Moira Tonnerre
i will burn and burn and burn again, and you will come home safely
She does not know how much time passed, or if any passed at all aside from the night of the festival, after a corn maze, after the shrines, and after she entered a forest of fogs and screams. The phoenix braved the woods as she did her memories, cutting away ghosts like stalks of grain come harvest time, burying herself in the act of saving another, of helping another, of healing another rather than giving in to fits of despair and self loathing and pain. It is within that a tempest rages, that was only momentarily soothed as she thought of the future that Alyndra begged she think of, of the world as she wishes to make it.
'Think a happy though, Moira Tonnerre,' her mother would say to her when she'd come home and cry as a girl.
A happier thought lies within when there are no more cries to keep her awake in the dark. Part of the phoenix is still that little girl locked in a dark room with chains about her chest and silent screams rattling in her throat. There is a chance, perhaps, that part of her always will be.
The Emissary moves out of the woods much in the manner of everyone else: by the hands of a ghost, on the breath of the wind, and is left gently outside as the mists disappear. It is dark still, yet seems lighter than when she'd first entered. Brow furrows for but a moment, and then she dismisses the lost sense of time until she might investigate it further. No souls gather round as she might have expected, and the Tonnerre girl thinks all the better for it. She does not wish for them to see the crystal she's tucked within the strands of her mane; she does not want them to see herself pulled apart at the seams and sewing herself together again. Like a scarecrow that stuffs itself with hay over and over as it falls apart, she, too, must replenish all that she lost along the path.
Steady footfalls guide her back toward the markets where Morrighan patrols with a frown and her fire. Frost kisses her breath and tickles her nose, and she lets a wisp of lamplight bob along a snowflake as it floats so that magnificent colors dance and toy with the imagery about her. Denocte has always taken her breath away; it is a world fit for an artist. Color splashes the rooves, even those that still recover from so many storms they've weathered are bright and merry. Autumnal colors kiss doorways and wreaths are hung high. Festive lights are strung over walkways still, but even Moira can tell that the crowds have thinned considerably. It is with a pensive frown that Michael finds her, brows drawn together and quickly parting as he calls her near.
Turning with a smile, the Emissary speeds her walk to something quicker until she is at his side. Michael is not one she knows well enough yet to embrace, and so she does not. An unexpected delight sparks in her eyes as Neerja's fur brushes against her hind legs; the deep, pleasurable purr of her beloved tiger accompanies the surprise and she turns a warm look to Neerja as well. "Was I gone long?" she asks, turning back.
Can he tell how much lighter she seems after those dams were opened?
"I... It was someone who was lost long ago. Let us go in where we shan't catch out deaths, then I'll weave you a tale unlike those Isra tells us to keep our hearts light." With a nod, she implores her golden companion to lead the way, noting how eyes followed him through the bar. When the woman behind the counter stares too long, Moira clears her throat and offers a pretty smile, but it does not reach those honeyed eyes. Now, should Michael look, they seem quite frigid, ice creeping along the edges, lights dying inside, gobbled by some unknown monster. "A hot cider for me, if you'd please, and a bit of decency" she calls in those smoky tones, raising a brow. Soon, the drink is before her and she offers a much warmer look toward the entertainer.
"Come to a table over there, it seems quieter with fewer...wandering eyes." A sympathetic look passes between them, and the phoenix is off, letting Neerja clear the pathway as she moves them into a shadier spot, a quieter din despite the jubilation and drunken revelry of the other patrons. "How are you? I lost you in the fog - others were lifted up, but I did not know what happened to them."
'Think a happy though, Moira Tonnerre,' her mother would say to her when she'd come home and cry as a girl.
A happier thought lies within when there are no more cries to keep her awake in the dark. Part of the phoenix is still that little girl locked in a dark room with chains about her chest and silent screams rattling in her throat. There is a chance, perhaps, that part of her always will be.
The Emissary moves out of the woods much in the manner of everyone else: by the hands of a ghost, on the breath of the wind, and is left gently outside as the mists disappear. It is dark still, yet seems lighter than when she'd first entered. Brow furrows for but a moment, and then she dismisses the lost sense of time until she might investigate it further. No souls gather round as she might have expected, and the Tonnerre girl thinks all the better for it. She does not wish for them to see the crystal she's tucked within the strands of her mane; she does not want them to see herself pulled apart at the seams and sewing herself together again. Like a scarecrow that stuffs itself with hay over and over as it falls apart, she, too, must replenish all that she lost along the path.
Steady footfalls guide her back toward the markets where Morrighan patrols with a frown and her fire. Frost kisses her breath and tickles her nose, and she lets a wisp of lamplight bob along a snowflake as it floats so that magnificent colors dance and toy with the imagery about her. Denocte has always taken her breath away; it is a world fit for an artist. Color splashes the rooves, even those that still recover from so many storms they've weathered are bright and merry. Autumnal colors kiss doorways and wreaths are hung high. Festive lights are strung over walkways still, but even Moira can tell that the crowds have thinned considerably. It is with a pensive frown that Michael finds her, brows drawn together and quickly parting as he calls her near.
Turning with a smile, the Emissary speeds her walk to something quicker until she is at his side. Michael is not one she knows well enough yet to embrace, and so she does not. An unexpected delight sparks in her eyes as Neerja's fur brushes against her hind legs; the deep, pleasurable purr of her beloved tiger accompanies the surprise and she turns a warm look to Neerja as well. "Was I gone long?" she asks, turning back.
Can he tell how much lighter she seems after those dams were opened?
"I... It was someone who was lost long ago. Let us go in where we shan't catch out deaths, then I'll weave you a tale unlike those Isra tells us to keep our hearts light." With a nod, she implores her golden companion to lead the way, noting how eyes followed him through the bar. When the woman behind the counter stares too long, Moira clears her throat and offers a pretty smile, but it does not reach those honeyed eyes. Now, should Michael look, they seem quite frigid, ice creeping along the edges, lights dying inside, gobbled by some unknown monster. "A hot cider for me, if you'd please, and a bit of decency" she calls in those smoky tones, raising a brow. Soon, the drink is before her and she offers a much warmer look toward the entertainer.
"Come to a table over there, it seems quieter with fewer...wandering eyes." A sympathetic look passes between them, and the phoenix is off, letting Neerja clear the pathway as she moves them into a shadier spot, a quieter din despite the jubilation and drunken revelry of the other patrons. "How are you? I lost you in the fog - others were lifted up, but I did not know what happened to them."
@Michael | "moira" "neerja" | notes: c': accept this word vomit & my heart please
