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Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 502
▶ Season || Summer
▶ Temp || 74℉ (℃) - 100℉ (℃)
▶ Weather || With the end of Spring comes Summer's warm embrace. While some flourish in the comfortable glow of the sun, others take shelter from its sweltering midday heat. Even so, it is now that the continent bustles with life, for it won't be long until a cool chill returns.


Character of the Season

Member of the Season

Thread of the Season
.. Cool your fever ..

Pair of the Season
Ipomoea and Messalina

Quote of the Season
Bexley gives him a cold, dark, beautiful smile. “Wanna see a trick?” she asks, eyes glowing with feral self-satisfaction. The bare of her teeth in a mock-grin is nothing less than terrifying. “I can make you see ghosts.” do the hungry ever sleep?

see here for nominations



Night Court Emissary

The Character


▶ Age: 7 [Year 495 Summer]
▶ Gender: Male [he/him/his]
▶ Orientation: homosexual
▶ Breed: Marwari x Lippizanner
▶ Height: 18 hh
▶ Health: 8
▶ Attack: 12
▶ Experience: 23
▶ Signos: 785 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 07-31-2017
▶ Last Visit: 7 hours ago
▶ Total Posts: 105 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 14 (Find All Threads)

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Mystical, ethereal, impossible. Isorath shimmers in an opalescent hue of pure white, reflecting the colours of the sky across his coat in warm blends at dawn & dusk.

His dias is home to a crown crafted in the image of a dragon's visage, large and impressive with a shimmering coat. Smooth to the touch, each point is sharp and often covered in gilded decorations of some kind. His eyes are lilac, glittering jewels with draconian slits for pupils. They swim with mirth and sadness, a forlorn fire, youth stolen young and wisdom earned that exceeds his year upon the mortal plane.

His mane & tail are long and luscious, thick waterfalls of hair often braided and styled in ornate braids and buns. Styles change daily or weekly, depending on his mood and whims, though very rarely does he allow the strands to flow free in the wind.

His body itself is carefully crafted, his appearance would be at home in the place of a marble statue in one of the grand temples of the world. Cloaked in a silky coat which covers elegant withers, a deep chest, a proportionately-long back, muscular but toned hindquarters, a sloping croup and hard hooves. His legs are long and elegant, sturdy but not to the point of being absurd in appearance. His neck is well muscled, but proportionate to the rest of his body. He also moves in a natural, smooth gait in which he appears to float over the ground rather than actually walk.

Scales claim sweeping spaces upon his body, vibrant streaks of gold which catch and shine in the light. Across the bridge of his nose and across his face in delicate dots, his neck, his haunches and his tail. They are placed by a careful artisans hands, by a divine who had a clear image in mind.

Lastly, his wings are large and lustrous, they are devoid of the gilded scales the rest of his body is, and painted in the same white hue. Unmistakably draconian, Isorath is able to position them as an extra set of limbs upon the ground, grasping fingers curl from the joints with talons dipped in ivory and gold. They are well toned, a telling sign that this stag has spent many turns of the moon in the air traveling to and form land to land, nation to nation, kingdom to kingdom.

He is a lithe and deceptive looking beauty, it would not be hard to mistake him for a mare. All porcelain and floating gait, sharp cheekbones and long silver lashes. Even when he speaks, it's with an accent so musical, it's lilt and fluidity hard to ignore.


Clever, but often Condescending. Regal in his mannerisms, and graceful in his movements. Harsh with a Ruthless streak when provoked. Passionate in his endeavors and interests, Devoted to those he loves. Capricious but Efficient when his mind is at work. Spiteful, holds a grudge and is resolute in his decisions. Possesses a tender heart which yearns to love. Generous, caring and loyal to a fault to his family and friends.

Isorath was an animated stallion whose passion burned freely and without question, whose steps roared with virtuousness, whose maw spilled nothing but the truth and the bluntness of the way of the world. Wizened in warfare and understandings beyond his mortal years, he was the very beacon of virtue and truthfulness, the eternal light to balance the dark. He stood in the holy fire and let it upon those that would defile and distort the world around them.

