Moira Tonnerre
"My family would quite disagree with you, I think. They much prefer those of silver, or at least far paler than I." Easily she states it, as though it is a fact she's rehearsed a million times and learned to accept, like it doesn't affect her at all how they whisper and stare and wonder how on earth such an ungodly child was born as a part of their bloodline. After all, her father was a beautiful man of gray and white. He'd been made from moonlight, seemed to glow with the silver lining of clouds after a furious tempest swept away all sorrow from the land (leaving heartaches in its wake). Ah, but it was from her mother - the cursed woman, the gypsy thief, the terrible, passionate, wanton woman who'd captured her father's heart and kept it captive. At first, her family thought it witchcraft. After all, Anselme was raised pure as Moira should have been. Those wing wings were not allowed in the ranks. Yet he was consumed with desire for only Gizelle, and so Moira came to be.
Gizelle was of oranges and reds and purples. She painted her skin as the sun does the skies when first meeting for the day. Gold drips from her like honey, and bells would jingle in her hair, about her ankles, on necklaces and bracelets so that all would know she was about. Those were the days before Moira. Before she let herself be grounded.
And in turn, Moira, too, was denied her birthright: freedom.
The past pulls them both for loops, like the river of time it is as demanding as any current engagement. For a time, both are silent, still. Moira cannot help but to reflect on Seraphina's comment about the dead. But all come to rest at some time or another. No matter the time that passes, all things end when they are meant to. It is the natural order of things, the way of life, and the way of death. Briefly she wonders if the silver woman knows this, if she's ever thought of it in that way, yet she knows it is not her place to interject and intrude upon private moments. They can be so fleeting, after all, when peace or thought or interest steals over oneself. In these quiet moments, she cannot help but adore the striping upon the Empress' neck, the ring of white lashes that frame bright golden eyes. Eyes that are so like her own, and yet so different. More wisdom is etched around the edges, hidden deep within the honeyed center that no living soul can tread, tracked across the fatigued lines just under her bright gaze.
With one guess, the healer would assume that the empress was the same age. Differing in height by only a few odd inches, young enough to still show the vitality that courses in their blood, all is almost identical save for coloration and build - and those rich amber eyes.
A moment spans the length of a century it seems, and only after a rather awkward silence has built up with the music crooning softly behind them, does Moira realize she's been asked for her name. Berating herself within, the girl dips her head. "Moira Tonnerre. May I know yours, or would you like me to name you for the night? There's something magical about meeting under starlight and shadows, don't you think?" Mischief glitters in that gaze, secrets are just around the corners ready to be kissed off. But Moira does not kiss and tell - she hardly ever kisses at all, in fact. Still, laughter soothes the soul (isn't that what the twins thought before?), and for the smallest of seconds she hopes that Sera will laugh and not make her really choose.
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