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Current

Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 503
▶ Season || Summer
▶ Temp || 74℉ (℃) - 100℉ (℃)
▶ Weather || The weather radar really does seem to be off the charts lately...
I wonder what's going on? (#23-26)

Spotlight

Character of the Season
El Toro

Member of the Season
Griffin

Thread of the Season
Bring Me Thunder; Bring Me Steel

Pair of the Season
Eik and Isra

Quote of the Season
"Her mother lives all in day, her father all in night, and Apolonia straddles the thin, dusky line halving her heart with not so much grace - startling awake in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn, trying to find some way to compromise." — Apolonia in
The Vine & The Rain & The Light

see here for nominations


DISCORD

Isra
Night Court Sovereign


The Character


Offline

▶ Age: 5 [Year 497 Winter]
▶ Gender: Female
▶ Pronouns: she/her/hers
▶ Orientation: Heterosexual
▶ Breed: Thoroughbred x Arabian
▶ Height: 15.1 hh
▶ Health: 20
▶ Attack: 20
▶ Experience: 33
▶ Signos: 945 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 04-04-2018
▶ Last Visit: 12-14-2018, 12:07 AM
▶ Total Posts: 132 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 21 (Find All Threads)

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Isra is still learning this new body, the ways it is different and the ways it is familiar from the one the ocean-god took from her. She is not much taller, and the way she walks still feels the same: long legs that seem hesitant to even strike the ground. But now she is a rich dark bay, almost disappearing on a moonless night, and where once her hair was shorn it now cascades down her neck, black as a raven's wing.

Strangest of all is the horn, tapering to a fine point that she still sometimes catches out the corner of her vision. She is not sure she could ever use it, but she is grateful for it all the same. It's nothing more than another splash of black against all the darkness of her. When the moon is high enough it glitters like pyrite and flashes wickedly where it tapers to a sharp, deadly point.

The only beautiful part of her are the places where the ocean-god left his marks. On her belly there's a dusting of scales. In the right light they are ocean blue with flecks of glittering green that flash like iridescent fly wings. The scales fade out at her legs, swallowed up by the shadows that happily fill in all the sharp edges of her body.

Her eyes too were marked by him. Where they once were a soft, golden brown now they're all blinding, heartbreak blue. They blaze against the plainness of her face, flecked with gold when she gives one her rare smiles. It's the ocean you see in her gaze, a dark haunting sea that prophecies the way she will die in the end.

There is only one reminder left of the life she lived before, the one she tried so hard to end. On her left leg a brittle, rusted chain twists about the hollow birdlike bones of her. It's coasted in brine and in some places dried seaweed clings to the joints of the chains. When she moves the chain rattles and sings, a tolling bell-chime of misery and sadness. The sound it makes haunts her every step she takes.
intelligent / depressed
creative / distant
tragic / quiet
hopeful / ignorant of this world
clever / deep


Isra is more tragic than anything else. She oozes out her sadness, her history and the way that the sky can't quite shine in the way it did before. There is always a cloud around her, a thickness of space and silence that follows her everywhere. Ever a slave (in her soul, where it counts) she sticks to the darkness, to the places where she is forgettable. More often than not when an eye lingers on her for too long or someone's lips tilt into a smile when they see her she runs, fading back into the quiet places where only dust thrives.

She has no idea how to live, not yet and so she lives in silent solitude. Rare are her smiles. Her voice is rusted with brine and misuse. Only the darkness hears her stories now, only the ever-night.

Cleverness is the only way she survives now, taking when she needs and buying when she can. It's a lonely life, this cold and bitter existence of her. But it's the only life she has and so she has forced herself to live it. There are still moments, when the silence is thick as oil and dangerous as quicksand,that she wants to forget it all-- forget she's lived at all.

On she goes day after day in her cycle of eating and sleeping in the dust and decay. She must be a ghost now, she often thinks, a ghost of things that could have been.

Some nights the stories are too great, festering as they do in her broken heart, and she has to whisper to dark nights. The dust scatters with her whispering tales of a world greater than her own (in the moonlight it looks like snowflakes of diamond dust) until the words run like rivers. Isra whispers, unending, until the words dry up and the end of the story leaves a bit of peace in the tundra of her soul

It's been month since she's shared a story with anyone more than the moon and she still avoids the sea when she can. The solitude has taken away some of the hope she had when she came to the Night Court in her new body of beginnings. For while her skin has forgotten all the brutality it's suffered her heart has not and her eyes still see the end over and over again.

