In the long, bright hours of the day he works at his letters. Diligently, alone, mind narrowed to grip the pen tight but not too tight. Reading has come surprisingly quickly to him, but writing is where the real struggle lies. He practices with the words he most likes- clementine, vocation, s e r e n d i p i t y; but not even the novelty of these words is enough to hold his attention. We lost count of the time's he's fallen asleep with pen to paper, waking to a large black streak across the page... It would be comical if it were not such a waste of time and resources.
But we digress. When the shadows begin to lap at the walls, he slips from the court and into the wilderness, into the desert as it comes to life with the slowly rising symphony of crickets chirping and the wind singing softly through sandstone hallways and desert oak. In the long-limbed twilight birds twitter and lizards scramble, noisy but unseen.
And as twilight caves to night the Desert unveils her true beauty. A hushed silence falls, unless the wind decides otherwise, broken only by the occasional call of hawk or coyote. The stars take the stage and his soul takes to the vast, unknowable (unknowing) sky. The desert, the ocean, the night sky- Only before grand space does he feel like he can really breathe.
(The secret is that all desert creatures love the night-- but only the godless ones are honest about it.)
The problem is that he cannot sleep. So on this night he winds his way through the dunes to the pillar that holds up the sky of this world. It is not the peak he's after (there's nothing the gods can do for him) but the foothills of the mountain. A borrowed satchel is slung unfamiliar and uncomfortable over his shoulder.
("You're draining my supplies" the herbalist's eyes were tired, so tired. He would think of them later, as he walked. "You want to sleep? Find it in the foothills, near the water. Look for little pink-white blooms, but it is the roots you want. You'll know the smell." a sharp smile. "Be careful with them. And by Solis, take care of that wound!" She threw the leather bag at him haphazardly, and turned back to her half-dead patients, the ones who would most likely die but gods, they put up a hell of a fight .)
It did not occur to him, until he was at the foot of the mountain, that he could not see colors very well in the dark. Very well, the day is not so far away- the sky is already blushing in anticipation. So he stands patiently, eyes half-closed as he listens to the wind and the occasional pilgrim passing on their way to Veneror Peak. As he waits he uses his telekinesis to prod absent-mindedly but persistently at the gash on his shoulder. And with another part of his mind he practices his letters, repeating, again and again,
Clementine,
Vocation,
Serendipity.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
@Moirawhoosh, sudden muse! Surprise, I hope this is alright <3
I paid the price and own the scars why did we climb to fall so far ?
How'd you wind up here Mo, she thinks quietly as amber eyes drift as images arise in her mind's eye. Before, she had been meaning to return to her infirmary and library, tuck herself away into a corner of the world where silence would return and she could think without the blustering noise of the sea on the Cliffside and the gulls screaming through the air. Not to say that she hadn't thoroughly enjoyed Asterion's company, and even Thorvald had proved to be rather interesting (even though he bled and bled without a care), but she was in dire need of a reprieve from people. Fireplaces and tea, the twins, even her mentor come floating back to her with a small, wistful sigh slipping past a deep brick red lips that quickly close again. For all the silence she craves, she realizes it is more important to not emit such noises in a land she does not know.
The desert sands had kissed her feet, she remembers vaguely, even as a looming mountain comes into view. But these are not the beautiful peaks she remembers, even the trees upon the base are changed from those that hide her home, her refuge. Sepia sands make way for the darker hues of earth rich with life, but even then there should have been more vegetation, not this desert that would swallow her should the sun be high.
Which is the second mystery she can't seem to figure out - how had she lost track of time so fully that the moon now shone overhead to light her way when she knew she should be asleep, or better yet, reading some ancient book or another full of helpful hints for maladies and ailments alike? Fatigue eats at her legs as she lifts eat foot and replaces it with the next. Just keep moving, she tells herself over and over. There's bound to be someone who knows where she's at - how to get home.
But should she appear so vulnerable?
