she looks into her mirror, wishing someone could hear her, so loud
After everything, she still shakes in the shadows, quiet as a dormouse, completely alone once more. Bexley. She'd run right into Bexley Briar after being caught in another world, another train of thought, a distant place that made her smile and made her cringe. For reasons she cannot say, cannot dare speak yet, her heart aches and her bones quake. Completely mortified, embarrassed, berating herself for having been so careless, Moira Tonnerre stands away from the crowds.
As quiet as a ghost, the phoenix woman gravitates toward the main stage when a band of musicians once more begin to gather along the edges. They are slow to congregate, much like her movements in the darkness the trees provide. For a brief moment, Moira longs to be pale like her family, silver and strong, sleek and beautiful. Some wear chocolate as Asterion does, others are bathed in gold, and more still are as flawless as steel towers spiraling into the sky with only stripes in hues so dark she could not give them a name. None of them have wings. None of them wear the shame she does.
And it is her wings that are now flecked with cake she could not wipe off, frosting still along the tips that would require a bath to remove completely. Perhaps she could find a pool to soak in... That can wait, she thinks as she stares at the stage. There is music still to listen to, to let it steal her heart. As the song begins, the notes are faint and haunting. A drum is struck, over and over, the heartbeat, the pulse to match the ebb and flow of energy around them. Flutes join in, high, wispy, as whimsical as her traitorous heart that flings itself at her sparrow-bone rib cage that is becoming a prison that confines her. Violins a struck, low and as mournful as the day she left the Tonnerres alongside Estelle, they bring tears to her already bright eyes, a soft shimmer in the yellow that makes them pop against the red of her face. Surely, were she not already so deep a shade, then her cheeks would be as bright as a tomato at the very thought of her clumsiness.
Although, in this moment, the cake is the furthest thing from her mind. Eyes close, and at last she just lets herself feel. High notes take her to the clouds, to the stories that Gizelle whispers at night. In those seconds between reality and memory, she can taste the rain, feel the storms that lash against her mother's skin. She remembers the soft tickling of hair along her shoulders, over her neck as her mother tucked her in, kissed her goodnight, and then curled up right beside her. For a moment, Moira can remember what it was to be curled in the arms of her family, held so near and so dearly so that she knew she was loved by at least one person. It's a heady elixir, the magic of music, one that she's willing to let live within her, become an inferno, in the shadows of the trees where no others seem to be.
@Seraphina :D hello, i should probably be asleep. please interrupt her.
This was the second festival Seraphina had attended in Delumine, and this was the second time that she was sneaking away from the bustle of the crowd for some peace and quiet.
“Quiet” was objective; she did enjoy the music, and she didn’t intend to travel too far from it. (There had been little time for art with the capitol in shambles.) With her eyes trained on the main stage, she edged towards the treeline, lily-crowned head held low. She didn’t expect too much attention, – most eyes were on the performers, and she wasn’t sure how many people would recognize her besides – but it was best to stay alert. She moved through the crowd like a metallic shade, the steely grey of her coat catching in the light, brushing shoulders with passerby and attempting to take in the celebration. Despite the heat of other bodies and the throng of movement, not even a bead of sweat ran down her brow; it was nothing compared to the desert sun. Flowers brush against her limbs. Peace.
She moved beneath the shadows of the trees, and, in the darkness, her eyes alighted on another form.
Under different circumstances, the silver queen might have left the girl to her own devices.
However, looking at her pitiful frame, she heaved a sigh and crept forward across the clearing, the collar around her neck catching in the fractured moonlight filtering through the leaves. She couldn’t be any younger than Seraphina, but she felt quite small and alone, and maybe she would prefer to be that way, in whatever state of misery she was in – she had certainly put forth the effort to avoid the bulk of the crowd. It wasn’t as though she had time to talk to every bleeding heart at the festival, either; she’d passed half a dozen faces that looked to be experiencing crises of their own on her way to the grateful alcove of the trees. Perhaps it was just her instincts as a guard. Unlike the drunken merrymakers, downing bottles of dandelion wine to forget their sorrows, this girl seemed disheveled, her hair tumbling down and her wings splattered with the gory remains of a cake.