Sadness, she thinks, is the only thing she'll ever be.
There's no happiness in the story of Isra. There's no greatness, no hint of prophecy written on her flesh. She has ever been nothing, only a whisper of skin and silk in the lonely darkness. The only thing beautiful about her are the stories that live in her head and sob past her brittle lips during the dawn (before the sun rises when there is no darker blackness).

Isra was born from a slave, a whore who's only jewels were chains and droplets of blood. She was tucked away in the far corners of the brothel, hidden from the violence in dark places where she could hear everything but see nothing. Baptized in the screams and bitter laments of slaves, Isra only knew respite from the hellish brutality of her life in her bright imagination.

Until she was three she would spend her hours whispering tales of heroes and villains and places where light always swallowed up the blackness. The slaves would sit around her in their quiet times and be lost in the grace of her worlds, forgetting if only for a brief time, that they would be better off dead. On she went like that, until the day she turned three.

Then her entire, tiny world fell apart.

Her communion into the brothel was cruel, brutal in a way that few other slaves had ever experienced. That night she was broken, a child made into a adult and shattered all at once. Her body was left battered and wrecked. She was more blood and bone than pure flesh in the morning. While the physical wounds of that night healed and faded her soul never recovered. Isra learned to hate her body, her life, her future and everything in between.

The only peace she had was on the night she would sneak out to the sea and whisper her stories to the sand and surf. During the day the tales would fester in her heart, boil in the blackness behind her closed eyelids as she suffered over and over and over again.

One night, barely a year into her new reality, she decided it was all to much and waded deep, deep into the sea. She thought they heavy weight of her chains and the cold, cold stone of her soul would drag her down, down, down where the world would be silent and blessedly dark. It was the first brave thing Isra had ever done, to welcome the brine into lungs and lips that had only know stories and screaming (so much screaming).

She never knew the primordial god of the sea was there, listening to her whisper beautiful fables night after night. Long ago had she given up on the gods and religions, to her they were cold and cruel and no better than those that bought her flesh over and over again.

But the sea god loved her, the broken woman-child that cooed to the waves until she feel asleep under the moonlight on the cold, hard sands. So when she welcomed death he denied her. He took her down to the darkest places of the sea-floor. There he coated her in his adoration. Her skin made of gold and blood and scars was ripped away. He made her brown (dark enough to be black in the right light) and gave her a horn to protect herself if her broken soul ever decided that it wanted to live, live, live.

Only a chain, rusted from the saltwater remained to remind Isra that she was born a slave. Sometimes, she thinks he only left it to remind her that it's to the sea she'll go in the end. The cerulean scales that lightly dust her belly never let her forget that parts of her soul are still not her own.

Once she was changed, coated in her new plain flesh, the sea washed her out to some strange shore. There boats waited, filled with gold and wares to be traded. Upon one of those boats she stowed away, curled in a dark corner with a wealth that belonged to someone else. There she once again had only her stories to keep her company as the seas took her far, far away.

That is how she finds herself on the docks of the Night Court, plain and easy to overlook under the stars.
Active & Parvus Magic

Transformation


By definition her magic comes closet to the olden legends of alchemy: a seemingly magical process of transformation, creation, or combination. Her magic though relies not on chemistry or science but on imagination. Isra's transformation is a gift from the gods to a story-teller who lives more upon a dreaming sea than she does reality. With a touch (at higher levels a thought) Isra can turn one thing into a another. Stones may turn to glass, leaves to mirrors, ocean rocks to diamonds with only a tap of her horn or a kiss of her lips. The world is her paper, her touch her ink and her imagination the plot.

She can only recreate, never destroy.

Parvus Magic


When she isn't focusing on the world around her Isra tends to loose control of her magic and it makes small changes in the world around her. These are always short-lived transformations and it takes no more than fifteen minutes for the world to return back to how it was. At her hooves grass could become glass, stone could turn to a small bloom of poppies, a branch above her head could become a staff of gold. Even at her highest level these small changes never reach more than three feet from her body.

i. Discipuli


Isra has just discovered the wondrous magic living in her touch. At first it's only a tap of her horn or a press of her lips that can a leaf to a blade of steel. Only small things seem susceptible to the magic of her touch. A tree refuses to be anything but a tree and if she tries maybe only one small inch of bark will smooth to glass or turn to emeralds. At this level she can create small bits of art with her story by begging stone to crumble and reform back into another shape.

