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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 Warrior

The Character


▶ Age: 6 [Year 496 Spring]
▶ Gender: Male [he/him/his]
▶ Orientation: bisexual
▶ Breed: Oldenburg x
▶ Height: 17 hh
▶ Health: 9
▶ Attack: 11
▶ Experience: 10
▶ Signos: 190 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 03-20-2018
▶ Last Visit: 11 hours ago
▶ Total Posts: 13 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 0 (Find All Threads)

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There is a softness in his handsomeness, which makes him all the more easier on the eyes. With marble carved cheekbones and a strong jawline, he makes an impression even at rest.

Sun kissed silver bay paints his lithe and muscular body, graceful in his movements with a hint of military precision. It is clear he is built for agility and endurance, rather than brute strength — though you're sure a blow from him will be bone shattering all the same. Careless touches of cream are drizzled upon his legs, forehead, ears and withers like the kiss of winter to the devout and defiant alike.

His mane and tail fall in a lazy mess of ombre curls, abundant and untamed. They are a silvery cream upon the tips and fade to smokey chocolate at the ends, curling this way and that — over his eyes and across the forest floor, even over others if one is close enough and the wind sees fit to cast them to the breeze.

Now his eyes, fanned with long lashes of white gold, are the color of moonstones. Silvery, wispish things which glow with mischief and a joke not yet told. Or perhaps a joke only he is privvy to, spoiled if it so much leaves his lips.

Accompanying him is always the scent of tuberose and chocolate cosmos, in spring and summer he can often be found with some of the flowers braided in his mane and tail, often at the behest of anothers wish.


Charismatic with a Roguish Charm. All boyish Arrogance but hides a keen Cunning. Flippant and often Sarcastic, Serious when it matters and Faithful when it counts. Impulsive and Reckless when angered. Honest, plays a Gallant tune, with a sympathetic note to the downtrodden and defenseless. Hedonistic but has a Loyal heart. Stubborn, and unafraid to dig his heels in when he believes he's right.

Wolf boy with the Rose between his jaws. The Hawk in the forest with the vines 'tween his talons. Renwick is a lover just as much as he is a fighter, his mouth can pour sweetened ichor of honey gold, just as much as it can pour caustic acid made to rub the flesh raw. He's bruises covered with flowers and smiles with sharp eyes.

Outwardly, Renwick is a man who puts forward an air of someone who enjoys a leisurely pursuit in life. Appearing to dance to a much more lighter, sweeter note than most, whether it be reverie, good company or good laugh. Flirting comes naturally to him where most might stutter and stumble. On the flip of the coin, the man is also adept at other dances when smiles and laughter die, and the song fades to black. He has known the song of clashing steel and sang along with it, bared his teeth and become the wolf. He has danced in the throng of the battle, felt the sweat and heat of a body who wishes him dead. Killed a man for less in fact, he might just tell you, over an ale or three.

There are other darker parts of him, his stubbornness to never yield. The impulsive recklessness which sees him leap, teeth bared and sword raised into a crowd who rear to meet him. A tavern brawler who is mistaken for weak, for the flowers in his hair and the perfume he wears.

But, he'd rather not shine a light on those things. Terrible things, he says over the rim of his cup and a sharp glint in his moonstone gaze. No he'd rather focus on his charms, the summer time strolls he so likes to take with good company. Where words flow easy and so do the charms, the times where he'll sit patiently and let fair maids, pretty lads and the young folk braid flowers in his hair. Their favors for him to take with him where ever he goes. The tournaments and jousts he enjoys taking part of, and organizing should the occasion warrant it, which there are few he will comment.

Yet, it is hard to ignore the man is part wolf, especially when you catch his gaze in the low light of the night. Where the brazier warms not only the skin but the soul. Those moonstone eyes, silvery and glowing, change and flit as the breeze does. When eyes lock upon them when Calligo reigns high, the boy is a wolf, with a sharp sharp grin — and sharper teeth.


Would Renwick think himself a bastard? Certainly, after all what is a child born to a consort A lover who is one of many to the keys to the castle? and a disinterested father called? In a proverbial sense of course.

