Moira Tonnerre, the horror you have committed is not who you are
An echo of her steps rings faintly in the dark, cushioned by shadows so deep and soft, but they are not the footfalls of her beloved guardian. The jungle song that rings through both of them has been hidden behind sheets of ice, cascading waterfalls that are frozen, blocking caves that reach down, down, down into the darkest parts of her, the most tender parts of her. The possessor of the footsteps does not come nearer, only circles, and so she ignores them.
Her phantom lights ring her in spikes and orbs, she is the sun that her planets of light orbit. For a moment, she mattered to something even if it was of her own making.
The phoenix moves through a crumbling archway, a doorway covered in ivy and hanging vines. No one yet removed the barrier that shields the guts of the temple from time. The phoenix brushes through it, letting vines grapple with her sides, pulling at goose-bumped skin, until they are shaken free. Within the temple, their joined footsteps ring as one into the choir rows high above.
Moira Tonnerre can imagine the way disciples of the Night would once have come here to sing praise to their goddess, to dance beside her when the moon hid her face in the sky.
That is not why the phoenix comes now.
As she moves through spearing moonlight, an amalgamation of silver and red and gold, she does not expect the templar knight to charge from his shadowy confines. Like a cage, he kept behind his dappled bars. Now, @Tenebrae stands tall before her, starlight eyes flaring and glaring at her intrusion into his sacred domain.
Wings flare like her nostrils, ears tip back, and the Emissary's head tilts with narrowed golden eyes. She bleeds darkness in that look, the darkness of their Goddess - perhaps one of the only deities she dares believe in enough to break from the Estate's beliefs.
Coolly she traces his outline, fingers of light grappling with the shadows, her own small scythes reaching out to illuminate the browns of him, the whites of him. Their pale, bright fingers tangle like lovers quarreling over his skin, over his shadows, until she washes herself with its glow and seems an angel coming home.
“Who are you to stop me?" She speaks in tones of ash and ruin, and although she is broken, she is filled with steel and the strength of every Tonnerre that rose tall and frigid before her. There is no sign of fear, there is hardly a sign of anything to decipher in the shadows of her lashes and angle of her nose. Only a girl facing a boy, both too stubborn to back away now.