Probably not, but she's had such a long day already. Caught up into the night before with the man of chocolate who wears twilight as a collar and cloak, wraps it upon his skin as the sun had vanished and the stars came to say hello. They'd talked for so long, she'd been so at ease - it was almost like home, but Moira could not tell him that. There was still so much strangeness that left her stomach unsettled and roiling. Then Thorvald had been bleeding, and every instinct in her screamed to help. So she'd stayed awake longer instead of traveling back during the daytime hours.
It would have been a wiser choice to find Asterion once more and ask for a room for the night, but Moira was as stubborn as a mule when she set her sights on something. Now, the dry air stings her eyes that long to close for just a moment even as the sun tries to make his grandiose appearance. What a lovely sight it would have been were she not bone tired and ready to drop.
Under blushing colors she sees a figure - arching neck and sleek muscles hidden under a silver skin that is kissed by smoke and spots. Relief sweeps through her where apprehension should have risen its head, and without so much as a cautionary thought she quickens her tired steps to reach the man that stares at the ground so deep in thought. It is only when Moira is near enough that she sees a darker spot - not monochromatic like the man - made of blood and tissue that she manages to stop and frown. "Why are you all hurt?" It isn't something that was meant to come out, but ears were already bedded within her black hair that was coming undone from buns and braids. She'd have to redo it when she got home. Snappish tone is not unpleasant, but exasperation is a heavy weight within, something dangerous when she's not so focused on people as she is her own needs. What a silly girl, to be so cruel.
"And why are you out under the moon, don't you need sleep?" After a thoughtful pause she pulls back a step or two, shaking her head. "Where...where am I?" the phoenix woman stammers at last, looking as hopeless and lost as she feels.
in this house of broken hearts we made our love out of stacks of cards
@Eik I'm so sorry this took so long to get up, and I absolutely love yours! Don't mind her grumpy butt she just needs a nap xD
04-26-2018, 04:37 PM - This post was last modified: 04-26-2018, 04:38 PM by Moira
Dawn begins to break through the lush night as he focuses on things other than the passing of time. His mind successfully cleaved, one runs a finger across the jagged wound and the other plays with his letters.
Clem-
en-
ti-
"Why are you all hurt?"
The voice, feminine but bold, irate even, draws his attention to a rather disheveled mare. A traveler by the looks of her- though most travelers don't go out of their way to bother strangers standing by the side of the road. It takes him a moment to process the question, and then surprise breaks across his features- why is he hurt??
How... quaint.
He searches for the way to answer as succinctly as possible, but the words do not come easily. Bad politics, he could say, but the truth is far more complicated and ugly than that. His wound is the byproduct of a long and tumultuous history he had no part of. Just by living in Solterra, the burdens of the kingdom's past are his weight to bear now... Though not his alone, for what its worth.
After a too-long pause, he carefully chooses his words. "I paid the blood price for the crimes of a dead king." A small price for him to pay- others had given their lives. A look of regret crosses his features at the same time as a small, sad smile. He does not let his thoughts linger, although they want to.
"I came here in search of sleep," he says, amusing himself with the way his words are almost like a riddle-- he does not consider that a tired stranger would not be so amused. "But I could not see it in the dark." Now past her sudden assaults of questions, he focuses his gaze on the woman before him. In the early rays of morning all he sees of her is fire, fire, fire, and he instinctively tenses.
He does not have a friendly history with fire.
But his gaze finds the details- the tangle of mane and loose braids, the tired droop of the head, the almost childlike hopelessness in her large eyes. He softens in response, pushing aside the thoughts of fire and smoke and the smell of burning horseflesh. Again, he reminds himself that the past is just that.
(but it doesn't sink it, it never sinks in, because we know, and we can't ignore, that the past is not just the past. It is endlessly more than that.)
