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Played by Offline e-cho [PM] Posts: 216 — Threads: 24
Signos: 2,350
Night Court Emissary
Female [she/her/hers] // Immortal [Year 498 Spring] // 15.2 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 38 // Active Magic: Light Forger // Bonded: Neerja (Malayan Tiger)
#1


my hands reach for her, but she cannot be anchored.
she belongs to no one, to nothing, to nowhere.


She is a pool of longing and pain, of loss and gain, something old and something new, something entirely unlike the stained glass put in the fire before they'd all left. Now, she needs a sieve to sift through all the minute facets of her emotions, laying them bare under a LED light, tweezing out flaws like glass from a wound that festers, full of puss and poison left too long unattended. Bit by bit they roil beneath the surface of her shattering pond, wishing so desperately to be heard, to be known, to be seen. 

But Moira Tonnerre hates being a spectacle. 

To be a Tonnerre, to be a woman, to be a child of that family is to be seen, not heard; to be prim and perfect, to present a face to the public that is as cold as ice, harder than bulletproof glass; if there are any faults they are hidden just as all the rabble of the family is swiftly cast aside. 

She will not be another casualty of their cold war. Her steps are echoed by his, and he is quick behind her, so close that the heat of golden skin nearly presses into her trembling side - should he touch her again she'd surely shatter. His very nearness is draining and exhilarating, eliciting responses she'd rather bury a hatchet into than let see the light of day. Stiff lipped and bright eyed, Moira marches forward without uttering a peep to the man that is her golden ghost, her nightmare and every dream. Pale hair brushes the tips of her wings and she shivers, casting a glance to Michael that would shatter stone or melt it, but he does not falter. 

Steadfast, sturdy, a companion returned with glue guns in hand and ready to pick up the pieces. The phoenix does not ask what battles he's seen, and she does not dare whisper of her own unbecoming. There are secrets they both hide in the crevices of their skin, lying in the hollows of their collarbones, tucked neatly into the pleats of their hair. Some demons only come out when libations are plenty and tongues waggle loose. 

Once, she lost that battle with him. 

Once, he was hers by the moonlight. 

That once is gone. 

Moira murmurs briefly to a guard they pass, asking for extra blankets and pillows to be brought up to her room before sweeping into the hallway that will take them to somewhere more private, perhaps too intimate, but she is weary and she is tired and the only other home she knows are the walls of books and shelves of stories that would take her further than Michael could ever dream of going. So she does not go there, does not turn into the well-trod path to the library that would soothe her more quickly than any cup of tea or midnight tale. Instead, she glides through the doors of her chamber, pacing over to the wall to put up curtains and covers over splattered canvases, covering the part of her room that might be more of a disaster than anything she is right now. 

Bookshelves line another wall, her bed with its billowing black curtains of gossamer and smoke take up the back center of the room. From there, she rules over her domain with a hawk's eye and iron fist. From there, hidden from the world, she is safe. 

Moira does not retreat, she turns to Michael and watches when he places a plate and loaf of bread on the table she reserves for occasional meals that Neerja forces into her and heaps upon heaps of books. With a raised brow, she lets silence be their only conversation. 

"Speech"



v | n | @Michael | <3 






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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 89 — Threads: 19
Signos: 15
Night Court Entertainer
Male [He/Him/His] // 8 [Year 497 Summer] // 15 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: // Bonded:
#2

“Meet me
where the end begins,
in echoes,
where your world is me,
and my world is you.”


They didn't have castles, when Michael was king. They didn't have cities or tall brick walls or cobblestone paths. There are times that Michael feels like a stranger and times when he feels like a con the only unwavering thing is the breathless awe that falls on him like the first snow. Sometimes he thinks he might have liked one: stained glass windows, blue carpet as plush as spring clover, banners that bore his family name.

Sometimes he thinks he deserved the wide grass plain, the field that slopes down toward the beach almost to gently to notice at all, the oak trees and the empty space where his pride should sit. Michael knows he wanted to be king of nothing. Michael knows that the crown was too heavy.

None of that matters, really. It didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now-- all that matters is the breathless awe and the fist around Michael's heart as he follows the emissary through the main hall, up the stairs, through hallways lit by nothing but sparse torches and the star-freckled sky through the windows.

The sky that is turning purple, and pink, at the corners-- a sky that is blushing along with him, when Moira asks for pillows and blankets and the guards nod as discreetly as they can, averting their eyes.

It isn't until Moira opens the door to her room and starts throwing soft curtains over her art--he almost forgot she was a painter, somehow, and he wonders what it's like, to bring something tangible like that into the world, to create something from nothing, to do something consequential, anything consequential--that Michael realizes just how tired he is, baggy eyes and tangles hair and that ache in the back of his throat telling him to sleep.

