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Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 502
▶ Season || Fall
▶ Temp || 35℉ (℃) - 69℉ (℃)
▶ Weather || The heat of the summer has begun to wane and cooler weather is spreading across Novus. Frost glistens in the morning light of some regions and the trees have shed their lush shades of green for those of red and orange. It is Fall now, but winter will soon be fast upon its heels.


Character of the Season

Member of the Season

Thread of the Season
A Midsummer Night's Dream

Pair of the Season
Acton and Bexley

Quote of the Season
"If Reich had been the gunsmoke, Rhoswen was the gun - their youth swayed like washing in the wind, peaceful and unassuming, as though if they tried hard enough they might be able grab hold of it. Wasn't that the deceit of peaceful things? They drifted like butterflies just out of your reach." — Rhoswen in she was always meant to be a star

see here for nominations


Pending Approval

The Character


▶ Age: 2 [Year 500 Spring]
▶ Gender:
▶ Pronouns: Male [He/Him/His]
▶ Orientation: Discovering
▶ Breed: Barb X
▶ Height: 16.1 hh hh
▶ Health:
▶ Attack:
▶ Experience:
▶ Signos: 5 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 07-10-2017
▶ Last Visit: 05-16-2018, 05:47 PM
▶ Total Posts: 0 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 0 (Find All Threads)

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He once was dark like the rest of the Below, smudged with soot and ash, drenched in a perpetual shadow that consumes his features. He was black, both in heart and soul. He’d let the Darkness consume him, and it clings to him still in spirit. Upon entering Novus, he shook the dirt and ashes from his body and revealed a new skin: one of alabaster white.

The white, symbolizing goodness and innocence, is a fallacy. He is not pure, nor does he deserve the gold drenching his poll. He is the god of death, as was his namesake, and he’d be damned to not live up to it.

It’s possible he used to be beautiful; remnants of palomino-gold still stains a few points of his body, typically where the fur is thin and the skin sensitive. His head and throat is awash in it; his flanks and chest tinged with color; his knees and hocks and ankles muddled. All of this is as if painted by watercolor, various hues and tones staining his otherwise pristine hide. Soot from the Below still seems to cling to him by his muzzle, splashing a few drops across his sides and chest. It would seem he’ll never be able to get away from it, but in all honesty he wouldn’t dream of trying.

Since arriving in this new land, he’s made a habit out of razing his mane down nearly to the skin. Rarely does he let it grow longer than an inch or two; as soon as it begins to flop over the side of his neck, he starts the process again. His tail, too, he keeps short, trimming it with perhaps a bit more care—certainly not much—so that it stops near his hocks. The cuts are uneven and often coarse, but he has no one to impress.

A strip of leather, tied by string at his throat, wraps around his neck as his only accessory, akin to a collar. Tassels hang from the sides, intricate suns painted over its surface. If asked about it, Thanatos will simply pretend it does not exist, leaving one to simply wonder about it instead.

His eyes are still grey and monotonous, the dark pupils and white eyelashes lending an eeriness to his gaze.
  • candid
  • observant
  • courageous
  • disciplined
  • ambitious
  • moral
  • Negative
  • brash
  • impulsive
  • unruly
  • martyr complex
  • disloyal
  • whiny

  • Thanatos had always been too brash.

    It was the thrill of adventure, the adrenaline pumping through his veins to lend a feeling of invincibility, an unconquerable force forging the way ahead, clawing his way from the darkness. He refused to be mindless like the rest of them—convinced as he was that greatness was calling his name. It was what had drawn him to Deimos in the first place: a kindred soul, questioning the world and its purpose alongside him, hungering for more than the darkness they lived in. When Deimos passed on his crown and called for his company he was all too willing to join, ready to see the land of the Gods and the sunlight they lived in.

    “I came, I saw, I conquered.” — Julius Caesar
    Thanatos hates a structured society, having come from the slums where there was no law and order. He had to claw his way up to something higher, something more worthy, finding only injustice when he did. The civilizations Courts of Novus are completely foreign to him; and although he lives within the Day Court, he does not consider himself a part of it nor its laws.

    Since his adventures in the Below and the Above, through all of the adrenaline and glory and heartbreak, Thanatos has hardened considerably. Without a purpose he is lost; without a cause, he is a mere shadow of the knight he once considered himself. He considers himself a martyr, having sacrificed himself, his power, for a man who didn't love him back and worse, for the Above that fell far short of his expectations.

