M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
His silence is a near deafening roar, even as the wind coyly plays with their hair, plucking strands from her puns and pulling his own two-toned locks from their place upon his neck. Horns that twist and curl about themselves are proud and tall upon his head, adding even more height to the behemoth of a man. Like Caine, this man reaches the sky, goes to heights she cannot reach - will not reach with her own wings being so useless.
Even so, the phoenix does not care to learn to fly.
Noticing the slightest of shifting even before he spoke, Mo's breath rushes into her lungs as she turns her face towards his in time to catch his head falling toward the ground in her general direction. If the sun was bright, then the smile she gives him could have put it to shame. Practically beaming, Mo exhales at last. "As long as you'll have me. I'm Moira Tonnerre, but you can call me Mo." A conspirator's grin flickers then, as though they are thick as thieves. He does not seem the talkative type. This only draws out her own words, words that usually stay hidden beneath layer after layer of bandaging she applies in her little wing of Denocte.
Like any other, Moira has layers. They are not yet all peeled, but bit by bit there are cracks she never knew were there, surfacing until she flows freely into and out of them. Today is a good day, for her voice is at the ready, her eyes so bright and alert, and she knows as long as she does not look back to the wings upon her own body that mirror his (perhaps smaller) that she will be just fine.
@Jaeren =D
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
His silence is a near deafening roar, even as the wind coyly plays with their hair, plucking strands from her puns and pulling his own two-toned locks from their place upon his neck. Horns that twist and curl about themselves are proud and tall upon his head, adding even more height to the behemoth of a man. Like Caine, this man reaches the sky, goes to heights she cannot reach - will not reach with her own wings being so useless.
Even so, the phoenix does not care to learn to fly.
Noticing the slightest of shifting even before he spoke, Mo's breath rushes into her lungs as she turns her face towards his in time to catch his head falling toward the ground in her general direction. If the sun was bright, then the smile she gives him could have put it to shame. Practically beaming, Mo exhales at last. "As long as you'll have me. I'm Moira Tonnerre, but you can call me Mo." A conspirator's grin flickers then, as though they are thick as thieves. He does not seem the talkative type. This only draws out her own words, words that usually stay hidden beneath layer after layer of bandaging she applies in her little wing of Denocte.
Like any other, Moira has layers. They are not yet all peeled, but bit by bit there are cracks she never knew were there, surfacing until she flows freely into and out of them. Today is a good day, for her voice is at the ready, her eyes so bright and alert, and she knows as long as she does not look back to the wings upon her own body that mirror his (perhaps smaller) that she will be just fine.
@Jaeren =D
