Moira Tonnerre
i will burn and burn and burn again, and you will come home safely
We are here, we are here, we are here,
It is the drumming of her heart, the hammering of her thoughts. She can no more stop the words pummeling her from every direction, the plea of her blood reaching for him over and over and over than she can stop the moon from rising and the revelries from halting. No. The phoenix never could stop a party in full swing save for with the fire of her.
Somewhere, Florentine has slipped into the crowds, a goblet of wine quick to come to her, and amethyst eyes glittering wickedly.
Somewhere, there is a King who stamped his name on her heart as he stamped his name on so many letters between them and so many words left unsaid.
Somewhere, Neerja stalks the halls of Denocte to protect the people as Moira brought Terrastella's former sovereign home into the arms of her people.
And now, the phoenix burns. Flora had asked when it was she would set fire again, and her tongue begged to whisper soon, oh so soon. But she could not. Not when looking into bruised eyes that smiled too easily and yet held wells of emotions and stories and history that the Tonnerre girl hoped to discover one day. Those horrors, those pleasures, those memories are meant for the future, not the tittering of girls in front of a mirror.
Instead, she'd braided the golden girl's hair, the Time-girl's hair, and told her of the styles of her own house. The gowns. The towering hairstyles. The many braids. Oh, the glory of it all was almost ineffable, yet she told it all the same while Florentine had stroked Neerja. Much to Moira's surprise, the tigress let another touch her skin, let the two lost-girls comfort one another in a mirror and eye to eye.
That time has passed. Her own hair still hangs loose in its waterfall braid, showing sharp cheeks and sharper eyes. There is no point trying to go home now when the day has already waned into night, when exhaustion would make her vulnerable on empty roads late at night.
So she plucks up her own flute of champagne, simmering and smoldering and ready to combust, stalking through the crowds not as an Emissary, not as a healer, but as an artist whose soul screams and rages for that muse which it has been denied. As a jilted lover in a tragedy of her own making. Moira Tonnerre tips the flute high, lets its bottom reach for the heavens as glasses did once so long ago in another life of hers, lets it burn its way down her throat and burn alongside the fire and fury of her. Oh, there is warmth now in her glacial fire. Warmth and courage and endless feminine charm as she grabs another glass and grabs a brush.
The night is young and her heart is shattering even as it mends in the halls of Terrastella.
It is the drumming of her heart, the hammering of her thoughts. She can no more stop the words pummeling her from every direction, the plea of her blood reaching for him over and over and over than she can stop the moon from rising and the revelries from halting. No. The phoenix never could stop a party in full swing save for with the fire of her.
Somewhere, Florentine has slipped into the crowds, a goblet of wine quick to come to her, and amethyst eyes glittering wickedly.
Somewhere, there is a King who stamped his name on her heart as he stamped his name on so many letters between them and so many words left unsaid.
Somewhere, Neerja stalks the halls of Denocte to protect the people as Moira brought Terrastella's former sovereign home into the arms of her people.
And now, the phoenix burns. Flora had asked when it was she would set fire again, and her tongue begged to whisper soon, oh so soon. But she could not. Not when looking into bruised eyes that smiled too easily and yet held wells of emotions and stories and history that the Tonnerre girl hoped to discover one day. Those horrors, those pleasures, those memories are meant for the future, not the tittering of girls in front of a mirror.
Instead, she'd braided the golden girl's hair, the Time-girl's hair, and told her of the styles of her own house. The gowns. The towering hairstyles. The many braids. Oh, the glory of it all was almost ineffable, yet she told it all the same while Florentine had stroked Neerja. Much to Moira's surprise, the tigress let another touch her skin, let the two lost-girls comfort one another in a mirror and eye to eye.
That time has passed. Her own hair still hangs loose in its waterfall braid, showing sharp cheeks and sharper eyes. There is no point trying to go home now when the day has already waned into night, when exhaustion would make her vulnerable on empty roads late at night.
So she plucks up her own flute of champagne, simmering and smoldering and ready to combust, stalking through the crowds not as an Emissary, not as a healer, but as an artist whose soul screams and rages for that muse which it has been denied. As a jilted lover in a tragedy of her own making. Moira Tonnerre tips the flute high, lets its bottom reach for the heavens as glasses did once so long ago in another life of hers, lets it burn its way down her throat and burn alongside the fire and fury of her. Oh, there is warmth now in her glacial fire. Warmth and courage and endless feminine charm as she grabs another glass and grabs a brush.
The night is young and her heart is shattering even as it mends in the halls of Terrastella.
@anyone | "moira" "neerja" | notes: this was not supposed to happen ovo ; for the drinking & drawing festival part !