His ears flick back uncertainly as she asks her next question- it is an odd thing, for him to be surprised more than once by a stranger. He files this thought away for later. "We're in the foothills of Veneror Peak." He tilts his head, curious... He's been lost before in time but never space, never space. The nose knows where to point, even when the mind is elsewhere. And finally it is his turn to ask the questions. "Where are you from? Where are you going?"
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
So many emotions hold him captive, and she is stuck, watching as surprise first takes hold of his braod face that is much too expressive for anyone in her family to look upon approvingly, and then sorrow follows on swift wings when he states something she doesn't quite understand. Moira is many things, an philosopher, a seeker, and healer, but she will tell you if you ask that history has always been one of her weaker studies. While she could recite every name in her family tree back centuries and where they hail from, who they married, and which begot which, she cannot tell you when the last war was unless it is in her lifetime; she cannot tell you to rulers outside of her family's estate and those that oversaw even that bit of land that seems to stretch on for miles. So it is almost a shock (not that she'll show it) when he mentions a king has died. Would others respond so nonchalantly as she, with a cool expression, a raised brow, and nothing more than quiet inquiries and challenges within her amber eyes?
Perhaps she needs sleep.
Or perhaps it is something different, she muses as a giggle escapes - seeing sleep? The thought is so ridiculous, so absurd, she cannot help but to throw back her head and let out a gut-clenching laugh that makes her eyes squeeze shut and the brilliance of her heritage come into play. Such a refined woman, the phoenix makes herself out to be, even when sleep calls so desperately, sings in her blood with every beat of her heart, every thrust of her head and tap of her foot.
The sun will rise on them staring at one another, amusement riddling her carmine face and confusion etched into creases along Eik's, but she has yet to speak when he finishes. "Hmm," she offers at last, laughter twinkling nearby (or is it hysteria for so many things she does not know?).
Following a pregnant pause in which she assesses Eik with the first ray's of dawn tickling his sides, white glinting back and reflecting golds and pinks, a painting she'd rather enjoy hung on her hall, Moira offers words more than a mere humming and tutting. "Lucky then day has come to feast on flesh. Should I trust a stranger, or will you gobble me if I tell you what halls I'm housed in?" Like everything the woman does, her words are soft, smoky, edged in midnight silk that hides a blade. Perhaps they are both more gentle and cautious because of her weariness, but perhaps it is this stranger that makes her hair stand on end and her focus hone in on every fine twitch of his muscles.
"I was hoping to go home," Mo offers, looking at the mountain behind him, and then to the distance as though she could see all the way to the halls of Denocte. Of course, it would help more if her face is even remotely pointed in the correct direction - it is not, in fact. "How about we exchange a question for a question until the sun rises and we can find you...sleep?" Once more she looks like she'll split at the seems in a fit of giggles, crinkling about her eyes and a merriment in those husky words that promises smiles in the future despite her anonymity and mysteries she leaves.
@Eik oh goodness, thank you ! Eik is such a delight ;u;
He's never laughed the way she does now, the deep-bellied laugh he associates with the old crazies that find everything hilarious. He's never laughed much at all, other than in quick, unexpected chortles or low, purr-like chuckles. When she lifts her head back she is so... alive, blazing like fire. He can see her in Solterra, flying into the flaming sunset where all golden things go: away.
In this thought time shifts for a moment, expanding and darkening slowly like the spread of blood from a fallen body.
(The past has been so distorted by time that it seems I was not always myself. Years ago I would have responded so differently to this woman. Who was it that once thought for me, spoke for me, lived for me... a demon? Or am I the devil with a mask?
And anywhere is there really such thing as change or is it all perspective?)
(Heads or tails; you never could choose just one side of the coin)
When it becomes clear she won't be passing him by, he releases his letters and pain and solitude, setting aside wayward thoughts to grant her his full, uncompromising attention. It is a remarkably underrated thing, for a very private person to look at another that way.
"Lucky then day has come to feast on flesh. Should I trust a stranger, or will you gobble me if I tell you what halls I'm housed in?"