She stepped forward in spite of her misgivings, approaching her quietly – carefully. She didn’t want to startle her if she could avoid it, even though the girl looks to be lost in her own head. “You seem to have much on your mind,” She attempted, her voice as gentle as she could manage, which was not particularly gentle, but certainly lilting. Her odd eyes lingered thoughtfully on the girl’s face. She was a pretty thing – burning red, with dark hair and a pale tail, and lovely wings, eyes of a color she can’t see framed by the longest lashes she could imagine. There’s something of a youthful innocence to her dainty features, and maybe that was what really drew Seraphina towards her. She couldn’t be of a lesser age than she, but she seemed so, so much younger.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
Seraphina is a whisper on the ground, a shadow in the sky, that does not catch Moira's attention until it is too late. Golden eyes become wider, darting up quickly, and meet amber that matches her own. But that is where the similarities end. All the woman sees is color for a moment - or lack thereof - and she almost forgets to breathe. Has her family come? Will they take Estelle back and pull her into their arms once more so that she could spend countless hours in hallways with great and beautiful murals of which she could only hope to achieve such splendor as them one day? Hope blossoms quickly as a night-blooming flower, and just as quickly it dies when the phoenix sees the woman's face fully. Colors are not on her skin, just like her family's in many ways, but her face is not curved, her ears are not dewdrops. Quick as a cat, the light that came flickers down to a dull hum once more as she dips her head.
As is proper, the corners of Moira's mouth curve up politely, but she cannot keep the disappointment from her eyes. Tonight, after all has gone wrong and the music pulls melancholy from her soul like lemonade in the summer, all she wishes to do is throw herself into the twins' arms and have them tell her something good. Instead, she shifts on her feet and looks to the stage as though thinking. After two tense moments of chewing on the edge of her lip, she nods. "Isn't there always so much to consider and contemplate in life? Only the dead sleep soundly, it seems." And she knows this; Moira saw the soul when it left her many cousins eyes after they died too young, she talked with Eik as he hunted for Valerian to find some piece at night, and she cried for hours on end wishing her life were different before when her family would not hear (or see) her sorrow. From the collar (from the scars), the phoenix woman thinks that perhaps this woman has her own stories keeping her awake at night, too.
But she is beautiful and sharp, like a dagger. A crown of lilies for mourning in place upon her head, where Moira's own crowned bouquet are thankfully back as they were before. Again, her heart beats faster, squeezes more painfully, as she looks at silver and steel skin, golden eyes, long white hair. It is such a painful reminder of the family she left. Yet she does not comment on this, instead, with a smile sputtering to life like a firefly at night, she says "You're beautiful." And it is a whisper so soft, so gentle, that perhaps this is a dream instead of reality. If it is a dream, she hopes, then let it be a brighter one than before.
@Seraphina <3 sorry this took a lil while ;o; they're precious together. sera be gentle to herrr
The girl’s golden-eyed gaze greeted Seraphina with an almost unnatural amount of excitement; as she took her in, however, she saw the anticipation disappear from her stare like a splash of water on the desert sands. She mistook her for someone else, Seraphina realized. It wasn’t surprising. Although the silver had developed something of a reputation among the residents of Novus, she wasn’t nearly as unique or outrageous as some of Novus’s inhabitants. (In fact, she thought herself quite simple – it seemed, off the top of her head, that most of Solterra’s inhabitants were, save, perhaps, for Torstein.) She tilted her head very slightly, wisps of white hair falling in front of her eyes, and waited patiently for a response.
The red girl – woman, she corrected, woman - was silent for a long time, as though she was contemplating her words. Seraphina supposed that she would be too, under the circumstances. She was a stranger, approaching her, and her comment probably sounded a bit invasive. When she did finally reply, her words were more philosophical than the silver anticipated, and it took her another moment of contemplation to formulate a response. Whatever she anticipated from the cake-stained little red creature, it was not such abject contemplation on death. “So it seems,” She agreed quietly, with a subtle nod of her head. In the back of her mind, she could hear the dull cacophony of screams; for a moment, her vision seemed to blur, and she could see glassy eyes, flesh slowly overtaken by flames. The smell of burning skin filled her lungs, but then she blinked – and she was back again. Those dead were the furious dead, and some part of her was sure that their loathing haunted the desert like a ghost, like a vengeance; like Avdotya to her dead family. She wasn’t sure that they slept soundly – she wasn’t sure that they slept at all. “Though I wonder, sometimes, even about them.” But she didn’t have time to think too deeply about the dead; not when the living were so constantly on her mind.
The red woman smiled, then, luminously; it was startling, when compared to the twitch of sadness she’d worn before. She felt her gaze drift along the silver of her sides and the crown of white lilies on her head, and, in a voice so scarcely audible that she at first assumed she imagined it, the woman called her beautiful. It was a strange compliment, for the warrior woman – though she knew that they were largely unseen and unnoticeable, a great snarl of scars coated the skin beneath her coat, and she was far from delicate or effeminate in build. Nevertheless, she was not impolite, so she offered a faint, “Thank you,” but was quick to add, “although I believe that you are the far lovelier creature.” From a strictly objective standpoint, it was true. She was as dainty as they came and red as blood, with great wings and dark lashes and long curls of hair, and, in spite of the faint tragedy that seemed to linger heavy across her features, she seemed light – but perhaps that was just the wings. Those that weren’t bound to the ground always felt freer, to her.
