lightless void, it's hard for her to grasp at the wings of hope and seize them for herself. Now, she is as hollow as the chambers long forgotten. "Your turn," she whispers.
@Caine don't mind me while i sob for her
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
He is the ash that rained down to the ground when her wings burned. He is the storms that her family was born from. He is the moon in all its glory, the night in all its splendor. He is a masterpiece as he stills.
Even the breath he breathed halts as her lips press against him, her eyes close as an electricity that crackles in his veins, in hers, runs from one to the other. When she pulls back, it is like she caught fire. An abrupt sliding away to look down, to look to the left, to the right, anywhere but at him. Only when she sees a glow does Moira dare peer into those depthless silver eyes again, see the blinding white upon his forehead with markings she does not know. Is it a tongue she could learn? Curiosity blinds her, tugs her. Perhaps her quest for knowledge will always be her downfall, perhaps that will be her undoing when the end finally comes. The phoenix is grateful that today is not the day to celebrate her death. Between them, a living, breathing entity has come to be. Tension, as thick as fresh cream on milk, so dense she can cut it with just a flick of her tail, slithers down her spine, down his, until it is a slick, oily thing in the air.
If she were smarter, Moira knows she should have left. But she rises to the challenge, footsteps echoing his own to sit opposite the table and steady her beating heart, master her heaving lungs. Merely touching him is enough to push her senses into overdrive.
The only boys Moira kissed before were out of familial fondness.
She cannot tell you why her lips have been forever emblazoned upon gossamer cheek, shimmering black satin. Her only reason is that she's as captivated as she is loathing of the man before her.
When first meeting, she roared, consumed by an anger as a lion feasts upon its kill. Now, that anger sparks, that emotion zaps her once more as he asks - no, demands - to know her fears. Terror tickles her tongue, pictures flash in those amber eyes. Could she lay her heart on the table for just the folding of a paper? With her mind working overtime, she bites her lip and pretends to mull it over. All the while, the crane floats lazily through the air above them. Wings flap. One. Two. Three. Her heart matches the rhythm, her blood flowing to the beat of the drum he makes on the wind.
Moira Tonnerre nods at last, with a great and terrible sigh.
"When you close your eyes, I imagine you see faces and places. People. Things." It is soft, like the beating of a butterfly's wing, "I see fire. I see chains. I see smoke. Ruination. Damnation. There is only hatred that comes with flight. If we had gods, I would have prayed. Only our ancestors walk beside us, guide us on our journey. Mine, you see, were, and always have been, flightless." She meets his silver eyes, her own haunted, tortured, as defiant as they are dead. "It is the way of things. But my mother flew through the skies, she sang with the storms and danced with the wind. She is as beautiful as she was wild... Giselle gave me her wings upon my birth, and that will always be my greatest downfall. The chains were frozen so they would bite and burn. Any movement... Most days I did not move. Have you smelled what it is for hair to be ablaze? Acrid. Putrid. I'll never forget what it's like to catch fire and be born again. Each year my feathers returned. I think they still have trophies of the ones they plucked, ashes of those they burned, etchings of that which was frozen or chained or cut.
"I never asked.
"I learned that with things pitiful, broken things there only comes pain and suffering. There comes the rush of adrenaline that tells you to fight or flee, but I was not given the option of either. They were larger. There were dark rooms. Small rooms. Out of the way so none could hear. They kept me there so I was out of the way and you could not hear my screams. I screamed until my throat was raw, until my lips were cracked and my tears dried and began again. Time after time I returned to those chambers. Feathers have been bandaged more than they have been free. If I did not have them, perhaps things would be different now."
She chokes on the words, spits them out as she would a poison, detests every little whisper that escapes past her lips. Why could she not be mute now? It would be better. Easier.
Moira does not wish to look into his eyes any longer, she has no desire to see the emotions he may feel - if any at all. Her ghosts are all on the table now, leering eyes, taunting whispers. It is a cavernous door opened, one she's kept shut so long... Briefly she wonders if this is worth it. Secretly, she hopes it will be. But in such a dark hour, in such a lightless void, it's hard for her to grasp at the wings of hope and seize them for herself. Now, she is as hollow as the chambers long forgotten. "Your turn," she whispers.