Now? Those fires burn with a discolored flame, the recent times have cast a glint in his eye and caused his shadow to grow. While he still believes in the good and right of the world, as he must or all hope would be lost, he has been marked for it. No this stag's heart has been bruised and battered as of late, damaged by that in which he entrusted it's care to, who he pledged his sword and loyalty. He engages others in a reserved, skeptical way with his head held high and eyes steeled. His words come not so easily as they had, the mirth is often absent or it is cutting in it's deployment. They are more thoughtful as his mind picks and pokes at what's spoken into his ears, attempting to find deceit and lies between the meanings, he no longer trusts those who look trust worthy, and words alone do not suffice in earning his trust or loyalty.

While he is unmistakably vain, taking great pride in his appearance and keeping it meticulous. He thrives in the heat of the battle, in formulating plans and plots to defeat and out outmaneuver his opponents. Analytical and experienced, to fight is his preferred method when words appear bleak and diplomacy nears it's fruitless sunset.

There is still a flicker of his formal self within, it just requires a spark to ignite. Within his soul burns passion, a deep seated yearning to be loved and be loved in return. While he stands as a pillar of strength and protection for the weak, a holy fire which warms the cold and shelter from the rain — he yearns for a shelter of his own, and soft words to soothe his tired mind.


The little sun was not the first of his name, no, there had been one which had come before. Born when the moon had drowned out the sun was when the first flame burned to life, but he was by far the one who symbolized the sun and the flame. He was the solar essence where his older brother was the sun eclipsed. He grew up joyful and hopeful, summer flowers in his hair and the holy rites etched into his memory. Those were the days he craved, where small golden hooves would clack against pristine marble floors as he tore through his mother's home to the amusement and despair of the ones who worked to keep it immaculate.

Summer passed, and the colt became a stallion. He was blooded young in the heat of battle, in the crucible of flame he fought to the top. Minutes crept into hours and still he fought on, drenched in his own sweat and the sweat of his opponents. The metallic tang of blood in the air mixed alongside the familiar heady scent of soot and fire. The pyres burned for three days and three nights, each dawn and dusk spent against foe after foe, until only he and another remained. This was it, the grand finale, only one could walk away victorious, the long shadow of the man defeated. They went on for hours, until finally the black painted colt fell to the earth and breathed in lungfuls of sand.

Isorath had won, and with it earned the right to his ascension into adulthood. From there he was free to do as he wished, his mother commended her youngest son to vicious, triumphant applause from the grand stands and those who had not been able to witness the grand game. Isorath requested his freedom, the right to travel and explore the kingdoms and lands beyond their own. She agreed, skeptically and cautiously and warned her son that the lands outside there own were not as they were. There he would face hardship the likes of which he had yet seen nor tasted, it would be a bittersweet experience, though she did not totally disregard the wealth of knowledge and rewards awaiting him should he succeed.

He stayed the winter months, and departed in the spring.

He wandered on large wings from pillar to post, one city to the next, or from one herd to another when he found himself in lands not yet versed in towering structures or that magic was more than just raw power to be had and displayed. While he went on to bloody himself in wars and battles for those who claimed just and true reasons, he held council with kings and lords who would have his words. Despite this, none held his interest, and he became a wandering star upon a blank canvas night. Until that is, he finally found himself in the court of what he could only describe, as the most exquisite and beautiful creature he had ever laid his molten eyes upon. A queen of gentleness and spring time innocence, he laid himself low at her feet when he found her heart true and noble. He became part of her advisors, a King of Swords, so named and he glowed.

He glowed, and he fell in love.

