M O I R A
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Sorrow is a cloak worn heavily upon thin shoulders, but there is no tremor in her spine, no fear in her eyes. An endless sadness that could swallow the stars, but a fierce pride burns in her heart, lines every sharp angle of her face, crests in those amber eyes that look to the castle. Chains that sing a song of loss, of heartache, of such profound despair it could make the heavens cry ring upon stone steps that are sodden with heavy waters still. Salt is left on cobbled streets where the sun weakly shines from storms now past. Clouds in the distance rumble like the children's stomachs. There is still a briny scent to the city, sea fish upon their streets, crabs scuttling down where the market was. Worse yet are the horrors of the mighty thunderbirds that once were. Corpses of such beautiful beasts strewn on buildings, littering the lower levels of the city they managed to breach, bent at unusual angles that cause her stomach to turn. Necks bent and cruelly twisted, wings tattered with flames and heartache. Such precious life lost. And for what? For bringing a storm to destroy their home?
She feels the pang of each loss as though it were her own kin, knowing fully that she contributed to the taking of life. Turning to an alleyway the winged woman stumbles in, the phoenix' head dips down as the meager meal she'd had for breakfast is emptied onto the ground. There she cries. There her heart breaks. There her soul is rent and shattered like the spider webbing of a broken window. The center seems so small a hole, so insignificant an injury, yet its reach grows wider and wider until soon it is all shattered.
Moira Tonnerre is not a creature meant to take life unless it is a mercy, unless there are no means left to save her patients. There should not have been a creature harmed by her gentle, calloused hands. Yet the blood runs thick on her body - both hers, the creatures', and her companions who fought so bravely beside her. Tears track down her cheeks, valleys are left where they travel. Warm, sanguine color runs freely down her shoulder to obscure starlight in the sunset on her skin. White becomes crimson like the dawn, and blood drips slowly from her nose.
How she gasps for air like a fish out of water, like a man dying; how she prays for forgiveness and that she may be stronger in the future. As time slows, she finds herself missing the library and the brooding figure there; she finds herself missing the festival with flowers and a starlit man who brought color into her gray world; she finds herself missing the flaming blond woman that was as sleek as a viper and just as deadly, but showed warmth for Moira alone. So many faces - are they alright? What will they do when they learn of the monster she has been? How can forgiveness be found in the world when she is as terrible as the worst of them?
But the music continues, and Isra calls them all.
Upper lip stiffens as she dries her tears. Carefully she wipes her bloodied nose upon her arm, ridding herself of the terrible smear that blends both with her skin and her forearm so that none may tell the wounds there. Every footstep around her sends a shiver down her spine, every terrified whisper and heart-rending sob shake her to her core. This land was not meant to be a bloodied wasteland. It was not made to be a place of sorrow. The shadows are heavy today upon them all, but Caligo has chosen their queen who steps forward to throw her voice to the winds and hope to the gods that her people hear it.
So few come forth. So few left to be brave.
Sadness drips like a leaky faucet, a constant noise to remind them all of what they have lost. Story after story was ripped from their monarch's cracked throat during the long hours of the storm, the days of the battle. Little clean water was there to help her face those fearful faces and keep them calm, keep them merry. But it does not matter as another story is sung, another history unraveled. Darkness and sorrow. Cages that left her burning more fiercely than the sun in the sky. She inspires those around with her words, lifts her chin proudly as a part of the court, and shows that they all can be brave once more.
It does not matter that she is hoarse and should shatter like a vase when instead she smiles and asks them what they are, who they will become. It only matters that she is there.
Hope is such a fragile thing, a feathered thing, a living thing. Expanding and contracting with each breath they take, in the breast of them all. Hope is a contagious thing that crawls into their blood and makes its nest. Tendrils flare and expand, like petals of the lotus flower opening to the moon, and Moira steps forward at last.
Smiling with bloodied teeth and darkened eyes, she dips her head. Hair falls forward into her eyes having long since come undone from braids and battle born kinks; it is snarled and tangled like their hearts, but when it is moved aside it reveals the anticipation of a future. Looking over the woman of starlight and dusk, she is reminded so much of Asterion and her heart is heavy. A pause, a heartbeat, then two... And then, "Sweet Isra, my Queen. You have given so much, let us help give back to you, grow with you as you grow with us. There is a future for our court and with you at the helm we will find the path in the stars again. I wish only to heal our people and will mend them as you mend our hearts. Please, let me know of any assistance you need and I will be at your beck and call." Carefully the bloodied woman touches her lips to Isra's cheek, thanking her for all she has given, all she has done, and the many months she will yet give to them all. Cradling her wing, she turns once more to descend the steps back into the crowds below.
