"My family would quite disagree with you, I think. They much prefer those of silver, or at least far paler than I." Easily she states it, as though it is a fact she's rehearsed a million times and learned to accept, like it doesn't affect her at all how they whisper and stare and wonder how on earth such an ungodly child was born as a part of their bloodline. After all, her father was a beautiful man of gray and white. He'd been made from moonlight, seemed to glow with the silver lining of clouds after a furious tempest swept away all sorrow from the land (leaving heartaches in its wake). Ah, but it was from her mother - the cursed woman, the gypsy thief, the terrible, passionate, wanton woman who'd captured her father's heart and kept it captive. At first, her family thought it witchcraft. After all, Anselme was raised pure as Moira should have been. Those wing wings were not allowed in the ranks. Yet he was consumed with desire for only Gizelle, and so Moira came to be.

Gizelle was of oranges and reds and purples. She painted her skin as the sun does the skies when first meeting for the day. Gold drips from her like honey, and bells would jingle in her hair, about her ankles, on necklaces and bracelets so that all would know she was about. Those were the days before Moira. Before she let herself be grounded.

And in turn, Moira, too, was denied her birthright: freedom.

The past pulls them both for loops, like the river of time it is as demanding as any current engagement. For a time, both are silent, still. Moira cannot help but to reflect on Seraphina's comment about the dead. But all come to rest at some time or another. No matter the time that passes, all things end when they are meant to. It is the natural order of things, the way of life, and the way of death. Briefly she wonders if the silver woman knows this, if she's ever thought of it in that way, yet she knows it is not her place to interject and intrude upon private moments. They can be so fleeting, after all, when peace or thought or interest steals over oneself. In these quiet moments, she cannot help but adore the striping upon the Empress' neck, the ring of white lashes that frame bright golden eyes. Eyes that are so like her own, and yet so different. More wisdom is etched around the edges, hidden deep within the honeyed center that no living soul can tread, tracked across the fatigued lines just under her bright gaze.

With one guess, the healer would assume that the empress was the same age. Differing in height by only a few odd inches, young enough to still show the vitality that courses in their blood, all is almost identical save for coloration and build - and those rich amber eyes.

A moment spans the length of a century it seems, and only after a rather awkward silence has built up with the music crooning softly behind them, does Moira realize she's been asked for her name. Berating herself within, the girl dips her head. "Moira Tonnerre. May I know yours, or would you like me to name you for the night? There's something magical about meeting under starlight and shadows, don't you think?" Mischief glitters in that gaze, secrets are just around the corners ready to be kissed off. But Moira does not kiss and tell - she hardly ever kisses at all, in fact. Still, laughter soothes the soul (isn't that what the twins thought before?), and for the smallest of seconds she hopes that Sera will laugh and not make her really choose.

@Seraphina <3 :D no worries at all !

Wandering eyes would see the girl as she purses her lips, the subtle, rueful smile that flickers across her carmine mouth, the sinful way her eyes fall to the ground as she thinks of her own family. Bloodlust? Perhaps some, but she was taught that the Tonnerre was of a noble stock. They did not dally in such nonsensical problems. "We are not creatures for war anymore, but if it's secrets and intrigue you prefer, perhaps the court of the Tonnerres would suit you. I daresay though, they don't take to outsiders very well." With a shake of her head, limp curls bouncing lightly on her neck, she cannot help but to frown. They were not really the welcoming sort. Cold. Distant. Like a star in the heavens she could never quite reach.

Yes... Falling stars were much more suitable a description for her family than anything else she could think of.

Careful as a nursemaid, memories at tucked once more beneath piles of blankets and fonder days, only those worth remembering, worth offering a smile over, are allowed to peek out around the edges and peer carefully at the world where Moira now lives. They titter gaily at the other people she recalls. What would the twins think of the festival? It would be all too mundane and savage for them. Barbaric they'd sneer, and then rethink it once they saw how the phoenix smiles. Pensive is she at last when Seraphina pulls her from these hopes, a lurching back into the here and now that is not wholly unwelcome. Seraphina she tastes, rolls on her tongue, before dipping her head in greeting. "I'd much rather call you a friend, but we could work up to that, Seraphina." It pulls teachings long lost from her, dead languages, origins, meanings. Seraphina meant fiery-winged long ago - perhaps there is a myth or a legend she has forgotten, but she cannot help but to think that it does not quite suit the woman. Where are her wings? Where is the fire she should wield? Then again, her own name does not fit her - Moira. It means destiny or fate. She is destined for nothing and no one. There is no fate but that with which to draw her last breath when the time comes. How funny she finds it, standing face to face with one who is as distant from their name as she is her own. Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin then, forever destined to not see eye-to-eye, but in opposite directions.

Such trivial matters matter little when she speaks of the sun as though a lover, when she asks of her court like a knowing woman. Did it matter where her bed was made at the end of the day? Brows lift, mouth opens, and then shuts just as swiftly. Amber eyes look about almost helplessly, almost curiously, hoping to find an explanation. With no hope of a savior, she steels herself once more. With a shrug she offers up the Night Court. "I live with dreamers and dancers and singers. I live where paint is more beautiful than blood and laughter rings merrily through the night. Denocte… It's what I'm told it's called. But I've come with a boy, quite a gentleman, to enjoy the festivities while they last. I have not seen you there, so you are not a part of this Court of Dreams - where do you call home?" Not, she reminds herself, where she is from. But home. If asked, the painted woman would tell you that the Tonnerre Estate is still where her heart lies, but also somewhere outside of these mountains in the arms of a woman who may be long gone by now. Estelle, she remembers mournfully at last, and whatever amusement, whatever joy she held, is stolen once more.

@Seraphina - snuck in one before work 8D