While he tried to shake the feelings which had seized him like a summer storm, he could no longer deny it, especially when it came time for the fair lady to name her mate. Under the disguise as a moonlit prince he ascended the stone steps into the masquerade ball. They danced, and they danced until the music ended and instead they took to the wisteria garden where he confessed. She was shocked, and a flower of doubt bloomed within him when he felt her doubt radiate from her small frame. Time ticked on as the hours of the ball drew to an end, and Isorath did not know if he would be accepted by her, or would he be tossed aside in favor of the Queen's doubt.

She chose him, and his elation was short lived. When the time came to announce his ascension into Kinghood, a vicious, malicious stallion pooled out of shadows and chaos and stole her away.

The fires on his wings burned with such ferocity, for his anger and heart break at having his beloved stolen. So he sounded the call, a call to arms, a call for the banners to be raised and the song to be sung and it was answered. The leaders of the land descended upon the holy sanctuary of the Goddess of the realm and convened a War Council. It did not go how Isorath had wanted it, despite his plans and experience, his quest, his reason for saving his beloved was derailed and overturned by some of the others for what he could only assume was personal gain and selfish benefit. He had no quarrels with the Mad King, no petty vendetta that would steer him from his path. He only wished to fight the man in honorable combat and see that his lady was home and safe.

In the weeks that followed, he was all but cut out of the loop. The plan changed and so did the orders, he was not aware of what had happened until his love returned to the Palace, sick and frail. They had charged into the Summer Palace and stolen her into the sands and scorching winds back towards their forested Kingdom. On the way she had been attacked and poisoned, banditry or a last goodbye kiss from the Mad One he did not know, and he didn't care to know. They had all betrayed him, gone against the very nature of the rescue and the Queen had paid the ultimate price. She did not recover, and she slipped away. Isorath was heartbroken, shattered and bitter in her wake. In all of it, he grew into a cold fire at the betrayal and cunning deployed against him despite his wise words and it being his call to arms. They had ignored him, they had cut him out of his own crusade.

Blasphemy, deceitful and ungrateful. The words swirled around in his mind as life went on.

The final blow came when they elected to overturn the Queen's ruling of him as an Emperor, and elect others instead. Burned and broken, ousted by those who had not lifted a hoof nor a concerned word toward the happenings of the realm, he took flight. His mothers words rang in his ears, a sharp wicked sound which took root in his wounds. Isorath gathered what he could of himself, sharp edges and ruined lines, broken feathers and glances that once burned with happiness — now no more than a cold glance and thin lips, jaded and bitter with no sunrise in sight. He left in the dead of night, a dying star in the night to lands unknown.

Away from everyone, Isorath built himself a pyre, and burned himself upon it.

Scorched to his bones in fire and magic, the union unmade him and remade him again. His coat no longer the glittering hue of gold, instead a crisp white which shimmered in the sunlight. Scales had unearthed themselves like dragons from a long slumber, nestled upon his back in gilded colour so pure, it put the gold veins in the earth to shame.

He burned himself, so he could be reborn in his own ashes.

Now he finds his life before entering Novus irrelevant, it's something to block out and forget. In the fourth year of his life, the gilded cage within his breast is wrapped with thorns and daggers. Quick to barb and strike at those who would delve to deep into the heartache to be found there. Whenever he tries to remember, the bitterness swells like bitter bilge water in the back of his throat, makes his tongue thick in his mouth and the air feel as though it's clogged with ash and smoke.

He'd rather forget, and so he plays his history's cruel hand close to his chest.

It seemed that trouble has followed him still, as he learned to adapt to Novus, discourse and chaos threaten him. But, in that storm he has found love. A chance to start again.

Active & Parvus Magic

Passive Magic



Of the many honors of Vectaeryn, the true, most revered blessing of all is to be chosen by Dragons. Those who share the image of the Gods themselves, and who in turn blessed Taeryn with the ability to bind their very essence with that of Dragon's and become something more. The two form an unbreakable bond that cannot be shattered by time nor fate, even the God's themselves cannot undo the strands which bind.