Renwick never met his father, at least in a capacity that he might remember the stallion fondly, at least. He might have stayed long enough to learn his sons name, or give him it, but Renwick highly doubts it. Fortunate it was for him, that his mother tolerated him enough to see the boy fed and waters, tutored and otherwise sheltered. But he felt his mothers regret and bitterness as boy became a man with a hurricane for a heart, she had been set to have everything until some roguish man had swept her off her feet instead.

Now all that was left of that future? A babe who was content to sneak off, enraptured by the jousts and infamous tournaments, and the soldiers who marched the cobblestones. Whose face reminded her so much for the man she thought could of been it.

Renwick, naturally, chose to remain ignorant of his mother's regrets and hang ups. He focused on his future, silver eyes glanced at night hewn armor and the colorful banners in the streets. They focused on those heroes out of legend, the ornaments he would later collect and decorate himself in. More and more, he would slip away and ghost back to lay his head down, often accompanied by roses and flowers in his hair, a bit of blood splattered across his dark lips. It was unsurprising that one day, he asked his mother for a name and with his worldly posessions backed in a satchel, and left.

From there, Renwick threw himself into life. A man without a home, Ren plied his trade as a tournament favorite, the stallion with the flowers in his hair and the sweet smell of summer, the wolf with the rose between his jaws. If there were signos to be made, and favor to be won, you would not find Renwick too far away. In fact, he would be in the thick of it, a grin on his face and lazy curls framing his face — a bruise on his shoulder, a gash on his leg but his purse full. The handsome bastard of festivals and hearts.

It only made sense that he would inevitably find himself conscripted into Rhen's army given the turmoil that lay outside their borders. His agility and grace had made him an asset for much more finer details of war. The War between Zolin and Rhen was a costly, impulsive one that required the Night Court to be deceptive and sly, where Zolin's forces were brutish and relentless. They hunted Solterran war bands by night, stalked them during the day as they moved toward the battlefield. Those that survived (there were always one or two) arrived shaken and demoralized.

It was not all fun and games, for every Solterran they felled, at some point in time, the payment would be returned in kind. A deafening crescendo of give and take, Renwick defied the odds and survived the game time and time again. At least until he witnessed them, terrible little things. The child soldiers, dead eyed with barely a handful of moons behind them. Colts and fillies with no motivation, he had heard of them of course. From the stuttering, dying mouths of half-delerious soldiers addled on adrenaline and the fear of death. How they would come for them all. He'd laughed, in disbelief, but he'd know them by looking. The dying soldier had been right.

He killed a band of them, marching toward the latest point of the War, and then promptly threw down his spear. Out of breath and bleeding, the Knight went home, he put the flowers back in his hair and went back to the lifestyle he knew. He buried his life as a soldier and left it someplace else.

That's where he is now. He's back to his festivals and his tournaments, a bastard still. A bastard with a name and the name of his sire tucked deep in his pockets. Summer flowers in his hair and the sweet smell of tuberose and cosmos wrapped around his chocolate hide. A spear tucked in the corner of the tavern and a purse full of Signos, moonstone eyes beguiling as honey gold pours from his lips.

Active & Parvus Magic

Midas Touch, the ability to turn things into and manipulate, gold.

Passive Magic


A Roc named Rheingold, hatched from an egg and raised by Renwick, Rheingold is a fierce and beautiful thing.

Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

J O I N G I T E M S:

Gold earrings; located in his left ear, circular and in the theme of roses and their thorns.
Gold bracelets; a gift for winning one of his first tournaments, they sit comfortably on his forearms. They feature a direwolf running with a rose in it's jaw.
Gold necklace; a simple gold chain with rose charm and wolf fang pendants.

Agora Items & Awards

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F A M I L Y: numerous siblings via his father, most notably:
Reichenbach the Sovereign of the Night Court.
Cerridwen a Caretaker of the Dawn Court.

The Player

▶ Player Name: arahvir (Profile)
▶ PM Player: Send Message
▶ Email: Send Email
▶ Other Accounts: arahvir, Dovev, Isorath, Satine,
small, fiesty and english. not really fiesty, I just sort of flop around and eat cereal.
Renwick's Signature
[Image: by_fintron_by_arcanums-dc78s94.png]
your contempt will always taste of grief
wolf boy, rose haired
☽ ➴