    He hides his heartbreak and disappointment with a steely eye, his glare enough to turn most away from pestering him. At this point, he'd rather be alone; it's what he deserves, after the crimes he's committed. Thanatos doesn't want friends, nor does he think he needs them, living his life continuously on the move doing odd jobs for the highest bidder. He sells himself and his skills to make a living, fleeting, short-lived purpose driving him forward to the next nobleman with the heavy purse. But a storm is brewing inside of him, deep below the surface; impossible to tell from the outside, but when it breaks, so does his facade. It's only a matter of time before the anger and self-righteousness he's carried with him since the Below boils to the surface, ready to lash out at the establishment that put him at the bottom.
    He remembers waking up. Blowing the ash from his nostrils and blinking soot away from his eyes, his first shuddering breath burning his lungs with smoke. He hadn’t noticed the dark then—having known nothing else—but in hindsight, he sees it now. The Below had been filled with darkness and desperation ever since his beginning.

    He remembers Deimos.

    He was just as dark as the rest of them—except for his eyes. Those had been blue (bright blue, in fact), vibrant and more colorful than anything Thanatos would see in the years to come. He, too, had been there since the beginning, a constant which Thanatos would come to rely upon, vowing to follow those blue eyes to the ends of the universe and back.

    But the skies ever called to him, the promise of something more yearning inside. To be a god, to live in the light they had thus far been deprived of, to shirk the sickness that threatened to overcome him the way it had overcome so many of his past friends—such fantasies tempted him greatly. He refused to turn Mindless like the rest of him, and maybe it was this determination, this sheer stubbornness, that had kept him alive for so long. And so when Deimos shed his crown and took to the Above, Thanatos was quick to follow suit, taking on the mantle of knight besides he and Erebus.

    In their quest, Thanatos hardened. The deaths that came by the strike of his hooves haunted him, and desperately he clung to the hope that their road would end in light. When Erebus fell from their side, stricken with madness, it was nearly Thanatos’ undoing: to strike down his comrade, his friend, surely, would send him also into insanity. But Deimos stopped him, sealing their fellow knight into a tomb. And Thanatos followed Deimos onwards, a light leading him on. His hope, however, continued to grow smaller within him with every step, threatening to be snuffed out with the smallest of winds.

    The discovery of the dying god’s soul both saved and destroyed him. In his desperation, Thanatos naively believed the ember to be the answer to his prayers, consuming it without a second thought. He inherited the god’s magic and the god’s wings sprouted upon his own back, filled with power beyond that which he could have comprehended. This power rejuvenated him, giving him strength to carry Deimos into the sky, and together they left the Below far behind. Long did he fly, straining higher and higher until finally they burst through the clouds.

    For the first time, he saw sunlight. He felt warmth. They had reached the Above.

    It was as marvelous as he had imagined and greater still, and Thanatos wished to stay forever. Had he only known the heartbreak that awaited he and his comrade, he would have told himself, forced himself, to fly on past.

    But fatigue forced him to alight in a cathedral to rest, and there was where they met the Goddess of Gentility, Flanian. Thanatos, having tasted once the power a god dying by his hooves, sought to strike her down so that they might gain even more—but he was stopped by Deimos. It was Deimos’ pleading—and Thanatos trust in him—that convinced him to carry both Deimos and Flanian back to the Below, back to Erebus’ tomb, in an attempt to cure their diseased comrade.

    Thus, the end drew nearer.


    Upon arrival they were overcome by the sick and the undying, and found themselves fighting for their lives. As the horde pressed upon them, Thanatos fought greater than them all: not for himself, and least of all for Flanian, but for Deimos. He couldn’t yet understand his feelings for the blue-eyed king, but love put Deimos above his own wellbeing.

    It was in this way that he fell, overwhelmed by the horde’s attempt to tear them down. He remembers pain, and suffocation, and then all went black.


    There was no one to greet him the next time he awoke. Everywhere it was still ash and darkness, without a hint of blue eyes in sight. He was alone, left behind, forgotten.

    Filled with anger and anguish, Thanatos picked himself up from the ashes once more. He did not seek Deimos out; rather, he wandered. He refused to seek the Above out once more, knowing now the trouble and heartbreak it could bring, the tales of peace and happiness a lie surrounding it. It was in his wanderings that he came across a tunnel partially obscured by rock and rubble. Shifting aside a boulder with his shoulder, Thanatos slipped inside the chamber.

    The path angled upwards, the ceiling so low it brushed his withers and he was forced to carry his head at an awkward angle. At times he had to squeeze through, rock enclosing him on all sides, so that he thought he might get stuck and perish again in the caves. But he continued on, climbing higher and higher.


With each breath he took, with every scrape of rock on skin, a little more of the soot fell away from him. And when the tunnel began to open up and the wind caressed his face, the rest of the ash and darkness slipped away, taking the wings he had stolen from the god with it.


And Thanatos stepped once more into light, into a world far more colorful than the Above had been: he stepped into Novus.

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