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Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 503
▶ Season || Spring
▶ Temp || 43℉ (8℃) - 70℉ (21℃)
▶ Weather || The weather radar really does seem to be off the charts lately...
I wonder what's going on? (#15-19)


Character of the Season

Member of the Season

Thread of the Season
A land of absence
and root and stone

Pair of the Season
Bexley and Acton

Quote of the Season
"And all the while her mind, her blood, her fierce and fearless heart was singing, singing, singing." — Shrike in We're under attack!

see here for nominations


Inactive Character

The Character


▶ Age: 8 [Year 494 Fall]
▶ Gender:
▶ Pronouns: male [he/him/his]
▶ Orientation: Bisexual
▶ Breed: Friesian x
▶ Height: 18 hh hh
▶ Health: 9
▶ Attack: 11
▶ Experience: 10
▶ Signos: 5 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 10-23-2017
▶ Last Visit: 06-11-2018, 04:03 PM
▶ Total Posts: 24 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 3 (Find All Threads)

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"I want to call it my own, to make my anger God's anger. To justify the things I've done."

Hewn from molten rock, the earth's fire still licks over this brute of a stallion's frame, not quite willing to let him go completely. He smoulders in the low light of dusk, and burns in the glory of the sunrise. Indeed, Kaisar is a stallion who commands every ounce of attention and respect from his appearance alone, the sharp lines of his face could cut marble with nary a thought. The scars that litter his rich hide are a testament to his conquests, and a life that has seen many a battlefield, both glorious and harrowing. He is unafraid to wade into the thick of fire and steel, his blood sings with it, simmering beneath the surface and burning in the pits of his eyes.

He is every ounce a warrior as he is a diplomat, the decadent gold he wears is a symbol of office as much as a weakness he has allowed to fester in his breast. He moves with a purpose in his stride, sure and confident. Even the most graceful step Kaisar has taken is done with motive, down to the way his hoof scraped against the stone floor before resting upon it's point.

One of the more unusual features are his eyes. One is the colour of fire at sunrise, the burning wildfire in a brambled forest and the embers which refuse to die in the coldness of the night. The other is a striking blue, a blizzard trapped within the confines of a jewel, the unrelenting storm of the ocean and the flash of lightning overhead.

Most of his mane is cropped short, reaching upwards in blunt stalks the colour of charcoal. However toward the end it grows long again, rolling past a well musculed shoulder. Only his tail has avoided the shears, allowed to grow long and neatly trimmed to blunt ends.

Finally, are his crowns. Ram-like in shape, they curve cruelly and end in tips honed to a blade-like sharpness. The nicks and scrapes which litter their bony visage tell that they too, have been bloodied like the pelt he wears. To many, they are not the most unique horns to ever bless the countenance of an equine, after all, there are more shapely and more vicious weapons out there. However, when paired against the rest of his infamous family, and his own son, they are suddenly not so ordinary. They are a rare oddity that frames him proudly, and accentuate his rugged but handsome features. Stood next to those who also bear the ram-like design, they look like paltry, pitiful knock-offs — doomed to obscurity in the roaring flame that is himself.


Amiable, but Stubborn. Ambitious but Cautious. Ferocious when roused, but Humorous when coaxed. Serious with a penchant for Sarcasm. Deliberately Caustic. Haunted, often Troubled by the grief of his family. Passionate without reserve, War and Love are just different sides of the same coin. Loyal but Exclusive. Glacial, Unforgiving, Unyielding.

The ease in which he enters the room astounds you, the presence of a conqueror, a man hewn from the scriptures you used to read. There is controlled power rippling beneath his scarred pelt, a rugged charm with bleeds into the air as he settles. He is striking in the low light of the room, the candlelight bathes the ruddy hues of his coat and makes him look like he's on fire. Filled with it, and you could believe it. He is molten, his bones must be blackened and smouldering. Such is enough to hitch the breath in your throat, startled and enraptured — caught between retreating from the furnace of a man, or drawing closer at the risk of catching fire.

Just for one moment, you think, the burn will be worth it if he turns his attention on you like that.

It's intense, like the heat of an inferno at the height of summer, like looking into the jaws of a dragon as flame licks along it's maw and illuminates it's sword-like teeth. Or perhaps it's the look in his eyes which captivates you so. They are after all, a window into the soul. A glimpse into secrets and words you'd wish you'd said long ago.

One is the same as he is. It bathes you in it's fiery gaze with hunger. Within it's slitted iris is a man who has seen the drums of war singing against him, and bellowed his own song of valor in return. A man who grins and sends sparks up your spine and turns your bones to lead, the feeling comes rushing back as you stare into those predatory pits. Dragon's jaws, but does it part to unleash flame to erase you from this life, or does the maw close and press close? Let you feel the heat without burning, even if you wouldn't mind. You cannot tell, such is the nature of fire. Ever changing, a comfort in one instance, the enemy in the next. It is a passionate element, it's volatility is it's beauty.

