In those silent moments of judgement and intrigue, the stars seem to lean ever closer, glimmering down upon the two women who have yet to find sleep and peace in the aftermath of chaos incarnate. The phoenix does not flinch from the words thrown her way, for she's heard much worse whispered in dimly lit hallways - mutt, mongrel, you don't belong, you will never be a Tonnerre - so many other words more insidious than the threat of sleeping devils waiting to pounce. Fear is not something that shakes her core, the smile touching Isra's porcelain visage does not move her. In response, she simply raises a brow and shakes her head. Limp hair barely shimmies through the air, plastered to her cheeks and neck from the cold sweats upon her sides. Only when they enter the warmer chamber full of bodies on pillows and faces lined with tears does she feel the weight settle onto her narrow shoulders. Petite frame shivers for but a moment, and just as quickly she pushes on a straight face once more. There is no time to grimace, to be sorry for what they've all gone through.
It is in the wake of disaster that all of Denocte must pull together.
She will be their healer, their shoulder to cry on, the base of their pyramid... She will not be some helpless girl locked in the dark where no one can see her, hear her... She will not be helpless for her people.
So she falls easily into a pillow after retrieving a bowl of porridge to split between the two of them, meets those star-streaked eyes that blaze like a morning glory, and just as stubbornly offers her hand for Isra to come beside her. Tucked arm in arm, Moira thanks the child that brings them both a cup of tea before looking once more to her Empress. How strange, she hums, that the storyteller shall now tell a story of her own creation for the entirety of their nation. But Moira feels in her heart that Caligo has chosen true to who all of Denocte needs. Isra is made of silver and gold with the heart of a dying star streaming endlessly through the sky. She is the northern lights floating lazily above, a beacon of hope that cannot be erased.
After a sip and few bites of porridge she allows herself to lean into the queen, curious if this is even alright or proper. Never would Moira have been so forward, so bold with her previous Emperor and his ilk... However, she was still so new, so naive of this world and its people. Not so long ago she recalls his flashing grin and flaming eyes. This unicorn has that same strength and core of steele to lead them into the milkyway should she so choose. "Wash sorrow from your heart, burn it from these halls, don't fret now, Isra. We will heal and be born anew. We will be strong under your tender hand. Reap what you sow, and the benefits will be grand. If you'd like, storyteller, I can tell you of my home to soak away your sorrow." And she smiles. It's small, so easily missed upon her dark, carmine face, yet those golden eyes brim with memories worht a million lifetimes. How does she tell of the halls that were never in darkness? Of the people who lived in light and love and intrigue? Of Eluoan, the twins, even her dear, lost Estelle? It could take hours to describe the balls, the ceremonies, the Matron. Even longer to show the love of her parents and the fondness for Marquelle. Born in a world of art and philosophy and learning where she should want for nothing but her library when pulled away from it... How does one tell of their life before living to ease the heart of another's broken rage?
@Isra <3 i'm so sorry this took so long ! TnT
It is in the wake of disaster that all of Denocte must pull together.
She will be their healer, their shoulder to cry on, the base of their pyramid... She will not be some helpless girl locked in the dark where no one can see her, hear her... She will not be helpless for her people.
So she falls easily into a pillow after retrieving a bowl of porridge to split between the two of them, meets those star-streaked eyes that blaze like a morning glory, and just as stubbornly offers her hand for Isra to come beside her. Tucked arm in arm, Moira thanks the child that brings them both a cup of tea before looking once more to her Empress. How strange, she hums, that the storyteller shall now tell a story of her own creation for the entirety of their nation. But Moira feels in her heart that Caligo has chosen true to who all of Denocte needs. Isra is made of silver and gold with the heart of a dying star streaming endlessly through the sky. She is the northern lights floating lazily above, a beacon of hope that cannot be erased.
After a sip and few bites of porridge she allows herself to lean into the queen, curious if this is even alright or proper. Never would Moira have been so forward, so bold with her previous Emperor and his ilk... However, she was still so new, so naive of this world and its people. Not so long ago she recalls his flashing grin and flaming eyes. This unicorn has that same strength and core of steele to lead them into the milkyway should she so choose. "Wash sorrow from your heart, burn it from these halls, don't fret now, Isra. We will heal and be born anew. We will be strong under your tender hand. Reap what you sow, and the benefits will be grand. If you'd like, storyteller, I can tell you of my home to soak away your sorrow." And she smiles. It's small, so easily missed upon her dark, carmine face, yet those golden eyes brim with memories worht a million lifetimes. How does she tell of the halls that were never in darkness? Of the people who lived in light and love and intrigue? Of Eluoan, the twins, even her dear, lost Estelle? It could take hours to describe the balls, the ceremonies, the Matron. Even longer to show the love of her parents and the fondness for Marquelle. Born in a world of art and philosophy and learning where she should want for nothing but her library when pulled away from it... How does one tell of their life before living to ease the heart of another's broken rage?
@Isra <3 i'm so sorry this took so long ! TnT