But, then, Seraphina did not know that the woman at her side was just as grounded as she. "What's your name?" She asked, then - if they were to speak, it seemed best to get introductions out of the way.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
"My family would quite disagree with you, I think. They much prefer those of silver, or at least far paler than I." Easily she states it, as though it is a fact she's rehearsed a million times and learned to accept, like it doesn't affect her at all how they whisper and stare and wonder how on earth such an ungodly child was born as a part of their bloodline. After all, her father was a beautiful man of gray and white. He'd been made from moonlight, seemed to glow with the silver lining of clouds after a furious tempest swept away all sorrow from the land (leaving heartaches in its wake). Ah, but it was from her mother - the cursed woman, the gypsy thief, the terrible, passionate, wanton woman who'd captured her father's heart and kept it captive. At first, her family thought it witchcraft. After all, Anselme was raised pure as Moira should have been. Those wing wings were not allowed in the ranks. Yet he was consumed with desire for only Gizelle, and so Moira came to be.
Gizelle was of oranges and reds and purples. She painted her skin as the sun does the skies when first meeting for the day. Gold drips from her like honey, and bells would jingle in her hair, about her ankles, on necklaces and bracelets so that all would know she was about. Those were the days before Moira. Before she let herself be grounded.
And in turn, Moira, too, was denied her birthright: freedom.
The past pulls them both for loops, like the river of time it is as demanding as any current engagement. For a time, both are silent, still. Moira cannot help but to reflect on Seraphina's comment about the dead. But all come to rest at some time or another. No matter the time that passes, all things end when they are meant to. It is the natural order of things, the way of life, and the way of death. Briefly she wonders if the silver woman knows this, if she's ever thought of it in that way, yet she knows it is not her place to interject and intrude upon private moments. They can be so fleeting, after all, when peace or thought or interest steals over oneself. In these quiet moments, she cannot help but adore the striping upon the Empress' neck, the ring of white lashes that frame bright golden eyes. Eyes that are so like her own, and yet so different. More wisdom is etched around the edges, hidden deep within the honeyed center that no living soul can tread, tracked across the fatigued lines just under her bright gaze.
With one guess, the healer would assume that the empress was the same age. Differing in height by only a few odd inches, young enough to still show the vitality that courses in their blood, all is almost identical save for coloration and build - and those rich amber eyes.
A moment spans the length of a century it seems, and only after a rather awkward silence has built up with the music crooning softly behind them, does Moira realize she's been asked for her name. Berating herself within, the girl dips her head. "Moira Tonnerre. May I know yours, or would you like me to name you for the night? There's something magical about meeting under starlight and shadows, don't you think?" Mischief glitters in that gaze, secrets are just around the corners ready to be kissed off. But Moira does not kiss and tell - she hardly ever kisses at all, in fact. Still, laughter soothes the soul (isn't that what the twins thought before?), and for the smallest of seconds she hopes that Sera will laugh and not make her really choose.
Her family, Moira says, would disagree; she’s suddenly hyperaware of the way that the girl’s eyes linger on the silver of her coat, on the pale striping on her neck, on the white of her lashes. “…I see,” is all that she can come up with to say, at first. She is aware, vaguely, of such prejudices in other lands; however, in Solterra, such things do not exist, at least upon the basis of appearance. (And, she thinks, family is everything. It defines your entire status in society – without family, you are as good as nothing.) She eyes her somewhat thoughtfully, though there is barely a stifled prick of interest in her gaze. “We don’t have the same sorts of…preferences among my people. All that mattered where I grew up was blood – and bloodlust.” Either could bring you favor and fortune in Solterra; a pretty face meant nothing, at least without the cleverness or strength or good breeding to back it up. (One could accommodate for the other, but she supposed that it was ideal – though rare – to have all three.) She wonders if the Solterra that she is struggling to craft is the same, with a hint of bitterness. Trying to change a society and actually changing a society were two painfully, painfully different things, as she was beginning to find out.
The silence that stretches out between her question and the other girl’s response is almost painfully long and awkward, but Seraphina gives no sign of noticing it. Perhaps she didn’t hear her, or perhaps she’s simply lost in her own thoughts. Either way, Seraphina doesn’t feel like breaking the silence until she does, so she waits.
