her voice is as a thousand tongues
of silver fountains, gurgling clear
of silver fountains, gurgling clear
There is a warmth in Michael's voice that she longs to feel from another. It sings and it calls, a swan song on the waters, beckoning.
Come, come.
His words are soothing, calming. But they do not calm the storm of a girl, the raging inferno of a woman. They do not calm her, nor stay her hand.
Peace, tranquility and welcome is interrupted with the coming of another, and her gentle companion stiffens as she had mere moments ago. Together they look upon Ramses, together they find distaste for separate reasons coating their tongue. Perhaps she should have been more careful of her words. Too late. Too late. Why was she always too late? Annoyance grows like a tumor; insidious, slow, a rot spreading in her veins, poisoning her mind.
At last the phoenix' breath rushes out In a sigh, "We are not here to make enemies, not when all borders are blown open and bellies exposed." And at last there is humanity around the edges of her voice, a tempering of the steel born of anger, born of abandonment. Honeyed eyes look back to the men that follow, almost curious of their being here, almost willing to ask.
If only almosts were enough.
Ramses and Michael trade words, and Moira trades with them both a stern frown, but it is the bi-colored man to which she looks. "Still your tongue, Solterran. If we are cautious I ask your patience in these times." The Emissary rises, head high, words soft, pushing comments out of the way.
If all of their people are on edge, who could blame them when it was her people who suffered so heavily? The loss of the queen and the loss of life on their soil. Perhaps that is why the old tomes in the library spoke of the secrecy old Denoctians carried so heavily upon their skin. The less the world knows, the less it can take from you. In the end, everything and everyone demands their pound of flesh.
Slowing so that Neerja can stalk just ahead, she moves beside Michael. Shoulder against shoulder, she brushes his side, asking him to wait. When Ramses comes upon her other side, the clacking of his teeth and feral glint in his eyes paramount in her view, Moira Tonnerre begins their walk again. With a man on each side, she looks to the grinning moon and asks "What does a son of the desert think of our Night-crowned home and fields of corn where only the touch of another reminds you that you are real, that you are tangible in this dying world?" For theirs is a fruitful home of splendor and magic, but she has since forgotten what it was to be an outsider among Denocte. The Emissary finds a friend on every street she walks, especially those with sweets and treats.