He tilts his head, intrigued by feast on flesh- he has not heard anyone speak of day in such a way. Is it prophetic? What does luck have to do with the passing of time? But he'll ponder it later- his attention quickly moves on to her question, which amuses him, and he simply replies as she had just moments ago- "hmm." A thoughtful look crosses his weathered features. "Do you really trust me to tell you who to trust?" An entertained crinkle of the skin around his eyes. Her gaze rests on the mountain, then beyond, and he simply looks at her in the gentle morning light.
When she proposes what seems like a game of sorts, a way to pass the time, it does not take him long to answer. "Okay." That laughter is there again, silent this time but still there, dancing in her eyes. Her company is bright and fresh, a bold yellow line painted across the shadowy places his mind lurks in- how could he deny her proposition?
"What is your name?" He asks quietly, feeling deserving of the first question. After all, she already has more answers than he.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
There's something of a question and analysis in his eyes as she laughs, she is not dull enough to not realize how the freckled man watches her intently. Briefly the thought flickers to life, a curiosity if he's ever laughed at all with the serious lines around his mouth and frown upon his brow. That unsettles her slightly, for even though her childhood was not ripe with opportunity and bushels of kindness, there was always laughter within the halls where the children were, and even with the twins once the days of foalhood had passed. Even the two of them could always pull a chuckle from her. Sometimes it went so far that she would end up gasping upon the floor, a heap of gowns and pages with tears streaming down her face and her smile so wide she'd thought her head would split. To see one so distracted by her own laughter was a conundrum all its own, something she tucks into a file now reserved for this strange man who searches for nothing more than sleep.
Were they in Denocte, she could find a remedy within the pages of the library, or perhaps a simple bit of lavender and jasmine tea would help. Jasmine is, after all, her favorite treat before bed when she dares to let herself relax.
Tea is nearly a sacred, reclusive thing for Moira.
The moment his attention is fully upon her, she offers a pretty smile that is no less demanding than the thin line others often wore as their mouth. How is it she has met so few, yet those who cross her path are so interesting that they ignite within her the yearning to reach out and grasp them, holding them closer, even if only for a wrinkle in time? Some days, Moira believes she's been blessed by her mother's pagan gods, all smiling and laughing and sighing - girls, women, and crones raising their hands and dancing so joyously as Moira finds her way through life. "Probably not," she answers honestly with no room for hesitation.
And at last Eik nearly smiles! Taking it as a good sign, she lets him continue before daring to interrupt.
His question almost takes her off guard, for her family would be so ashamed to find she has not properly introduced herself. But they were the ones who confined her behind walls too tall for her to climb, who grounded her and did not teach her to fly as her mother was grounded (feathers clipped) to become a part of the family. They were the ones who kept her so hidden for so long that Moira did not know of any outside the Tonnerre estate and did not trust them as she does her family - even then there are so many in their clan to know them all as intimately as she allows the twins and Estelle.
He is deserving, having put up with her laughter and kept her near enough to be curious and more amused than she's felt in days, so she speaks. "Good then, I'm Moira Tonnerre. Where are you from?" Any gentleman would tell her his name (truly, perhaps he should have told her first, but she won't hold it against him.)
@Eik (he just keeps getting sweeter the more I read his replies)
Moira Tonnerre. He quickly tries to write it out in his mind, picking letters out from the sounds- we won't embarrass him by revealing just how wrong his spelling is.
Eik is no gentleman, but after a moment he can see the expectant look in her eye, and he can guess what it is she awaits. A free answer. She reminds him of a proud little bird, and for some reason he is drawn to oblige her. He suspects she is used to getting what she wants, but he is not sure, not yet-- she seems the type that is full of surprises. "I'm Eik." Eik, that is all, short and musical like the sound a forest animal would make. It is a name as simple and private as he- and if there is any pride left in him it is only because of that stalwart name.