@Caine don't mind me while i sob for her
RE: . your company's fine but i get on better with mine - Caine - 06-22-2018
take my hand. feel my heart.
tell me what's wrong with it.
tell me what's wrong with it.
H
er voice drifts towards him like a siren’s crooning melody, soft and low and lovely. The pain that had lodged itself like a bullet in his brain fades to a distant memory, the callous demand he’d flung at her feet like shrapnel forgotten in the lull of her lips. Caine is not at all sorry for asking Moira such a question. Though, when the girl had thrown a withering glare at him for his impetuousness, he’d wished, with an inward sigh, he’d at least phrased it better. Only a second. It had taken only a second for the boy to lose all grasp on himself, to flounder like a drowning seabird. Intolerable. Agenor would’ve had him by the throat if he had seen.
It had been a moment of weakness that Caine will not let happen again.
Black wings droop like wilting stems as he listens silently to her unraveling tale, the muscles of his jaw drawing taut as her recollections of horror stir his own chest of bloodthirsty demons. Burns. Chains. Terror. The memories are uncomfortably familiar, clinging to his skin like stale breath until the air in the room turns sour. Anguish rolls off the phoenix girl in suffocating waves, until he can no longer overlook the tremble in her delicate chin, the fog stifling those flame-colored eyes.
Moira looks at him with the light of a dying sun, and Caine’s eyes drift, as steely as silver coins, towards the wings she so hates. The wings she so grieves. “Your turn,” she whispers like a goddess defeated, and his stomach turns in agitation. No.
He has never seen her look so weak, not even when he had frightened her, and Caine will not stand for it. Even if she ends up hating him, cursing him to the ends of the earth, he will not allow her to cage herself with the shadows of the past, to let the demons roost.
Because he knows better than anyone, that once there — they will never leave.
“But you are not with them anymore, are you?” He begins, leaning towards her with a frustration as foreign to him as it is to her. “You are here, Moira, and they cannot touch you. They cannot reach you.” Agenor’s chains will never bind me again. Never. His tone is harsh, his accent no longer lyrical, yet he does not care. They are well past pleasantries — not that he’d ever offered them — and if Moira had truly hated him, she would’ve left before the moon had crested.
“What better retribution than to learn to use those wings you so condemn? To fly high into the clouds, where they can never dream of going. To make them choke on their regret like they choked you.” Above them, the crane flaps its paper wings so hard they tear, and it falls in a spiral down, down, down. He does not even look at it as it lands, broken, on the table.
“I can teach you.” The words are out before he hears himself, silver eyes as molten as when she had kissed him. “I was not born with two sets of wings, if you must know,” Caine mutters, and it is the closest thing to a confession she will hear from him tonight.
“Flight. Cranes. Both of these things” — a smile tiptoes like a thief across his lips as a sheet of paper slides to a stop in front of her — “I can teach you.”
@Moira | "speaks" | notes: mo's story has definitely gotten to caine, though he's trying hard not to let it show too much
RE: . your company's fine but i get on better with mine - Moira - 06-26-2018
M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
"I will not sully their memory," she snarls, as savage as he's seen her yet. Ears fly back into her masses of buns, furled together in loosening ropes, teeth are bared, ready to strike at any moment. Feral. Moira is absolutely undone in that moment - not quite a woman, not quite a beast, but something in between. Like a caterpillar metamorphosing, first you must shed all that you were (dignity, solemnity, solitary emotions) for something you will be (strong, fierce, wrath) and become a mixture of the two before ever finding the final form. All that he saw die in her eyes is reborn, glittering like a double edged sword.
"I am a Tonnerre before I am anything else. I am a healer before I will bow down to that request. I may be in an exile of my own choosing, but I will not be disowned again." Venom drips from every word, is the sweat on her brow as she throws the bench back and begins to pace. He may be molten lava, silver pools of mercury come to life, but she is a forest fire, spreading faster and faster.
While he is still, tearing his paper crane to shreds, letting it float to the table top as though it is nothing, her footsteps echo heavily around them. They are not soft as before, but instead fury forces every muscle down into a precise, sharp clip that could cut skin. Behind her, the agitated swishing of her tail can be heard. It should have been braided - it would have better to slap him with then.
