Quite charming. When Eik’s name comes up, Bexley thinks back to their first meeting and smiles. How young was she then? No scar, no guilt, no court title slung across her back like a drowning-weight - before either of them had fallen into the wasp-infested nest of Novus politics and were simply two Solterrans new to their own home, exchanging stories across the just-rippling surface of the oasis. When they cross paths now, this is still the scene she thinks of, backlit by a bleeding sun and the promise of something new.
Charming, she repeats. Sure. Maybe not the first word Bexley herself would have picked, but the more she thinks back on her meeting with the Emissary, the more she falls into the trap of agreement. Charming, indeed, in his own strange way. His unapologetic strangeness and the gossamer way he spins otherworldly stories with less effort than it takes to fold a blanket. Moira is charming, too - but somehow, her charisma shows itself quite different than the way one could find it in Eik’s quiet masculinity, or the Regent’s own brand of flirtatious vitality. Something more muted and genuinely beautiful. Bex watches the gentle lines of her face with something like admiration, wondering if she has ever been as soft as Moira is now.
So caught is she in her own thoughts that she hardly notices Moira cleaning up her own spill. The lilting, honeybee-hum of music around them makes Bexley’s pulse slow, calms her overactive brain, pulls a quietness from the place in her heart that is usually loud and reckless; the smell of incense and food fills the air, and it is so familiar, so safe, that Bex can’t help but fall into the atmosphere head-first. Parties have always been her solace, able to drown her in soft lights and warmth, to consume her worries in a way nothing else can. But then the Decoctian speaks, breaking the quiet between them in that bell-ring of a voice, and Bexley startles back to wakefulness.
Her gaze flicks upward in an attempt to meet Moira’s, but it is too-quickly distracted by the sight of a red wing unfurled. Bex raises a brow in quiet surprise. Moira is, perhaps, the first pegasus she’s seen who’s done a good job pretending to be something she isn’t; most of them, at least the ones Bexley’s had the good luck to encounter, have always been far too proud of their heritage, too puffed up with the freedom their wings bring and always proud of how easy it is to use them, but Moira seems… the opposite. Completely. Her wing trembles like a newborn child's.
Would it be rude to remark upon it? There’s another question to be answered, anyway - Would’ve ruined the party mood, Bex responds at last. It’s said half-seriously and half-smirking. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be blamed for starting a brawl, at least around this many people. You don’t use your wings often. The addition is tossed out casually, as if an afterthought to her own opinions, but the intelligent glint in Bexley’s eyes says even her most nonchalant moves might be calculated.
@Moira <3
Charming, she repeats. Sure. Maybe not the first word Bexley herself would have picked, but the more she thinks back on her meeting with the Emissary, the more she falls into the trap of agreement. Charming, indeed, in his own strange way. His unapologetic strangeness and the gossamer way he spins otherworldly stories with less effort than it takes to fold a blanket. Moira is charming, too - but somehow, her charisma shows itself quite different than the way one could find it in Eik’s quiet masculinity, or the Regent’s own brand of flirtatious vitality. Something more muted and genuinely beautiful. Bex watches the gentle lines of her face with something like admiration, wondering if she has ever been as soft as Moira is now.
So caught is she in her own thoughts that she hardly notices Moira cleaning up her own spill. The lilting, honeybee-hum of music around them makes Bexley’s pulse slow, calms her overactive brain, pulls a quietness from the place in her heart that is usually loud and reckless; the smell of incense and food fills the air, and it is so familiar, so safe, that Bex can’t help but fall into the atmosphere head-first. Parties have always been her solace, able to drown her in soft lights and warmth, to consume her worries in a way nothing else can. But then the Decoctian speaks, breaking the quiet between them in that bell-ring of a voice, and Bexley startles back to wakefulness.
Her gaze flicks upward in an attempt to meet Moira’s, but it is too-quickly distracted by the sight of a red wing unfurled. Bex raises a brow in quiet surprise. Moira is, perhaps, the first pegasus she’s seen who’s done a good job pretending to be something she isn’t; most of them, at least the ones Bexley’s had the good luck to encounter, have always been far too proud of their heritage, too puffed up with the freedom their wings bring and always proud of how easy it is to use them, but Moira seems… the opposite. Completely. Her wing trembles like a newborn child's.
Would it be rude to remark upon it? There’s another question to be answered, anyway - Would’ve ruined the party mood, Bex responds at last. It’s said half-seriously and half-smirking. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be blamed for starting a brawl, at least around this many people. You don’t use your wings often. The addition is tossed out casually, as if an afterthought to her own opinions, but the intelligent glint in Bexley’s eyes says even her most nonchalant moves might be calculated.
@
Bexley
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