But how can he?
How can he do anything? Michael looks around while she gathers and hangs fabric, at the smooth walls, at the shielded paintings, at the clink of the floor as she walk and the bed--

Moira stops. Moira stands up straight and leers down her nose at Michael, who has to try not wilt under her gaze. Michael places the plate on the table and scoots it closer to the center so it doesn't fall. He levels some ineffable gaze on her, pulling the scarf from his neck and folding it to keep busy.

Michael struggles-- for something to say, for something to do, for literally anything that breaks the silence. He finally settles on,"Where's Neerja?"

@Moira





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Played by Offline e-cho [PM] Posts: 216 — Threads: 24
Signos: 2,350
Night Court Emissary
Female [she/her/hers] // Immortal [Year 498 Spring] // 15.2 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 38 // Active Magic: Light Forger // Bonded: Neerja (Malayan Tiger)
#3


my hands reach for her, but she cannot be anchored.
she belongs to no one, to nothing, to nowhere.


He shrinks like she's slapped him when she looks back to him, nearly shaking, holding himself together by mere threads. She wonders what it's like to be on the other side of her stare, and then she remembers the Matriarch with her cool silver eyes and pale hair, her smooth skin tight, her brow perpetually displeased, a frown ever in place on perfect lips. Something about her always made Moira shiver, feeling more unwelcome within the very walls of her childhood than Denocte ever made her feel. Has she become like her great grandmother after all? Cold blooded, beautiful, untouchable?

Sadness is like an oil spill over the water, hiding everything beneath, shielding her, spreading. It is hard to contain, even harder to hold back. Her own brow furrows like an inchworm, her shoulders drooping as she shakes her head.

This is not who she is.

Moira is not involved. Is she?

"She got tired of my moping," the Emissary replies, sticking her tongue out at the door, sending that image to her beloved tigress and feeling a disgruntled huff in return. That almost draws a smile onto her weary lips, almost but not quite. When she moves again, it is to push Michael closer to the cushioned bed, maneuvering him next to it and then abandoning him just as he left her so many moons ago. Circling around to the other side, she settles onto the mass of it, pulling soft blankets over her shoulders, draping the many colors of them hidden under a larger quilt until it looks more like some strange circus tent than a girl's bed.

Looking to him once she's safely tucked behind her shields, she asks "Why have you come back? Truly?" And she begs for honesty with her golden eyes, pleads to his own pale blue gaze for a sliver of the truth, for a grain to swallow that would fill the void that only grows and gnaws at her as any starving beast does when left untended too long.

She hates not knowing, not when she's so invested in something, not when she cares as she seems to now. Something that is hers left, something sadder returned and she wants to know why. Here, where she cannot run, she seeks the truth at last.

"Speech"



v | n | @Michael | "here get in my bed but don't touch me" lol 






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Played by Offline Cannon [PM] Posts: 89 — Threads: 19
Signos: 15
Night Court Entertainer
Male [He/Him/His] // 8 [Year 497 Summer] // 15 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: // Bonded:
#4

“A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.”


Michael wants, desperately, to touch her.

Not in some unwholesome way, not as if she is a prey animal and he is a wolf with hungry teeth, but Michael wants to touch her. He wants to smooth the hair back from her brow. He wants to press his lips to her cheek, her jaw, her ear. He is looking at her, so tired and so angry and so unbelievably sad, and he is thinking that there are few things he wants to do more than he wants to lay her down and promise tomorrow over and over, every day, until there is no more tomorrow to go into.

And Michael doesn't say this because Michael doesn't know he feels it until she is answering his question. It is just that one second he is folding his scarf, laying on her table next to the lonely plate, and the next he looks up as she's speaking and he is it so hard with the sensation that it makes him dizzy.

"I wouldn't call it moping." he says, when she's finished. "It's okay to be hurt when people have hurt you. There's no shame in that."

He doesn't say I'm so sorry I've hurt you because she must be tired of it, can only hear him beg for forgiveness so many times before it loses its meaning--and he thinks that, now, if he did any single thing that took the edge off just how sorry he is, for hurting her, for leaving her, and for coming back, crawling on his knees, asking her to want him like he wants her, that he would not know what to do.

Moira comes close, and Michael holds his breath. Moira shoves Michael toward the bed and he starts to fill with a blend of panic and confusion that does not go away when she sweeps toward the other side and tucks herself in. Michael is his again with the feeling, the deep-set ache of dear god, Moira, why that is starting to become familiar. It is a comfortable, if desperate, ache-- and when she looks up at him, wrapped in the soft, black sheet of her blanket, so incredibly tired and so endlessly guarded, it is almost all Michael can do to stay on his feet.