(He finds himself clinging to those three letters, sometimes, fearing that without them he would cease to be anything at all. His name is the only thing that has never changed after all these years.)
((oh and if you could open our skull and peer inside, you'd see padded walls, beaten thin and yellow-brown. but we’d put out flowers for you, irises, and-))
where are you from?It takes him a moment to answer her question- it is in his nature to take his time, tirelessly overthinking two things at once.
Where is he from? It no longer surprises him that the sand is now the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of home. Eik can feel the ancient, hungry desert behind him. It calls to him, not at at sweetly. "Solterra." But really this is only a half-truth. And while the other half is painful to remember, he was never a liar, could never be even if he wanted to. "And before that, a cold, unfriendly place with no name." and no gods, he does not add out loud. not anymore, the violins croon and the knife twists.
It is his turn once again, and he decides to be more careful with his question this time, spend it thoughtfully instead of exchanging niceties- although he does not at all regret asking for Moira Tonnerre's name. He examines her once more, wondering what she sees, and how close to the truth it is. Eik himself does not know what the truth is anymore, it got lost somewhere or maybe it never really existed in the first place. All we know is that there are holes, everywhere, in everything-- its just nobody sees them, or everyone pretends not to.
((the irises are wilting already, can't say I'm surprised))
Somehow from the babble of his mind, a question asks itself- "What's it look like, from up there?" He finds his eyes are latched to her wings as the vague question emerges. Wings had never really interested him until he came to Novus and found them attached to a horse. For some reason he had never imagined flying before that point, just as he hadn't thought of living underground or underwater. Call it a lack of imagination if you will, or at least a lack of inspiration. Now he could stare at Inkheart’s sultry black wings all day and call it love- and he likely would, if her god hadn’t swept her away.
"If I could fly, I don't think I'd ever be on the ground." He says softly, almost surprised by his own voice. Eik is not very forthcoming with most people, but we think it over a moment and decide that Moira Tonnerre is not like most people.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
@Moira -snugs- they are so sweet together <33 also lol Eik is a lil bumpkin that doesn't understand last names so he will keep thinking of her by her full name xD
Time makes fools of us all
05-17-2018, 07:41 PM - This post was last modified: 05-17-2018, 07:43 PM by Eik - Edit Reason: oops -
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Eik. Such a simple name; short and sweet and easy to remember. But it's the way that he says it, how the sound rolls off his tongue as dewdrops do flower petals when the sun rises higher and higher in the sky. Moira sees the way his shoulders square with his own introduction, the small, yet proud raising of his head, and her eyes meet his with a nod and a smile. For a moment, she forgets her fatigue, the way she's stumbled and tripped mere moments before meeting him in the sands, and is just a girl standing near a boy to see the sun peek over the mountaintops.
She hums her approval, rather than vocalizing it. Her next question takes longer for him to reply to, and Moira wonders what other horrors he relives in those moments. There are so many ups and downs in her own sordid past that she chose to push into some forgotten corner and pray that those skeletons were never unburied. How many would they find in her closets? How many did they find in his? Amber eyes travel over the whole of him once more, over every rippling muscle and trampling scar that follows, ever spotted freckle upon his skin that is nestled so beautifully into the white she cannot help but be nearly envious. Upon her, there is fire and sunlight, stars shining so bright they draw the eye. There is nothing subtle about Moira Tonnere save for her actions, her motives, and everything she hopes to achieve. Physically, the woman is a conflagration upon the grounds, she is living silk and walking heartache. Every step she takes is poetry, and maybe that is why she often prefers not to move.
Alas, inner turmoil and contemplations, oil alit in a pyre of flames, are soothed when his voice rings true once more. Solterra. Tasting the word in her mind, her head tilts to the side. It is just enough to show that she does not know of this place yet. Oh, of course there were whispers and some passages in the books she'd passed in the library late at night, but they are not the books that the phoenix reads. His next admission brings her to meet his eyes with sympathy crusting along the edges of her own. Was it really so bad that he should wilt so visibly?
'Chin up Moira. If you are to be a Tonnerre you put on a good face no matter how damaged you are within.' And so she wears a placid expression. Estelle would have some vapid pout upon her face were she hear, boredom etched into every silver line that contradicts and counters Mo's in every way. She knows her cousin better than she knows herself someday. Loss is like a poison that slowly kills her. Some days it is easier to ignore, yet his obvious sorrow calls her own out to roar like a lion. She could have gasped for air, a howling, raging mess upon the ground for the cruelty of the world. So many possibilities, but instead Moira feels the knot form in her stomach and schools her features.
No one will ever see her vulnerable.
All too soon he broaches the subject of her wings, of the skies and the clouds she's only painted and never truly been a part of. Bile rises in her throat, that which she's tried so hard to hold down. Images of burning feathers and endless bandages and patches, bruises and wilts rise for her to see. Remember they sing, a tempting lullaby aching to pull her in. With everything she is she resists. "I wouldn't know. The skies have held me as much as they have you. Only the cliffs of Terrastella have painted an image of creatures as ants and clouds as lovers. These wings are meant as broken things." A bitterness touches her tone, a regret that she's never seen the sky. It is enough to hold the terror, the pain, away for one more day in the company of a land-dweller.
Pausing to think, she looks to the rising sun. Should she pry further into his life or walk a safer path that would lead them further apart? Nothing is there to sway her one way or the other, and so instead she tilts her head to the other side while stepping nearer. "Why can't you sleep, Eik?"
He savors her musical hum of approval. It reminds him that the most meaningful communication is that which comes without words or even touch. A gesture, a sound, a flick of the tail. He lets her see his simple pleasure in reaction to her simple sound- the relaxed droop of his head and the slightest of smiles curling at his lips.
Her sympathy, however, is unwanted. He draws himself inward as he speaks of what was his home and sees the soft look in her eyes in response. He never learned the fine difference between sympathy and pity, and never learned to accept either of the two. Thus her sympathy feels like a slap in the face, and it only takes an instant for him to snap shut. He closes himself completely to her, eyes becoming empty and dull and disappointed.
Eik instantly regrets whatever pained, foul expression must have crossed his face. He softens himself quickly, forcefully, and offers a confused smile in encouragement for her to continue.
(forgive me, pounds a fist at the wall, I am not myself, bruises the color of wine stains)
When she speaks he listens fully, not just to what she says but how she says it, listening for the words hidden beneath the words. Drawn in completely, whatever tension had just seized him now fades away. He has so many questions but none of them seem fitting-- how could he possibly reply to "these wings are meant as broken things" without making an ass of himself?
Well, an ass must always try to be otherwise.
"Someone told me that broken things are the most beautiful." Eik tries to convey this with as little opinion as possible, for he is not sure if this is something he believes in. He looks carefully at her wings, trying to objectively decide if their brokenness changes the way he perceives them-- but finds objectivity impossible, and can only conclude that they are beautiful and Moira is now somehow more comfortable to be around. "For what it's worth." he adds lamely, with a skeptical look that suggests that beauty might not be worth anything at all.
And, we admit, some private part of him is angry at the injustice of the world, angry at the gods for not letting a good thing be.
Here in Novus they worship sun and moon, the passing of time... he's always thought it a curious thing, like praying to a circle. Back home his gods were facets of the self- the hunter, the mother, the sage. Somewhere along the way he realized that his gods are not a time of day or a quality of man. They are apart of everything, woven in the thread of what it means to be alive. Destruction is his god. Pain is his god. Madness is his god. And when he tries to sleep, all his gods and all his demons come out behind closed eyes.
Anyone who's had them knows: you never get used to the nightmares. Even when you've got the same dream every night, it never feels any less real. The only thing that changes is the sharpness of the line between being asleep and awake, dream and reality. Most of the time it isn't so bad. But when it's bad, it's really bad. So when she steps closer and asks him why he can't sleep, a hundred words float to the surface begging to be said. He swallows them with a sad smile, hoping that Moira Tonnerre will never understand what could keep a man from sleep.
"My thoughts keep me up." That is more or less the cleanest, truest explanation. The why stretches back years and years, and he doesn't particularly want to bog her down with the details. "The herb woman was giving me valerian, but that's all used up now." In all honesty, he welcomed the excuse to leave the desert for a while. In Solterra the summer air gets so hot and dry he can hardly breathe.
The dawn is beginning to turn to morning, and he feels a sense of great impending loss. How many questions does he have before the day takes her away? "Do you... have gods?" He asks finally, the divine still ringing in his head.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
Shutters fall in his eyes like rain on a stormy day, snapping shut so that not even the barest hint of emotion, of who he is, can be seen. It takes her by surprise, a small scowl crossing her own face in response, brows drawing down and in to settle heavily over amber eyes that rise like the tides to meet his own dark gaze. Only when their eyes meet, when her own inner storm passes, does Eik dare push on a pretty face. Moira's father would be impressed, she certainly is, and raises a brow to offer her own smile. A giggle slips out, however inappropriate it is, and she shakes her head. bobbing on either side, her braids dance with her head. "It is our scars and seams that stitch us into who we are. I do not wear mine proudly like you do, but they are mine... For what it's worth." Shyly she grins at the ground, almost flattered at the compliment that is not quite that. She does not see his own contemplation, his own conclusions, but she does not need to.
Moira does not live and breathe for him as she does Estelle, as she does her family… But she rather enjoys the way he says her name, the faint accent that caresses his words and tenderly greets as a friend might.
Were she to be completely honest behind the yawn that now makes her back arch and eyes close, muscles tensing and wings flaring, she would tell you that Eik is rather lovely to be around. There are no faults on the surface, and only her concern for the cut on his shoulder that she found him picking at causes her distress for his physical state. Valerian. "I have jasmine oil... It helps for relaxation at night as well. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep and am not as lost as I am today, I use it before bed. You won't feel as anxious, and in tandem with Valerian it is a wonderful elixir." Offering a shrug, Moira almost hopes he would say thank you, but she knows better than to expect too much. Restless nights are a dime a dozen, but she does not like to see the way purple comes to steal the pale white away, to claim those deep-set eyes as its own resting place. Sleeplessness does not belong on Eik, and Moira is not the person to tell him such a thing when they've only just met.
As the sun says hello, she does not look to see what she would paint that night, but instead to see how she would paint the man who now wears pinks and oranges and reds as a fur coat wrapping upon him as a lover would. His mouth moves, her eyes follow every motion, and it takes a moment for her to think of his question.
Gods... What gods was Moira taught of? What substitution for Sunday school did she have? Chewing on her lip, with a sigh she at last shakes her head. "If family were a god, that would be to whom I pray. It is not a being, it is a thing. The Tonnerres, my family, we do not teach of a specific god. There are stories that a neighboring country has three deities to whom they answer.
"Athos, Venus, and The Nameless.
"Few in my family ventured outside the walls and found religion, but they do not spread it after they've returned. We gather to celebrate life and mourn death, to be merry at weddings and births, to grieve when the children are banished and do not take the mark. But we do not have gods as others do. Caligo is not a part of our upbringing. Novus... This land... It's all very strange." Taking a deep breath from all that she said, she at last looks away to think of the portraits hung upon walls and in corridors. Did they have gods before, those first few of the Tonnerre family? Or were they always a godless people? Does it really even matter if they do or don't?
"Eik...could I paint you? Just like this, under the sun and the moon with nothing but the future ahead?" It's a rather intimate question, a personal one she does not usually extend. Those paintings are reserved for her family, for the twins. Not strangers she'll likely never see again. But he is too beautiful to resist, too much like home to ignore.
