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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?

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Inactive Character

The Character


▶ Age: Immortal [Year 008 Summer]
▶ Gender: Female [She/Her/Hers]
▶ Orientation: Heterosexual
▶ Breed: Warmblood mutt
▶ Height: 16.0hh
▶ Health: 10
▶ Attack: 10
▶ Experience: 10
▶ Signos: 0 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 10-13-2017
▶ Last Visit: 04-17-2018, 11:28 AM
▶ Total Posts: 17 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 5 (Find All Threads)

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I've danced through castles made of stone
Proud and tall stands the witch of the moor, a mare of warmblood heritage that is so intermingled no one breed's trait is able to be absolutely confirmed. Her facial profile is straight and clean, with crisp sharp features, large eyes and finely pointed ears set high on her poll to give her an alert appearance when her attention is wholly captivated. Her sharp head is set upon an elegant neck that shows a subtle thick arch to it, curving down into a robust chest and a streamlined barrel. Her haunches are thickly muscled yet her topline is nearly perfectly straight with only the gentlest of curve between her withers and hips. Her legs are thick but long, giving her a rather robust appearance when she moves, and her tail sits high, often streams out behind her even at a mere walk.

In terms of coloration she's a silvery grey, a steely grulla with black points and onyx hooves. Her mane and tail are long and silky, easily picked up and tossed by the wind, their strands colored a dark and desaturated lavender, closer to grey than anything else. She bears neither horn nor wing, and as such is rather ordinary in terms of her appearance, though her defining characteristic is the white splash marking upon her face. It both resembles a skull yet does not, with white covering her entire upper face and leaving her lower jaw bare and over her nostrils. Black shows through around her eyes as well in a sort of band around the top of her face and in tear-streak like markings down her cheeks. From that blackness her large, doe-like eyes are barely able to be separated from her coat, their dark lavender depths framed by long and equally dark lashes.

She is a fair mare, if a bit plain when paired beside some of Novus's rather flamboyant inhabitants, yet her beauty lies within the force of the personality within her svelte frame.
I've walked the desert sands alone
Once, long ago, the mare was a girl of summer laughter and spring flower crowns, of passion and music that danced fae-like across dew riddled meadows. Once she had sung with the voices of many, of family and hearth and home. Now she lacks that passion, that wildness, and it has left her a pale mockery of her youth.

Grainne is a poet and a storyteller who's muse has dried away, her lyrical voice silenced as she watched the eras pass and those she loved turn to bone then dust then nothingness. Such timelessness has left her bereft of vitality, making her evolve into a solitary and reclusive creature, for then she does not have to watch the world change around her. Yet as age stole her passion, it too tainted innocence until a fair well of bitterness and moral ambivalence arose within her, greying her judgement and heart that was once so vividly black and white. She is thusly unpredictable in her actions and responses, and as well a poor creature to cross as with her agelessness comes a long memory, and she is not wont to forget a slight to herself or her hospitality when she extends it.

That is not to say, however, her immortality has only soured a bright and beautiful girl into a grey and washed mare. While, in some cases, it has, what it has granted her is knowledge and wisdom in heaping spades that she treasures deeply. She will barter her skills as a healer and craftswoman for further insight, for secrets, confessions, desperate grasps at knowledge to slate her thirst. She is wise in many fields of study, though her heart aligns to the warm earthy scent of herbs and powders, of drying and grinding poultices and boiling potions. Remedies and maladies both she is capable of crafting, and is wont to administer either in measure dependent on how she is treated by the one who seeks her skills. Grainne is a mare who thrives on courtesy, on politeness, and will return good favors in kind... and ill favors thrice so.

Reclusive by choice and not by nature, she almost clings to those who happen across her with a possessive clawed grip as if refusing to let them leave her, and will try to ply her trade to further drag another into her debt, to force them to return to her. Loneliness is an apt word to describe the hole in her heart she seeks to fill, yet with the distance she places between herself and others it is a hole she has dug of her own will and volition and one she must fill with her own realization of her fatal flaw.
I am the voice of the past that will always be
No one quite knows when the skull-marked mare appeared, and elders can only remark that their grandparents and great-grandparents alike could only recall that she has, sporadically, simply always been around. She is a waif who defies age, who walks in shrouded mystery and timelessness, a recluse who few can truly say they know anything about, for she comes and goes as she so pleases and although plays her allegiance to a court, never truly aligns to any of the four reigning dominions of Novus. Thusly, it is hard to pinpoint where the mare's story first begins, for none save her know of her origin or even simply how old she is, for none have asked and she maintains her solitary silence.

Perhaps, then, until such time as her age is known, we shall begin with the most recent of history

Generations past, Grainne took residence within the borders of the Dawn Court, keeping her lair a secret even as she serviced those of the Court who requested her aid. With a mare so shrouded in mystery, it was a surprise to none when one man took a fancy to her, a determined vow to unravel her veil of secrecy and see the mare for who she was. He wooed her, this man, and she granted him her mind and time for he was both handsome and charming, a debonair bachelor who's eyes seemed wholly upon her. He stirred within her embers of a passion long extinguished, he drove her thoughts once more to song and poem and story. He sought her out from crowds, he lavished her in the attention she desired in her heart-of-hearts, and thus when he broke her heart he broke far, far more.

He was declared Sovereign, her blossoming suitor, and he thrived in the role as if he had been born for it, a king in flesh and name and heart. Soon thoughts of Courtly matters and political relations began to grow over the thoughts for the skull-painted witch, the insidious weeds of politics and duty choking the blooming flower of romance until it began to wither and decay. Less and less time he began to spend with her, less and less his eyes sought her from the throng, until she could pass him by with hardly a glance at her pale form. It was no dramatic break, no world-shattering rejection of her affections, but it was her thrice-damned curse she lamented so greatly, for it was no passion that drew them apart, it was time, accursed time. Yet no matter how slow it was, how gentle, his eventual discarding of their blossoming love wounded her, a spear to her heart that once more saw her driven to solitude and her kindling vitality extinguished. She fled the Dawn Court then, seeking solace amongst the desert sands, but to them she was naught more than a wraith in the shadows, a figure who would come and go and whom none could truly say they remembered.

She was there when Zolin all but eradicated the Davke. She bore witness as Zolin fell to the righteous hooves of a mare who bore the hope of the Davke on her shoulders and the winged Maxence ascend in his place for a short reign before he was carried on high to the gods shortly after his reign began. Weary of the tummult of the Day Court, of the brisk warriors and the lack of care in the sun-baked hearts of Solterra's heirs, the witch retreated to the Night Court, to the depths of it's lands and it's misty moors that rang so hauntingly familiar to her.

Grainne had tasted of heartache and of feeling her hopes and desires rise by another's hand and by the same hand brought to ruin. Thus the hedge-witch that dwelled within the Night Court was a mare licking her slow-healing wounds, one unto which caution should be given and, perhaps, a gentle touch.
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▶ Player Name: Tribs (Profile)
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▶ Other Accounts: Tribs, Ammon, Deimos, Diedrich, Tamran, Toussaint,
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To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy

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