Moira was still failing to fly.
Hair flailing abaft, claws struggling against gravity, it was only luck that could aid a falling guardian, and that was not playing in God’s court today.
Hurtling towards vast grounds, only wings could stop a quickly approaching collision. But all too soon Moira was aground in a vacant world.
Apart from a saintly body, lush grass ran on for as far as a girl could hold in mind. No crowd, no family, only a land bound in a cloak of thick grass.
“Who calls this world native?”
Moira sat upright, moving individual grass swords between onyx claws.
A cry now cracks this world’s constant calm.
Across plains, Moira spots a shadow bounding up and down the grassland, waving and howling such that it fills Moira’s aura, clattering around an orb of fuchsia and ruby tints. Moira puts a hand to it and soaks up its clamour.
Aid is an obligatory part of a Messenger’s duty.
This world, as all worlds do, asks for its savior.