After a moment, two, three, she stops. Sharply the phoenix turns, wings flaring as his did, eyes just as bright, just as golden were his to glow. And how she shines with her own inner light. It is enough to be terrifying as she advances toward him. "I asked for paper folding, not lessons for flight. One is a craft, an art, and what has the other ever given me? I don't want your life story, Caine. I never asked why you have two sets of wings. I never asked for you to wrap me in them like some dark flame come to whisk me away. Do not push when things should not be bent!" Nearly upon him, huffing and puffing, like a harpy alighting on prey, Moira snaps her teeth. She does not seek skin, only the nearness, only a threat.
Some things are still too raw, still working to heal. So much scar tissue can only be pushed so far before it breaks instead of regenerates. He asks too much, too soon. They only just met. He is nothing to her, and she only a passing face to him. If she weren't so selfish, then she would just tell him she'd learn the beautiful craft of origami herself. But Moira Tonnerre is possessive and stubborn and jealous. She seeks to fly where her family does not, to rise above them as they never thought she would, but she is not yet ready to cut those ties after working so hard for so long. Too many hours have gone into becoming who they want her to be, painting on a face day after day to simply be accepted even when love was always denied.
Moira Tonnerre, she remembers her family whispering, hissing. She is the shame of the Tonnerre family. Their greatest failure.
She will not be even more so now that a pretty face has come along to teach her how to outrun them at last. Some ghosts would sprout wings just to rip hers off.
@Caine - i don't know how to feel about angry mo.
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
"I will not sully their memory," she snarls, as savage as he's seen her yet. Ears fly back into her masses of buns, furled together in loosening ropes, teeth are bared, ready to strike at any moment. Feral. Moira is absolutely undone in that moment - not quite a woman, not quite a beast, but something in between. Like a caterpillar metamorphosing, first you must shed all that you were (dignity, solemnity, solitary emotions) for something you will be (strong, fierce, wrath) and become a mixture of the two before ever finding the final form. All that he saw die in her eyes is reborn, glittering like a double edged sword.
"I am a Tonnerre before I am anything else. I am a healer before I will bow down to that request. I may be in an exile of my own choosing, but I will not be disowned again." Venom drips from every word, is the sweat on her brow as she throws the bench back and begins to pace. He may be molten lava, silver pools of mercury come to life, but she is a forest fire, spreading faster and faster.
While he is still, tearing his paper crane to shreds, letting it float to the table top as though it is nothing, her footsteps echo heavily around them. They are not soft as before, but instead fury forces every muscle down into a precise, sharp clip that could cut skin. Behind her, the agitated swishing of her tail can be heard. It should have been braided - it would have better to slap him with then.
After a moment, two, three, she stops. Sharply the phoenix turns, wings flaring as his did, eyes just as bright, just as golden were his to glow. And how she shines with her own inner light. It is enough to be terrifying as she advances toward him. "I asked for paper folding, not lessons for flight. One is a craft, an art, and what has the other ever given me? I don't want your life story, Caine. I never asked why you have two sets of wings. I never asked for you to wrap me in them like some dark flame come to whisk me away. Do not push when things should not be bent!" Nearly upon him, huffing and puffing, like a harpy alighting on prey, Moira snaps her teeth. She does not seek skin, only the nearness, only a threat.
Some things are still too raw, still working to heal. So much scar tissue can only be pushed so far before it breaks instead of regenerates. He asks too much, too soon. They only just met. He is nothing to her, and she only a passing face to him. If she weren't so selfish, then she would just tell him she'd learn the beautiful craft of origami herself. But Moira Tonnerre is possessive and stubborn and jealous. She seeks to fly where her family does not, to rise above them as they never thought she would, but she is not yet ready to cut those ties after working so hard for so long. Too many hours have gone into becoming who they want her to be, painting on a face day after day to simply be accepted even when love was always denied.
Moira Tonnerre, she remembers her family whispering, hissing. She is the shame of the Tonnerre family. Their greatest failure.
She will not be even more so now that a pretty face has come along to teach her how to outrun them at last. Some ghosts would sprout wings just to rip hers off.
@Caine - i don't know how to feel about angry mo.