The red of his eye is he rich rumble of his voice at sunset, the usual tone of authority has loosened it's grip, gone with the lowering of Solis magnificence. This side of him you could fall quickly for, others would admire with great envy and pride. He is amiable where he had been stubborn, humorous where his barbed tongue had been coated in acid. When he gives an inch you take a mile, running gleefully with it and he laughs. A laugh so bright that you feel your own bones ignite.

The blue of his other, however, is like a blizzard in deep winter. Glacial. You would not expect such a colour to exist alongside him. Yet it does, for there must be balance in all things, even if you only wish to see the warmth he radiates, both the gentle and all consuming. It is in this eye which reflects the ruin of a man. The cold nights and troubled thoughts which hang like jagged icicles precariously overhead. It happens so easily, so quickly — the fire burns out and in it's place is the screaming arctic winds which whip your skin and shear your cheekbones. There is no warmth when he laughs, it's bitter and cruel. Mocking, severe — it's made to dig deep and prickle your nerves and shred your core to oblivion.

What made that eye so blue? you wonder one night when the chill nips at your heels. Out of sight, you watch him as he lingers on the balcony, like one of the statues in your story books. Rigid, eternal, tormented. You remember the sketches that accompanied the inked words, the valiant heroes immortalized in stone always looked so sorrowful. Even with their crowns of gold, stood on the field of victory, with skulls and broken swords of their enemies at their hooves, their faces are carved with nothing but grief.

Nothing radiates from him, at least nothing pleasant. He is the stone conqueror in these hours. He would spear you if you came too close now, wield those ice lances with expertise and precision that comes with being intimately acquainted with such weapons. He is absent of everything that takes you back to the night where you laughed, just the two of you — he is not so willing to reveal that side of himself to anyone. He must remain a dragon, with a belly full of searing flames. This is the man who stands over the crumpled form of his foes with bitter satisfaction, sometimes it's less bitter and more sweet, or so he's said.

Years, the howling wind sings in answer.


His life has been one of obscure but profound accomplishments. No one knows his true glory, only that he has them in abundance, his scars and experience leave little room for question. Kaisar could indulge many with tales of his life, but he feels as though it is a waste of breath. One merely has to mention his family, and the pieces both fall into place and fade away — after all, it is hard to see the other fires if there is one bigger inferno already sweeping ahead to swallow the land greedily.

On occasion, if he is feeling particularly amiable, he will speak. In that rich baritone he is infamous for, eyes alight with both ice and fire.

He grew up in the shadows, of both his brother and later his nephews, as they stood a top one another's accomplishments and uplifted them in turn, partly he was content with it. Partly, the blood that simmered in his veins turned to magma — seeping into the very marrow of his bones, and the essence of his soul. Kaisar burned with a calculated fury, allowing the smoke of his families victories to envelop him as he carefully moved the piece around his board.

It did not mean he did not partake in full bodied action, quite the contrary — when moved to ire he was explosive, like a volcano he erupted and unleashed his fury. Unforgving in his execution, he burned and then smouldered — as quickly as he appeared he was gone. Slinking back into the shadows with another skull to carve into the base of his immortalization.

The shadows provided him with the perfect staging ground he would spend much of his life marching along, with occasional blazing appearances in the sun. Here he thrived, a battlefield many of his family had been felled by and had come to learn to fear, and if not fear, approach with caution that would see them devoured.

Ironic, he hums with a tone that is not so pleasant — that his family turned out to be their own worst enemy. Rubbed raw by the countless years being the dragon in the shadows, the slights had rubbed his skin into open wounds that scarred beside ones that were more worthy. Or perhaps it is him that turned out to be the dagger in the back. He cannot say, he left before his great house reached it's final song, if it was truly their final moment.

To go back would be madness, smouldering ruins were better left for some sage to honor in their tomes or if there was indeed life. Then what was he? In the face of those he had left behind, he's sure that they too care little for the supposed sentimentality.

What he will say, was leaving Ikaros to lair at the borders of Novus was truly his most terrible chapter. The great beast has been with him since he was but a colt stumbling after his father, with the dragon clutching at his skin and hissing smoke.

It's lessened somewhat by the loyalty of his son, his mother a spectre whom he cannot remember. A son who gazes back with the same eyes as he. Who stands beside him in the quiet hours and says nothing. He wished it was not so, that his flesh and blood, who is his and not his houses, has fallen to the same smoke and shadows as he has. That he's cursed to wear the crowns of their family, rather than his own.

Novus has proved to be an exhilarating chapter so far, leagues apart from what he has known and yet soothing in a way that is so very familiar. An echo which stills his nightly wanderings and draws his gaze. Part of him expects to see his nephew, when he turns his horned head over his shoulder, and sees only darkness.

Active & Parvus Magic

Passive Magic


Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

free joining items:
♛ Dragon Skull mask — a broken off piece of a dragon's skull that's been fashioned into a mask, fastened with gold link chains.
♛ Golden Tail Cuff — A solid gold cuff etched with fiery motifs and set with a single ruby.
♛ Gold Leg Cuff — Fashioned in the image of his former Dragon companion, Ikaros, it coils posessively around his upper front left leg. His eyes are set with dragons breath opal.

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The Player

▶ Player Name: arahvir (Profile)
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cereal cryptid and occasionally artsy.