@Isra
<3 please accept this humble trashpost after not writing for like a month and a half TnT
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Sorrow is a cloak worn heavily upon thin shoulders, but there is no tremor in her spine, no fear in her eyes. An endless sadness that could swallow the stars, but a fierce pride burns in her heart, lines every sharp angle of her face, crests in those amber eyes that look to the castle. Chains that sing a song of loss, of heartache, of such profound despair it could make the heavens cry ring upon stone steps that are sodden with heavy waters still. Salt is left on cobbled streets where the sun weakly shines from storms now past. Clouds in the distance rumble like the children's stomachs. There is still a briny scent to the city, sea fish upon their streets, crabs scuttling down where the market was. Worse yet are the horrors of the mighty thunderbirds that once were. Corpses of such beautiful beasts strewn on buildings, littering the lower levels of the city they managed to breach, bent at unusual angles that cause her stomach to turn. Necks bent and cruelly twisted, wings tattered with flames and heartache. Such precious life lost. And for what? For bringing a storm to destroy their home?
She feels the pang of each loss as though it were her own kin, knowing fully that she contributed to the taking of life. Turning to an alleyway the winged woman stumbles in, the phoenix' head dips down as the meager meal she'd had for breakfast is emptied onto the ground. There she cries. There her heart breaks. There her soul is rent and shattered like the spider webbing of a broken window. The center seems so small a hole, so insignificant an injury, yet its reach grows wider and wider until soon it is all shattered.
Moira Tonnerre is not a creature meant to take life unless it is a mercy, unless there are no means left to save her patients. There should not have been a creature harmed by her gentle, calloused hands. Yet the blood runs thick on her body - both hers, the creatures', and her companions who fought so bravely beside her. Tears track down her cheeks, valleys are left where they travel. Warm, sanguine color runs freely down her shoulder to obscure starlight in the sunset on her skin. White becomes crimson like the dawn, and blood drips slowly from her nose.
How she gasps for air like a fish out of water, like a man dying; how she prays for forgiveness and that she may be stronger in the future. As time slows, she finds herself missing the library and the brooding figure there; she finds herself missing the festival with flowers and a starlit man who brought color into her gray world; she finds herself missing the flaming blond woman that was as sleek as a viper and just as deadly, but showed warmth for Moira alone. So many faces - are they alright? What will they do when they learn of the monster she has been? How can forgiveness be found in the world when she is as terrible as the worst of them?
But the music continues, and Isra calls them all.
Upper lip stiffens as she dries her tears. Carefully she wipes her bloodied nose upon her arm, ridding herself of the terrible smear that blends both with her skin and her forearm so that none may tell the wounds there. Every footstep around her sends a shiver down her spine, every terrified whisper and heart-rending sob shake her to her core. This land was not meant to be a bloodied wasteland. It was not made to be a place of sorrow. The shadows are heavy today upon them all, but Caligo has chosen their queen who steps forward to throw her voice to the winds and hope to the gods that her people hear it.
So few come forth. So few left to be brave.
Sadness drips like a leaky faucet, a constant noise to remind them all of what they have lost. Story after story was ripped from their monarch's cracked throat during the long hours of the storm, the days of the battle. Little clean water was there to help her face those fearful faces and keep them calm, keep them merry. But it does not matter as another story is sung, another history unraveled. Darkness and sorrow. Cages that left her burning more fiercely than the sun in the sky. She inspires those around with her words, lifts her chin proudly as a part of the court, and shows that they all can be brave once more.
It does not matter that she is hoarse and should shatter like a vase when instead she smiles and asks them what they are, who they will become. It only matters that she is there.
Hope is such a fragile thing, a feathered thing, a living thing. Expanding and contracting with each breath they take, in the breast of them all. Hope is a contagious thing that crawls into their blood and makes its nest. Tendrils flare and expand, like petals of the lotus flower opening to the moon, and Moira steps forward at last.
Smiling with bloodied teeth and darkened eyes, she dips her head. Hair falls forward into her eyes having long since come undone from braids and battle born kinks; it is snarled and tangled like their hearts, but when it is moved aside it reveals the anticipation of a future. Looking over the woman of starlight and dusk, she is reminded so much of Asterion and her heart is heavy. A pause, a heartbeat, then two... And then, "Sweet Isra, my Queen. You have given so much, let us help give back to you, grow with you as you grow with us. There is a future for our court and with you at the helm we will find the path in the stars again. I wish only to heal our people and will mend them as you mend our hearts. Please, let me know of any assistance you need and I will be at your beck and call." Carefully the bloodied woman touches her lips to Isra's cheek, thanking her for all she has given, all she has done, and the many months she will yet give to them all. Cradling her wing, she turns once more to descend the steps back into the crowds below.
@Isra
<3 please accept this humble trashpost after not writing for like a month and a half TnT
