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Like dewdrops on daisies fresh in the morning, Moira watches as the court rises from their beds they've likely just sunk into or saunter from the falling maze and rooms of splendor. One by one, trickling in, ants marching in a row, those of Denocte assemble and stand strong before her. Questions flare in their eyes, each curios and clouded with confusion as they look up to her. Sorrow pools in the pit of the Pegasus' stomach, flickers out oily tendrils into her heart, her limps, but she does not let her chin be drawn down, does not let her lips waver or eyes look away. For each curious look, each word slicing the fading darkness more quickly, insistently than the last.

Patience is something the phoenix was required to know before she ever knew how to raise a wing, raise a brow, raise a scalpel and cut into supple flesh to sniff out the rot. Now, it settles on her shoulders as a cloak, warm and comforting, to keep out the chills and terror that surely would stalk her down every hall in any other setting.

The first to come forth, a man of chocolate and pale silk whom she's only seen in passing. He steps forward then, a woman who can only be his lover at his side, and asks about the murders in Delumine; the Dawn court where Moira has not yet had a chance to see. It lies so far to the northeast that she is unsure how long it would take to travel through the mountains, the caves, and over a river. A caravan would be on the road for weeks, but perhaps her wings (should she ever learn to use them) could take her faster should she ever need to check. "No," the Tonnerre woman breathes, eyes darkening, dimming and lighting all at once when the news of more carnage spreads. "Something much closer to home, to our bleeding heart." Soft are the words she returns, dipping her head in thanks for their coming forth. Golden gaze looks over @Metaphor and @Katniss who chimes in next.

The warrioress' voice is strong but questions the order of things. It is something Moira expects, nods sympathetically to let her know she's heard.

More come forward, the young @Pan asking of Isra - a mermaid and her dragon. Fable... What happened to Fable? For but a moment the phoenix woman forgets to breathe, forgets there is a crowd gathering as she thinks of where the dragon could have gone. Ah, but she'd seen him with Eik - spoke with them. And slowly she begins to function, gears turning, cogs in the clockwork oiled once more to smoothly glide alongside one another in a seamless dance that keeps her ticking, keeps her eyes flitting over every body gathering.

There, a golden man stands half here, half gone. Dreams, she thinks, still hold him. Or perhaps it is the night terrors that will plague her for many months from now. Still, @Michael stands, ready to listen just as the rest of the court, And just behind him, another Pegasus settles. A permanent scowl on @Ianthe 's fair face, one Moira hopes she can help to right soon. Perhaps they could talk of the sky and how to fly and other things that birds sing songs of, things that the woman born with fire in her veins and wings to fly knows nothing of - may never fully grasp until she tumbles, spiraling down, down, down only to breathe in the flow of the wind, the currents, only to fly at last. Now, here, the time is not one for them to chirp about the sky and reflect on the voice of the wind. Not when @Runaveig at last enters. Oh, Moira knows she's seen the entertainer at various functions, her darling Umbra close to her side. It is a warmth that pulls her forward a step then, toward the crowd.

You have their attention, now keep it. A deep breath, a second ticks by as she assesses them. Then, on an exhale the mare bows to her people, showing the only thanks she knows not how to say. "Denocte," the Emissary says at last, a fullness ringing now. Not that of a healer, of a woman, of a friend - that of a politician, an advisor, a woman with a purpose. "Our beloved Queen, our story-teller who takes away nightmares and paints dreams where shadows prey on vulnerable minds, our Empress... Isra has been taken, stolen from within the maze, stolen from us. In a desperate attempt to save her, to keep her among us, one of our own gave everything, gave his life, and it was not enough." Now a tear falls, errant curls blown by a cold wind that only reeks of death and loss. Her smoky voice is full, that husky lullaby now teeming with rage and nightmares to be unleashed upon the world.

"This night, Acton has died and Isra has been taken by Raum. His face has littered our court for his crimes, but he has chosen the wrong beast to prod. We are a Court of Dreams and Dreamers." Down one step she goes, then another, and another. Moira stands before them, among them.

Slowly she moves throughout the crowd, coming by Metaphor and Katniss who stood ready at the center. "He does not know the dragons he's awakened, the fire of our hearts and the courage of our soul, he does not know that all of Tempus' guidance cannot save him now. Others will look to us, to our court without our Queen. They will not see us cower, they will not see Denocte fall! When they look to our court," pausing beside Pan, she smiles gently and kisses his cheek before weaving further out. Like a river, she swirls through them, amongst them, her feral grin growing with her fury that is so rarely unleashed. "They will see our starlight that will swallow the sun. Here, you've all come for answers to questions, questions that ring as the tolling of our bells. Let us start, my brothers and sisters, to mend the holes."

Even now, her heart sings songs of blood and death, sings of burning and drowning and rending flesh from bone. Such violence brews as she circles around Ianthe and Runaveig at last. Her voice ringing like a gong, echoing off the freshly cobbled street within the city just beginning to heal. "We will find our queen and that dog who fled with his tail tucked between his legs will be brought to justice. This is not our ending, it is only the beginning of a new chapter that I cannot write without you. Who will stand with me, who will fight for Denocte and all that we stand for, who will dream a better dream until it is a reality?" She ends behind them all, facing the steps, facing her people, with her crown held high and wings upraised just as the sun crests over the mountains, just as it peeks over her own head, illuminates the Pegasus until she is nothing but a silhouette of flames and fury before those she will die to protect and defend with every last moonlit breath that whispers from her chest.

"Speaking."