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Current

Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 502
▶ Season || Spring
▶ Temp || 43℉ (8℃) - 70℉ (21℃)
▶ Weather || The nip of Winter has begun to ebb away, replaced by the gentle embrace of Spring as it ushers in new life. Plant life peeks out from the melting snow and birdsong fills the air once more, calling drowsy residents from their hideaways. Slowly but surely, the continent’s hustle and bustle returns.

Spotlight

Character of the Season
Velorca

Member of the Season
Sparrow

Thread of the Season
A Path of Stars

Pair of the Season
Rhoswen and Raum

Quote of the Season
"Like his companion, he steadies himself with the salt on his tongue, the sharp-sour smell of the sea like a fresh-split oyster. The beach, for him, is like an intersection between dreams and reality: endless, lulling, pungent and terribly dangerous. Realer than anything, and a mystery he will never solve. It is the only un-knowing he has learned to be comfortable with." From This Grand Show is eternal

see here for nominations


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Lysander

Dusk Court Caretaker


The Character


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▶ Age: 7 [Year 495 Spring]
▶ Gender: Male [He/Him/his]
▶ Orientation: Pansexual
▶ Breed: Barb mix
▶ Height: 15.2 hh
▶ Health: 12
▶ Attack: 8
▶ Experience: 10
▶ Signos: 220 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 11-17-2017
▶ Last Visit: Yesterday, 10:32 AM
▶ Total Posts: 15 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 3 (Find All Threads)

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Lysander has taken on a variety of appearances in his long and strange existence, but this incarnation is his flashiest yet. Even so, there are some things about him that have remained steady through the ages and forms.

The first (and the first to snare you) are his eyes. They are green, but the true hue varies: sometimes it’s the bright green of a new leaf, others the dark and dappled shadows of a crooked old wood. Always they are watching, whether bright with laughter or unsettling with intensity.

The other thing that has remained more or less constant is his hair. It’s dark – somewhere between black and brown, depending on the weather, on the season – and tangled with curls and often wound with ivy. It makes him look boyish, winsome and wild – traits that he is well aware of.

His points are dark, with that deeper color up to his elbows, his mouth near-black and quick to grin. He’s built compact and elegant and clearly has old blood in him – Barb, mostly, though there are touches of Akhal Teke and other things even more ancient. His coat is burnished copper-gold with a sheen and dapples in summer. In winter he darkens to something a step off from bay, but always his eyes are the green of spring.

Last are his antler's, the delicate arches of a whitetail deer's, bone-pale against his dark hair.

Lysander is all boyish charm with a feral underbelly; he is a wink and a grin and a promise of more. He is a late spring day that dawns green and lush and ends with a wicked storm.

Above everything else he loves revelry, the dancing and the drums and the drink and the drugs that alter your perception and open the gateway to a higher understanding. Before he was anything else he was the god Dionysus and he has not forgotten it. There is a part of him always longing for death and rebirth; he is fascinated by the knife’s edge between joyous abandon and violence, between the darkest places and the brightest. Ecstasy and madness.

Some say he is a madman, and they are not wrong.

But he is also laughing, loving, loyal even as he tempts and twists you further and further down some nameless path. He finds humor in everything, laughs at what’s both funny and strange, and he is utterly fearless – though, surprisingly, only rarely reckless.

He is never self-conscious, full of confidence without arrogance, and he coaxes others to take confidence in themselves, too.

Lysander is against supreme power and oppression; in some lives he has been a revolutionary pushing for freedom for the common man. As much as he believes in such causes, the promise of chaos also serves to feed the bloodlust that lives in him like a secret under soil.

He is a little vain, though generally this is not an issue. Now, though, he’s in a body that’s aging, a truth that eats at him like a rat gnawing bones. How he deals with such a thing – whether brief bouts of depression or a proclivity for grooming – remains to be seen.

He is both the life of the party and the hangover that comes with morning.

-intelligent / vain -confident / manipulative -fearless / mad -charming / careless -accepting -encouraging

Many, many years and worlds (and quite possibly dimensions) Lysander was born on an ancient island to a mortal and the king of the gods. He wore a different name, back then.

Oh, there are a thousand tales that could be told, then, of death and rebirth and ecstasy and madness. When he was a baby he was ripped apart by the children of the primordial gods, who ate everything but his heart; from that he was recreated and born again. I will not tell you, now, of the bakkheia and the maenads, or his love of all the dryads and their kind, the summer days spent drinking wine, the nights where the wind blew warm off the sea and the dancing and drinking turned to something darker.

He loved it – reveled in it – but eventually he grew bored. That’s what immortality did, even for a god who spent most of his time partying.

And so he gave up his godhood, and his form, and was made a mortal in the world of Ravos.

The trouble was, he still had an eternal view of things in his mind. Even with immortality stripped from him, he was conscious of the other lives he’d lived and unafraid of death. He’s not died since being made mortal – a lucky thing, that – but neither has he gone out of his way to avoid it; his assumption is that he’ll simply return to what he was first.

There is, of course, no one to say whether that is true, which gives everything a precarious (and delightful, to him) extra edge.

In Ravos and then in the Rift he had kept the bulk of his magic; he could make plants grow or wither, bloom and die, bear fruit (grapes and mushrooms, poisons and poultices) and so also retained his abilities to alter the minds of those who were willing.

But the magic in that place was changing. More than that; it was diseased, and that disease was seeping into everything, even the inhabitants. It was time to find a way out – but the how of it was a puzzle.

And then he met a girl with a dagger that could cut open worlds. She was a small thing, then, wings not quite grown in, but her laugh was rich and flowers tumbled from her hair. She snagged his heart and curiosity in a way children usually didn’t, and he kept an eye on her in that strange, sick world.

Until one day, Florentine cut her way out of that world.

Well, it only made sense to step through the tear before it closed and the sickness ate everything left behind.

And so: Novus.

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