Why did you come back, truly? she asks, and in spite of himself Michael is tired, too. "If you must know," he begins, before sinking to his knees where he stands and leaning his head on the side of her bed, one cheek on a pillow of tangled white hair. He looks at her for a little too long, a little too kindly.

If Neerja is gone, what has Moira been doing? If Neerja is gone, just how sad has she been? The good-ache mixes with the bad-ache and everything in Michael tangles at once, making red and black knots where the should be the cool blue of the ocean. He sighs. It is not nearly as grim of a sigh as he feels.

"Something felt wrong. I mean, something usually feels wrong--I've been alive a long time and for most of that I've had the same feeling--but Isra asked me to go and I didn't want to go because you're here and--" Michael pauses for a moment, collects himself, and continues: "I looked at Isra and I was just incredibly worried for no reason and the only thing that made sense was... coming back. To you."

He tucks one side of his mouth in a smile, looking up at her from the mess of his hair against the dark shape of her bed. "I don't know. The only thing that makes sense is you."

@Moira





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Played by Offline e-cho [PM] Posts: 216 — Threads: 24
Signos: 2,350
Night Court Emissary
Female [she/her/hers] // Immortal [Year 498 Spring] // 15.2 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 38 // Active Magic: Light Forger // Bonded: Neerja (Malayan Tiger)
#5


my hands reach for her, but she cannot be anchored.
she belongs to no one, to nothing, to nowhere.


He is nervous and he is afraid, and she thinks he ought to be, but then so is she. Her heart beats more fiercely than any war drums ever have, her eyes wide for a moment then shallow and closed, shuttering and sharp. Words are blades to pierce him, wound him, undo him as he undoes her over and over. Tucked beneath her blankets before her mouth purses, gaze snapping back to his just as she snaps "Does that make it okay to mourn them like they are gone? Does that make it okay to abandon home and reason and become more a beast than Neerja can ever be? Does that make it okay-" she cuts herself off with a growl. Frustration bleeds back into her face, and she is quick to douse it with guilt, with a plea for forgiveness.

Moira knows she is not the only one wronged, Moira knows she is a mule to be so mean. More than that, Moira knows that her bonded feels these wounds so deeply that she can only hope to repair them with time."Save those sorry eyes for Neerja, she has been hurt worst of all." It is spit out at the pillows, her own golden gaze falling down, down, down to etch his hair into patterns until she's certain that she could recreate every strand upon a canvas with her eyes closed. There is another, she knows, that she could paint ever shadow of his face without having to look at him. No amount of time that passes will change that, for he held her heart first, he held her hand first. Even Estelle would be hard pressed to wash those memories from her heart and drown them in the salt of the sea.

No, not even Estelle could save her from herself.

Some things, she knows, will never truly disappear. Not even death could take him from her mind. Then, there is Michael - golden and glorious in his cloud of pale hair, his soft, sad smile, his lifetime after lifetime after lifetime of experiences... He draws her in until she is a moon orbiting his sun. Even Moira cannot shine as brightly as Michael, not even with all the light pulled from the sky and held between her hands, offered only to him, always to him...

Biting her lips, she shakes her head. Pools find the corners of her eyes like diamonds, precious gems held there stubbornly until they disappear or fall. God how she hopes they won't fall. Instead, the shattered girl (the tattered girl), licks her lips and whispers "I missed Asterion and he left without a goodbye. I missed Bexley Briar and her white curls and her golden smile and she left without a goodbye. I missed Isra, my dear heart, and she left without a goodbye. I missed you and you left without a goodbye..." These are the ones who hold her heart on a string. One after another, dancing by, disappearing into dusk, into dawn, into the dead of night... All that was left when they did was her. Alone. Abandoned again.

She could have run, but the prude girl could no more run from Denocte and Novus as she could Neerja. Some bonds are too strong to be broken.

Mulishly she frowns, nostrils flaring wide as she snorts at him "Just because something makes sense does not mean it always happens. I once thought a great many things made sense..." Although the words start strong, start fierce as any lioness' would, they end soft, end quietly, end pensive and sad.

Why must she always end sad?

"Michael, I think you make sense, too." Her confession leaves her with a puckered brow, with only the barest curl of her lips. She holds her breath, holds on to him, and refuses to look away. If he should leave now, at least she will have this moment. The jungle she professed her love to another man in is so far away, but it, too, is fresh in her mind. After a moment like this, Asterion disappeared.

Is this her curse? For everyone she learns to love, yearns to love, to disappear when she says it aloud? So be it, she will bare it all for them. For them, she would die a million deaths and come again with a smile and another ocean welling with demons of her own demise, demons of her own making.

"Speech"



v | n | @Michael | TuT a mini novel






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