all I see are the people I could have been ~
The dew upon her skin is soft and light, cold kisses from a lover's lips pressed into the crevices where secrets are held, hands creeping along her ribs, her spine, into the heart of her where it settles into bird-light bones. Phoenix' brow draws together when a touch is pressed upon it, dream-fog moving so painfully slow as it leaves her. Stillness covers the woman in red like the night or the rain, a seal upon her skin that refuses to shiver. Instead, goose-flesh is raised from the cold, from the autumnal season that hints so clearly of the oncoming winter. There is hot cocoa in her dreams and cider, there are dates upon wooden plates and gazebos to waltz within as the snow falls. Oh, the Emissary yearns for the touch of another, the brush of skin against skin like the lips upon her lashes.
Dark curls are removed from closed eyes, riotous and rebellious in their wildness. They've been days untended, falling out on her journey West so that Moira is an image of resplendence and wildness. It is the wildness upon his tongue and his brow, the twigs in his hair that touches her, too. A reckless abandon of wanting and needing and unknowing of the future, but willing to dive into it, willing to move forward without knowing exactly where that bend in the road might lead. So she goes, she goes and sighs and slowly opens golden eyes as whispered words reach her ears. Her ears are teardrops curling toward Leonidas, her eyes pass softly over genteel features so like Florentine's and someone else's. He is chocolate and gold, he is thin-boned and beautiful, he is a masterpiece enveloped in Night just as she is a daughter more fit for Solis' fire than the cool embrace of Caligo.
But Moira does not mind the dark, it has held her too fondly and safely to have fears of it now.
"I'd catch my death if I do not," she replies gently, caution thrown to the wind momentarily. There is still the taste of a dream on her tongue, the press of starlit skin against her side, a sigh begging for release.
Slowly she stretches, much like Neerja might, full-bodied with spine extended. Wings arch up, up, up into the heavens. High enough that starlight catches and glints and gleams along the brighter edges, capturing it and reflecting it and sparkling along the moist feathering. "Where is home then, little wolf?" She asks at last, head tilting toward him, wings safely against her side once more, and a galaxy of questions glowing in those golden eyes, those night-struck eyes that watch and wonder and turn and turn with something she doesn't quite know but it tickles nonetheless.
