m o i r a
ashes, ashes
we all fall down
we all fall down
S
kies set afire and drenched in water cannot contain the way the very air withdraws where she moves, the sparkling sunset set upon silken skin that stalks over the hill with ears curled back and eyes narrow. An adder ready to strike. A phoenix on the cusp of burning out or bursting into a million flames and ashes before rebirth. Moira has become a nocturnal thing like her kin in the court. She's learned to work by the light of the moon where only Caligo peers in to see her hands busy in some tonic or another, watch as pages turn of their own accord while the woman works endlessly, restlessly, to perfect another tincture and distil it to the court. So many stockpiles now grow, flourishing under the nurturing hand of Moira Tonnerre - a recluse, a cagy animal when cornered, a workaholic addicted to the feel of flesh mending, sewn together, and the making of remedies. Today, though, as the blue begins to brighten and the star-kissed skies are pushed further and further, the air shimmers and simmers about her.
There is no cunning healer that walks these lands.
Disgruntled, she is a wildfire on kindling, catching and igniting all in her path. Oh, and the man that surfaces like a dark god from the deeps, like a sin, like a plague upon her. He wears shadows and a peace she has not seen, but he knows the woman when she is in this state. A wild animal. A flighty beast with fangs and venom spewing forth.
Barely does she stop to listen to the end of his song, letting the haunting notes dissipate before boldly continuing on, eyes blazing as annoyance rears its ugly head. "You're back again then?" Once, her brows would have lifted high, mouth opening in a slight 'o' of recognition and shock. Not when she hungers for the gentle caress of the night, for the soft pillows from her bed back in Denocte. Not after those pesky twins woke her with a stick like she were a pagan thing, a heathen worm so disgusting they could not bear to touch her. Oh, how she would have roared if a hand had dared shake her, snapped it then and there and fed it to whatever crocodiles might be lurking in that pool of liquid gold. The same liquid that still sticks to her tail and feet, a reminder of where she's been, what she's touched.
"I thought you flew the coup, bat boy. Come to sing me a lullaby and whisk me home?" Moira says, words grating out in that smoky voice that sounds like hallucinations and dreamscapes might if she were anything other than what she is. It is not a teasing glint that's left in her eye; there's an edge on her today much sharper than the claws she sought to sink in and demand her pound of flesh with before. Her heart stammers and pounds, stops and starts, it twists and turns just as her emotions roil. Should she be relieved or let the anger flow? He left after saying he could teach her to fly. He'd given her hope beyond her pain and then abandoned her wholly.
Moira did not know the bitterness that grew in his absence, did not let the festering wound show to the outside world. Instead, she'd gone to parties to drink wine and mingle, she'd danced with a boy who had flowers in his hair and been just a girl with too much cake left to lick from her lips. She'd worked endlessly until exhaustion was the only thought left to occupy her mind instead of those damned silver eyes that still laughed at her in her dreams. So the anger wins, a bubbling cauldron gurgling until she ladles it out spoonful by spoonful.
@Caine | "speaks" | this is not what i expected o:
