Moira - - quote or other for moira
Were moon-song and honey enough to heal all of Denocte, even now when so much has happened, she would not have come to the lakeside. Kept swathed within the realm of Denocte, cradled by the singing of books and humming of words, Moira would have found herself content in the arms of a nation she's learned to care for as she had not her own placement within the Estate. Beloved as she'd been, the winged child was never truly accepted for her differences, for her quirks, for everything that shaped her into the Healer she's become. So she answers when the wind whispers like a lover, serpentine sunlight twining through trees and grasses to lead her on a merry trail as it begins to fall from its highest peak. A small forest, a short plain, more wooded trees rise up about as sleeping giants. So long have they lain, unbothered by the world. Moira wonders, briefly, if they would ever wake for these gods - did they make even the spirits within the Ent's wooden bodies, or perhaps they came from a different plane as Moira had. Time was a fickle thing, and worlds seemed to be as fragile as reality. All it would take is one well placed blow and all could be shattered in another's life. A shiver that has nothing to do with the weather slips down her spine, skeletal hands taking hold, pushing ice into the phoenix' blood as it goes its course within. Honeyed eyes follow the sloping ground that leads her to a pair of small feet; how they dance and flow as though in the sky. Not that she, herself, would know what it is to fly (and she would never tell you of the dreams she once had where she would soar and soar and soar for days). Were it peace upon her face, serenity in her smile, perhaps then Moira could have let the child continue on unattended to. Ah, but that is not what she finds; instead, pale lips quiver and draw down in a frown, brow is furrowed so delicately like a baby caterpillar just learning to crawl, and summer storms threaten flash floods in vibrant cerulean eyes. The horns are of little consequence when she compares it to the sorrow shifting under Sabine's skin. So Moira clears her throat, wings tuck tight at her sides, hair wrapped carefully in its braids and buns alike. Carmine mouth hints at a smile, attempts it as she's practiced so many times in a mirror. When at last confirmation comes that she's been seen, her presence now known and leaving little to surprise, the phoenix speaks up in that smoky, ashy voice of hers that would be completely unremarkable save for the fact one would expect chiming bells to peal from her throat when she sings. "Such sadness on the young is not a look suited for a miracle."Offering a smile, Moira steps closer, movements slower than the blooming of daisies under sunlight. She is liquid fire streaming over the steppe beside the girl, the sunset and sunrise in one soul burning so bright, so high, that it's a wonder she has not combusted. Oh, but the ashes in her words leave you knowing why - they forced water down her throat to smother the flames, to subdue the infernos that could threaten the world. "I once knew a girl who was sad, and every time I looked in a reflection pool she stared back at me. Don't let your heart be weary long, young one -- I'm Moira, Moira Tonnerre of Denocte, previously the Tonnerre Estate. One of our esteemed healers at your service miss..."Trailing off she waits, waits with the patience of the stars as they wink and blink in the sky, forever burning until they simply disappear after years of isolation and mourful song. |
