M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Smells of deep fried bread and sounds of music fill the air, lit by faerie lights strung along trees, intermittent between booths, and edged in the hedges. Everything is large and beautiful, from the sounds, the sights, and even the people that waltz through the woods, into the clearing full of flowers and life and a brightness. She sighs as she recalls her own family gatherings. When Estelle and the other three girls of her training were presented to the family, the ballroom was opened to those within the family - and those without. Wine was served in flutes, champagne cooled on ice in every corner, hors d'oeuvre plates set about on tables that were out of the way. It was one of the only times that Moira saw anyone from outside of her family. Each invitation that had gone out was printed in neat calligraphy, sealed with the family crest, and sent off to the most eligible and deserving of families.
They'd all ignored the girl with wings.
Despite that, she smiles. This is a celebration for artists. There is a pulse in the air, a thrumming of the world centered here for the festival, a universal heartbeat that Moira cannot help but feel in her bones, hum along with under her breath. It makes sway with every wave she feels, let herself go to the throes of passion, but she does none of this.
Instead, the phoenix woman weaves in and out of the throng of people, finding a small stall vacated toward the back edge. Lighting is not optimal, but just the station sends a thrill down her spine. After putting up a fresh canvas, she quickly goes from stall to stall, finds water paints and pencils, oils and ink, and hurries back to the new painting station. From there, the world fades as flowers blossom upon the page. Lilies line the bottom, birthed from the night, sprouting up into a glimmering blue pool with silvers and starlight flecked through the waters. From the top, the morning drips with gardenias and marigolds, poppies framing the clouds. She does not care that the colors now line her face, cresting high on her cheeks so that purples circle her eyes, but not for lack of sleep. Black sweeps along her brow, blue down her arms. And how she beams, so fond and proud of the picture coming to life under her careful ministrations. Every edge is lined with ink of the deepest black, some lines so fine they are hardly found, others so thick and prominent and precise that they're much too hard to miss...
@Florentine <3 I hope this is okay !
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Smells of deep fried bread and sounds of music fill the air, lit by faerie lights strung along trees, intermittent between booths, and edged in the hedges. Everything is large and beautiful, from the sounds, the sights, and even the people that waltz through the woods, into the clearing full of flowers and life and a brightness. She sighs as she recalls her own family gatherings. When Estelle and the other three girls of her training were presented to the family, the ballroom was opened to those within the family - and those without. Wine was served in flutes, champagne cooled on ice in every corner, hors d'oeuvre plates set about on tables that were out of the way. It was one of the only times that Moira saw anyone from outside of her family. Each invitation that had gone out was printed in neat calligraphy, sealed with the family crest, and sent off to the most eligible and deserving of families.
They'd all ignored the girl with wings.
Despite that, she smiles. This is a celebration for artists. There is a pulse in the air, a thrumming of the world centered here for the festival, a universal heartbeat that Moira cannot help but feel in her bones, hum along with under her breath. It makes sway with every wave she feels, let herself go to the throes of passion, but she does none of this.
Instead, the phoenix woman weaves in and out of the throng of people, finding a small stall vacated toward the back edge. Lighting is not optimal, but just the station sends a thrill down her spine. After putting up a fresh canvas, she quickly goes from stall to stall, finds water paints and pencils, oils and ink, and hurries back to the new painting station. From there, the world fades as flowers blossom upon the page. Lilies line the bottom, birthed from the night, sprouting up into a glimmering blue pool with silvers and starlight flecked through the waters. From the top, the morning drips with gardenias and marigolds, poppies framing the clouds. She does not care that the colors now line her face, cresting high on her cheeks so that purples circle her eyes, but not for lack of sleep. Black sweeps along her brow, blue down her arms. And how she beams, so fond and proud of the picture coming to life under her careful ministrations. Every edge is lined with ink of the deepest black, some lines so fine they are hardly found, others so thick and prominent and precise that they're much too hard to miss...
@
space