When the red does respond, it is with a name that Seraphina has to roll around in her head for a moment (Tonnerre is not quite like most of the last names in Solterra.) and a comment about her own name that’s even more befuddling. Clearly, Seraphina is not particularly well-versed in lightheartedness, not in butterfly (or phoenix) girls with sweet, riddling words. “Moira Tonnerre. It is a pleasure – my name is Seraphina, though, if you are so inclined, you may call me whatever you wish.” It isn’t her real name, at any rate. That was stolen by Viceroy years ago. In spite of what Seraphina has come to mean, to the world around her more than her, she struggles to put any true significance on it. At her next words, she inclines her head hesitantly. She wonders somewhat abruptly, if Moira is Denoctian. It seems that the night goddess’s people would be the most eager to speak well of her creations, to find the beauty in them all. (If she is Denoctian, Seraphina doesn’t know what she’s doing here – she supposes that she might be a deserter, like Acton, but that doesn’t seem right. The anger doesn’t cover her like a sheet; she doesn’t sense discontent rippling beneath her skin. She isn’t like Acton, or the boy, Cynix. There is a sadness to her, but, somehow, Seraphina doesn’t think that it finds its roots in Novus.) She does not smile like the girl might have hoped; but Seraphina is not a creature that smiles. Not really. Instead, she watches her with that same, strange composure, even as she ventures to speak. “Magical… perhaps. I’ll admit, I am more at home in the sun.” Lately, even that does not feel quite like home, however. She has always thought of herself as a child of the sun god, but she has denounced her relation to him – she wonders, sometimes, if it was a rash choice, made in anger. Now there is no one left for her to turn to, and nowhere left for her to call home. She feels strangely disjointed, like she’s drifting in a foreign space.
She supposes that is worth asking, too; for all she knows, she could be speaking to another Solterran, though she doesn’t feel that the girl is well-suited to the harsh domain of Solis and the treachery of the Mors. “What court are you from, Moira?” Simple – and only slightly relevant. Seraphina cares little for the boundaries of courts and considerably more for the character of others; however, before she divulges much of anything about herself, she’s learned to act with the certain degree of caution that her rank requires.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
Wandering eyes would see the girl as she purses her lips, the subtle, rueful smile that flickers across her carmine mouth, the sinful way her eyes fall to the ground as she thinks of her own family. Bloodlust? Perhaps some, but she was taught that the Tonnerre was of a noble stock. They did not dally in such nonsensical problems. "We are not creatures for war anymore, but if it's secrets and intrigue you prefer, perhaps the court of the Tonnerres would suit you. I daresay though, they don't take to outsiders very well." With a shake of her head, limp curls bouncing lightly on her neck, she cannot help but to frown. They were not really the welcoming sort. Cold. Distant. Like a star in the heavens she could never quite reach.
Yes... Falling stars were much more suitable a description for her family than anything else she could think of.
Careful as a nursemaid, memories at tucked once more beneath piles of blankets and fonder days, only those worth remembering, worth offering a smile over, are allowed to peek out around the edges and peer carefully at the world where Moira now lives. They titter gaily at the other people she recalls. What would the twins think of the festival? It would be all too mundane and savage for them. Barbaric they'd sneer, and then rethink it once they saw how the phoenix smiles. Pensive is she at last when Seraphina pulls her from these hopes, a lurching back into the here and now that is not wholly unwelcome. Seraphina she tastes, rolls on her tongue, before dipping her head in greeting. "I'd much rather call you a friend, but we could work up to that, Seraphina." It pulls teachings long lost from her, dead languages, origins, meanings. Seraphina meant fiery-winged long ago - perhaps there is a myth or a legend she has forgotten, but she cannot help but to think that it does not quite suit the woman. Where are her wings? Where is the fire she should wield? Then again, her own name does not fit her - Moira. It means destiny or fate. She is destined for nothing and no one. There is no fate but that with which to draw her last breath when the time comes. How funny she finds it, standing face to face with one who is as distant from their name as she is her own. Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin then, forever destined to not see eye-to-eye, but in opposite directions.
Such trivial matters matter little when she speaks of the sun as though a lover, when she asks of her court like a knowing woman. Did it matter where her bed was made at the end of the day? Brows lift, mouth opens, and then shuts just as swiftly. Amber eyes look about almost helplessly, almost curiously, hoping to find an explanation. With no hope of a savior, she steels herself once more. With a shrug she offers up the Night Court. "I live with dreamers and dancers and singers. I live where paint is more beautiful than blood and laughter rings merrily through the night. Denocte… It's what I'm told it's called. But I've come with a boy, quite a gentleman, to enjoy the festivities while they last. I have not seen you there, so you are not a part of this Court of Dreams - where do you call home?" Not, she reminds herself, where she is from. But home. If asked, the painted woman would tell you that the Tonnerre Estate is still where her heart lies, but also somewhere outside of these mountains in the arms of a woman who may be long gone by now. Estelle, she remembers mournfully at last, and whatever amusement, whatever joy she held, is stolen once more.
