She is standing on a vast floating wreck of masonry and timber, of what might have once been a grand structure with hints of old architecture shining through, wrought iron benches, broken glass windows, splintered wooden facade all lying sideways so that she is standing on what once was a wall - and marred by fire and chaos. There is a great, multi-hued band of stars stretching all the way up and over, glimmering constellations like jewels of light scattered in a riverbed, shimmering with distant power where they aren't obscured by deep banks of mist and cloud. Azure and sapphire, ruby and citrine, they shine with a compelling clarity, a captivating lonely beauty as the bitter wind does its best to sap heat from her body, carrying the scent of ash. After a few seconds, in the distance, the tolling of some titanic bell-chime echoes hauntingly.

Staring too much at the stars holds an End, a personality-death by madness, though a very slow and progressive one.

She averts her eyes from the stars quickly, marking to herself to avoid looking up when she can help it. (She's had more than enough of End by revelation in her life.)

She pulls her aura tight into her skin, and starts looking for people. 

With an appropriate vantage point she can tell that this ruined structure seems to be floating in midair, with open space above, around, and below. Only narrow bridges of random timbers and makeshift rope connect the gently swaying mass to more like it, with fog and stars all around. Off in one direction lies an area that looks inhabited; It's in better repair, there's soft light coming from behind stained glass windows, and occasional hints of movement behind them. It looks like the United Kingdom's Parliament House, Westminster.

...Strange.

She starts making her way towards the inhabited area, walking casually and like she's entirely unafraid of the possibility of falling from the tenuous bridges.

The Floating Parliament is centered on what does indeed appear to be Westminster Palace, sans clock tower. Big Ben appears to be floating off in the void, half-shattered and much larger than she remembers, still ticking along steadily.

There's a wide and fairly well-maintained green with several relatively intact brownstone buildings around. The courtyard churns busily with people in slightly ragged finery arguing and debating and waving signs and signing petitions - one such being an excruciatingly politely phrased request for Her Majesty The Empress of Hours to acknowledge that debt slavery is regrettable, which everyone seems to regard as rather daring a request - utterly chaotically and without appearing to actually get anything done. There's a small loading area, steel platforms currently holding a pair of what look like locomotives more the size of small ships. A crew of blue-shirted sailors is unloading crates of tea and cream and jam and hawking them to a crowd of well-dressed purchasers from one, the other is quiet aside from a bored door guard. The windows are all stained glass, the ones that are intact anyway.

She's dressed very strangely, compared to local norms - finely, yes, but in a foreign way, her clothing unnaturally bright and shiny, in complex patterns rather reminiscent of tiny peacock feathers arranged like scales. She's a bit singed, too, but otherwise doesn't look ragged at all, and her clothes are already repairing themselves a little. 

She understands the language at least...

Does anywhere appear to be a shop? A hotel? 

That's not that strange for local fashion, while it does stand out it's worth no more concern than a stranger wearing a full-on Goth outfit, it seems - attention grabbing, the occasional passing compliment and appreciative or disapproving look, and that's all. Nobody comments at all on the singedness; One person asks where she had her wardrobe done.

There are "shops" if you count people who seem to be the more dedicated peddlers wandering about the crowd trading in minted coins called Sovereigns, or a couple of food stalls. Nothing is particularly hotel-like, but surely people must sleep somewhere.

The distant bells chime, and as one the whole collective sets aside their signs and petitions and passionate speeches about democracy, and form neat rows as a small army of servants efficiently bring out an eclectic collection of tables and chairs and begin serving tea and scones to all. It is announced that today's tea service is thanks to MP for Lesser Richmond. A seat is offered to her, as well.

She'll take a seat and some tea and scones, in fact. She's been getting a bit famished.

(She takes a bit extra, balances a teacup in the crook of her elbow so her snake daemon - a lovely irridescent black - can stick her head out of Tiamat's brocade jacket and sample it.)

Exotic pets make her a quick subject of the surrounding gossip and speculation. But the important question is- Does she spread cream first on her scones, or jam first? 

She spreads jam on her scone, and the snake sticks a tail out to grab a knife and spread cream on her own scone at a fairly similar moment. (Moira doesn't have quite as much of a sweet tooth as Tiamat, but she'll never turn down a pastry.)

The surrounding protestors split their approving and disdainful looks between her and her snake about equally. Cream vs Jam seems to be a contentious thing, like everything else here.

"Do they speak?" One of her tablemates asks curiously, gesturing at her daemon. "You move very intentionally," he tells the snake. "I've not seen the like before."

Preen!

"I'm very beautiful, too," she informs them, seriously. (Her voice is soft, almost melodic.) "More than any other daemon." She says daemon with an accent, almost affected really - dai-mun, more diamond than demon.

Tiamat laughs and scritches Moira's head. "You don't have daemons here?" (She hasn't seen any, actually...)

"I have to agree, it's a very dashing look. But, well. That's a question with many popular answers. The sky is vast and strange, after all. But no, not so common I've heard of it, at least. Something common where you're from?"

"...Every mortal is born with one. Where I'm from."

Ah, so her soul is mutilated or something. (He's polite enough to very much Not say that, and only barely hint at thinking it.)

"Well, here we mortals must get by all on our own, or with each other for company."

"A pity, really."

"Where is it you're from that all are so, ah, blessed?"

...Hum. "Let's call it... Eldritch."

"Well, may I be the first to welcome you to Albion. Those regions of the great sky where Her Majesty saw fit to colonize... In a way." He shrugs, and several neighbors chuckle. "And where the Throne of Hours holds back twisted time. There may be problems in the world, but it is the new home for better or worse."

"Mostly worse."

The speaker makes a noncommittal noise.