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.