Isorath has found himself worthy, and the beast who bound him is no small creature, and no meek thing which bends his mighty crown. His shadow engulfs all, and positively drowns Isorath by his mere presence at his side. He towers on study pillars which bite into the earth, unlike many of his brethren who support six limbs (four legs & two wings) Aether has need of only two, his wings doubling as front legs whenever the titanic creature must land and walk among the mortal.

His hide is the color of black ice, the frigid tendrils in death's frozen waste, murky and endless as the abyss. The glint with a midnight-ish hue in the light, when ones gaze sweep over them, they do not try to hide that the bearer of their visage is a kind, docile creature. Punctuated by fading at his limbs into the frosty miasma which often trails a foreboding lich, the damned and lost stars in the expanse of the sky. This same misty color also lends to the jagged spines and frills which line his back, his neck and his tail, his talons and claws. Crystal like in texture and appearance, his many horns, claws and talons catch the light and glimmer like the stars do. A lighter hue of abyssal pitch coats his underbelly and neck, a subtle but pleasant accent and difference.

Not that anyone would, one only has to look into those icy-near white eyes which emanate a chilling, wispish glow, to see that he holds no allegiance to anyone but Isorath, and those who find themselves dear to his champion. They gleam with a cold, calculating intelligence that only thaws with the kirin present.

A constant, deathly chill accompanies Aether at all times, and is in part an after effect of the abilities his kind can manipulate. Unlike his fire breathing and lightning wielding kin, Aether's breath is one of the nether and the frigid north. The death force of the universe. The smokey, frigid frost which blasts from his maw will cause all things caught within it to wither, rot, weaken, and eventually die. Similarly, his wings harken the coming of a storm, thunderclaps upon a blizzard wreathed sky.


Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

Hair ornaments: Small, dragon themed hair ornaments used to create various hair styles. Each set with amethysts the colour of Isorath's eyes.
Horn clasps: Beautifully ornate gold clasps in the shape of dragons wrap around his antlers, their eyes amethysts. Strands of glittering diamonds in tear drop shapes dangle elegantly from the gilded creatures tails.
Dragon Necklace: Three glittering strands of gold wrap around his neck, coming to rest beneath the scales on his breast, three dragons entwined reside there, with eyes of amethyst. Along the strands are small tear drop diamonds, which catch the light at dawn and sunset.

Bridle; delicate chains of white gold form a gilded bridle which rests elegantly upon the face of it's wearer. Two more chains loop in a tiered design down either side of the bridle, set with precious gems the colour of Vespera's domain, glittering purple which fade to sunset orange. One particularly large stone sits clasped tightly in a dragon's coil at the center of the forehead, and another in the shape of cut crystal, dangles beneath his chin on a chain which loops there.
Halo; Large and exquisite, a halo of white gold floats behind it's wearers head. Decorated with intricate motifs of the sun meeting the moon, with the exquisite motif sitting as the centerpiece of the dias. Prongs of white gold fan outward like the suns rays, each tip decorated with a large gem, many more are scattered across the ornate headpiece, all the colour of Vespera.
Cloak; Tulle & Silk, the silvery colours wrap around his frame and sweep elegantly at his sides and over his rump, trailing into a train behind him. The silk is the lightest shade of pastel blue, while the tulle is the colour of a mist. Tassles line the hem of this luxorious cloak, a shade of burnished silver. The cloak itself is decorated with constellations and intricate patterns of dragon's in flight. Fastened with a silver collar, it features similar patterns of dragons, with the dragons claws acting as the clasp. The tulle by the collar is embellished with silver scales, which fade out like leaves on the trees as they meet the intricate embroidery.

Agora Items & Awards

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The Player

▶ Player Name: arahvir (Profile)
▶ PM Player: Send Message
▶ Email: Send Email
▶ Other Accounts: arahvir, Dovev, Renwick, Satine,
Arah. 24. Cereal Cryptid an occasionally artsy.
Isorath's Signature
[Image: etsoir_2_by_tyronniesaur_dbuc7vk.png]

please tag in all replies, magic & force permitted
as long as there's no maiming.