Moira Tonnerre
Wandering eyes would see the girl as she purses her lips, the subtle, rueful smile that flickers across her carmine mouth, the sinful way her eyes fall to the ground as she thinks of her own family. Bloodlust? Perhaps some, but she was taught that the Tonnerre was of a noble stock. They did not dally in such nonsensical problems. "We are not creatures for war anymore, but if it's secrets and intrigue you prefer, perhaps the court of the Tonnerres would suit you. I daresay though, they don't take to outsiders very well." With a shake of her head, limp curls bouncing lightly on her neck, she cannot help but to frown. They were not really the welcoming sort. Cold. Distant. Like a star in the heavens she could never quite reach.
Yes... Falling stars were much more suitable a description for her family than anything else she could think of.
Careful as a nursemaid, memories at tucked once more beneath piles of blankets and fonder days, only those worth remembering, worth offering a smile over, are allowed to peek out around the edges and peer carefully at the world where Moira now lives. They titter gaily at the other people she recalls. What would the twins think of the festival? It would be all too mundane and savage for them. Barbaric they'd sneer, and then rethink it once they saw how the phoenix smiles. Pensive is she at last when Seraphina pulls her from these hopes, a lurching back into the here and now that is not wholly unwelcome. Seraphina she tastes, rolls on her tongue, before dipping her head in greeting. "I'd much rather call you a friend, but we could work up to that, Seraphina." It pulls teachings long lost from her, dead languages, origins, meanings. Seraphina meant fiery-winged long ago - perhaps there is a myth or a legend she has forgotten, but she cannot help but to think that it does not quite suit the woman. Where are her wings? Where is the fire she should wield? Then again, her own name does not fit her - Moira. It means destiny or fate. She is destined for nothing and no one. There is no fate but that with which to draw her last breath when the time comes. How funny she finds it, standing face to face with one who is as distant from their name as she is her own. Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin then, forever destined to not see eye-to-eye, but in opposite directions.
Such trivial matters matter little when she speaks of the sun as though a lover, when she asks of her court like a knowing woman. Did it matter where her bed was made at the end of the day? Brows lift, mouth opens, and then shuts just as swiftly. Amber eyes look about almost helplessly, almost curiously, hoping to find an explanation. With no hope of a savior, she steels herself once more. With a shrug she offers up the Night Court. "I live with dreamers and dancers and singers. I live where paint is more beautiful than blood and laughter rings merrily through the night. Denocte… It's what I'm told it's called. But I've come with a boy, quite a gentleman, to enjoy the festivities while they last. I have not seen you there, so you are not a part of this Court of Dreams - where do you call home?" Not, she reminds herself, where she is from. But home. If asked, the painted woman would tell you that the Tonnerre Estate is still where her heart lies, but also somewhere outside of these mountains in the arms of a woman who may be long gone by now. Estelle, she remembers mournfully at last, and whatever amusement, whatever joy she held, is stolen once more.
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