Anything too large or grand is far beyond her. Sleep often takes her after using her magic. Often though the world refuses to bend to her imagination and sometimes it becomes something quite different than she imagined.

ii. Vexillum


With long hours of study and practice Isra is learning to better control both her magic and her imagination. Gone are the days of touching a flower while thinking of the sea and turning a fern into seaweed. Large bits if the world still rebel against her and refuse to turn. At this level she might turn a ream of sack-cloth to satin with nothing more than a whisper of her breath. She might turn the bricks of a wall to obsidian one by one, but the whole wall will still refuse to change at once. The earth though is still a fickle thing and Isra often changes mostly inanimate objects because they welcome change much easier than the living do.

She still tires but the hours she must sleep after using her magic are less and less. Rarely do inanimate objects change against her will into something she hasn't though of at all. Living objects larger than a young birch tree are far beyond her skill level.

iii. Periti


Isra's magic comes far easier to her now. She can make the world closest to her seem like a dreamscape with only the tender care of an hour. A birch might become an oak if she asks it too, a shore of sand can turn to a shoreline of crystals and gold-dust. Living creatures no larger than a rabbit have started to respond to her magic but they will always only be a living creature. She could no more ask a lark to become a harp than she could ask the world to stop its turning. But all animals have a will and that will often fights against her magic if she asks an animal to change who possesses no sense of wonder or imagination.

Her magic on living things is weak at best and she still has to sleep for many hours to recover from it's use. Inanimate objects are as easy as breathing and she rarely has to rest after transforming anything smaller than a large, many storied structure. Her control of smaller transformation is near perfect and she is learning how to shape the world like clay.

iii. Dominus


At this level her magic is as perfect as such an art can ever be. The world often eagerly shed's its old form for the new, grand design that she has come up with. Dirt might become glass and stretch up upon itself to make towers that reach hopefully up towards the sky. Trees might bloom not with flowers but gold or glass petals that catch the light like kaleidoscopes. A forest could become a jungle in the area surrounding Isra, a sea a desert.

Living creatures the size of a mountain goat are often gathering around her. A goat could become a small deer or a fish could become a bird. Reality sometimes seems like a suggestion of how things are, not how the world 'could' be. Isra can shape the world into her stories, something as legendary as her fables and almost as eternal. It's only after the largest of changes that exhaustion takes her away now.





Passive Magic





Bonded

Reference Credit

Fable the Sea Dragon


Fable once he is fully grown will be the roughly the size of a two-story building with his wings fully extended vertically. When his wings are folded he will seem smaller. His body is long and serpentine and if he were to stretch himself out in a straight line he would be about 100 ft long. He is made for living in the sea and when he's underwater there are few predators could even come close to the size of him. As an ocean dragon Fable can only use sea water as a weapon, there is no fire in him at all (this is a skill that takes practice and well, he rarely practices doing 'dragon' sort of things).

On land Fable can mostly be found flying or curled around a tower of the Denocte waiting for Isra to take him to the sea or tell him a story. He has little interest in violence and sometimes when he tries to curl up as small as possible it's easy to see that he's almost regretful of his size. The only time he would have any inclination towards violence is the endangerment of Isra or something she loves. He has been raised by a unicorn with more quiet fear than rage in her bones (stories instead of blood).

Sometimes, when he's in the sea, he wonders if the dragon who laid his marble colored egg is out there beyond the world of Novus.

Currently Fable is a newly hatched dragon and it will take him close to a year to grow into his final size. Fresh from his egg Fable almost no longer than Isra's spine and he's roughly 50lbs. This stage however will be fleeting as Fable will do most of his growing in the first two seasons after he's hatched. His hunger is almost constant and there are few fish left to find in Denocte at this stage of his life.

Isra is just now starting to see hints of the adolescent dragon he is soon to become.



Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

A small delicate chain that's mostly rust now twirls around her front left leg.


Agora Items & Awards



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Miscellaneous



The Player

▶ Player Name: nestle (Profile)
▶ PM Player: Send Message
▶ Email: Send Email
▶ Other Accounts: nestle, Calliope, Veer,
An old school, lazy writer who has been playing horses for far too long.


  


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