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Current

Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 502
▶ Season || Winter
▶ Temp || -10℉ (-23℃) to 55℉ (12℃)
▶ Weather || The weather radar really does seem to be off the charts lately...
I wonder what's going on? (#15-19)

Spotlight

Character of the Season
Raymond

Member of the Season
Sid

Thread of the Season
your company's fine but i get on better with mine

Pair of the Season
Somnus and Eulalie

Quote of the Season
"She remembers too well what it means to be free, to take her own fate from the dark places between the stars." — Calliope in Thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

see here for nominations


DISCORD

Florestan
Night Court Youth


The Character


Offline

▶ Age: 2 [Year 500 Summer]
▶ Gender: Male
▶ Pronouns: He/him/his
▶ Orientation: Discovering
▶ Breed: Spanish X
▶ Height: 16.2 hh
▶ Health: 10
▶ Attack: 10
▶ Experience: 10
▶ Signos: 605 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 04-12-2018
▶ Last Visit: 09-16-2018, 05:29 PM
▶ Total Posts: 5 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 2 (Find All Threads)

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the drowned prince

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep?


♦ predominantly spanish, with warmblood and arabian influences
♦ blue roan ∙ pink skin
♦ dark grey-flaxen blonde ombré hair
♦ rain-blue eyes
♦ seashell horn ∙ cloven hooves ∙ fully-haired lion's tail
♦ raindrop striping on back


      Perhaps the first impression he gives you is that of a dancer—he is long and slim, deft sinew strung elegantly ‘round strong bones. Every movement he makes is unintentionally deliberate, graceful, like the trickle of rain down a windowpane or the glistening rush of creek-water tumbling over age-smoothened stone. The Drowned Prince is classically beautiful, a Greco-Roman statue brought to life in tragic shades of blue and grey and white. Dark rivulets stain his topline, lending him the appearance of being perpetually rain-soaked. From slate grey, his coat lightens to pale cream beneath his belly and his legs, causing the skin to be a particularly sunburn-prone shade of pink. His cleft hooves are a sandy color. His hair falls in graceful cascades and curls, starting a dark grey color and gradually fading to pale blonde at the tips.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul—if that was true, Florestan would have drowned a long time ago. His eyes are the color of rain on the ocean, washing away all its impurities. They are sunny tropical seas and frigid mountain lakes at once, capable of swimming with joy, laughter, amusement—but beware, for they can also contain storms. A thick brush of pale eyelashes line his eyes, fluttering with every change of heart, exaggerating their expressiveness.

Florestan’s face is straight-nosed and refined, a dreamy expression often reflected on his pleasant countenance. A slender throat leads to a cresty arching neck, a feature owed to his Spanish heritage. There is no mistaking the rain dancer for anything other than a knight—he is well-balanced and medium-lined, athletic and elegant at once. His unicorn blood manifests in a long spiralling horn made of shell, sandy cloven hooves, and a long lion’s tail. In the winter he grows a beard and feathering on his fetlocks, although it is often shaved for the sake of aesthetics.

Florestan always smells like rain, a feature which persists even in the most arid of places.



Gentle but melancholic; brave but indecisive; sincere but sensitive; compassionate but impressionable; loyal but lost
Personality as of Summer 502
Being only two, Florestan is still a baby in many aspects. He's naive and tender-hearted but lost, and very much questions his self-worth after his mother left him the previous summer. Due to the fact that he spent much of the following year on his own, the colt is unused to the company of others and therefore does not know how to act around his peers. However, if you are somehow able to get past his timidity and awkwardness, you will find a sweet and affectionate boy who only ever wants to please those around him. He's highly impressionable and will cling to any ideology dispensed to him as if it was all commandments imparted by some benevolent god.
He is the water that trickles off the snow during the early spring, encouraging early buds to bloom; he’s the kind of boy to return baby birds to their nests, or feed stray animals behind his mother’s back. There is a certain tenderness to his soul, a gentleness that refuses to dullen despite the whetstone of time. Florestan is guided by a moral compass seemingly engraved into his bones; he will never stray from pursuing true north no matter what blockades and obstacles lie in his path. However, do not mistake his idealism for weakness—he is as deft with the sword as he is with the pen, and finds no moral objection with fighting for what he believes to be just.

Like the element he favors, Florestan is adaptive and flexible—yielding but relentless, transparent but hopelessly deep. He is the rain, capable of being as refreshing as a mid-spring drizzle, but also equally apt to become as furious and relentless as a summer storm, given enough reason. There is a passionate honesty to him, for even after the most violent of storms is followed by clear skies, and it is very unlikely that Florestan will hold a grudge.

Even as a child he had an old soul, more concerned with stories of gallantry and feats of greatness than games or toys. As a result, he will grow to become a idealistic adult who values truth and justice above all else, despite having a tender heart that aches to see the good in everyone. When deciding how to move forward, Florestan looks to honor, beauty, morality and virtue; he is led by the purity of his intent, not by the rewards or punishments that follow his actions.

At his core, Florestan is fundamentally sad. He is acutely aware of the transience of things, whether that be happiness or sadness, beauty or ugliness. This tendency towards melancholy would never keep him from singing or dancing or stargazing—in fact, it only makes him appreciate the beauty in life all the more. However, even in his happiest moments he is always reminded that this too shall end like everything else, in darkness and dust.
Like his mother and her mother before her, Florestan was born in the rain. However, unlike his mother (who was born during a terrible storm), he was baptized by a light summer drizzle that buffeted the sea near where he was born, as gentle and honest as he would one day grow to become.

His arrival had not been expected nor planned. His mother was a nymph, a dryad, as beautiful and fleeting as the first blossoms of spring. Flowers sprang in her wake and grew entwined with her long white hair—sometimes she would twine them in his hair too. His father was a vagabond, a bounty hunter (and that’s all he knew). Once, when Florestan was very young and full of innocence, he asked his mother about him. As soon as the question left his mouth, a shadow of sadness passed over her features, obscuring the lovely lines of her face. He vowed to never ask her again.

In another life, in another land, he might have been a prince for the blood of kings and gods runs through his veins: the Cunning, the Firesword, the Raindancer, the Reaper; but time has long oxidized its blue color to red, so Florestan was born a mere pauper with nothing more than his own hooves and knightly dreams to his name. When he still suckled from his mother’s teat, she would tell him tales of the great deeds done by those before him—conquerors, boy-kings, mercenaries. He took these bedtime stories to heart, internalizing the ideals that his mother passed on to him like it was first milk.

Like all children, Florestan idolized his mother, however (he did not know this then) she was both blessed and cursed with immortality. This meant that if she was his entire life, he would only ever be a footnote in her’s, like a pretty flower she picked off the side of the road—beautiful and amusing and transient and disposable all at once. His mother was as fickle and transient as the flowers she loved so much, prone to following her whims as if they were a trail of petals scattered by the wind. There was always a great divide between them, as if she was afraid to relinquish her heart to him; or perhaps she had been reckless with it before and did not want to be hurt again.

On the eve of his first birthday, she left him and never came back, leaving only a crown of lotus flowers in her place. With tears brimming in his eyes, he unravelled the crown and threaded the flowers in his hair.

Then, he left the only home he ever knew (and would ever know).

For many weeks he wandered through the great wood that encroached his shoreline home, leaving the ocean in order to trace a river’s silver thread through forests and meadow, pine and spring blooms. The only company he had were the birds and the ceaseless drumming of his own hooves. Sometimes, when it rained and the droplets trickled between the verdant leaves, Florestan felt the empty receptacle of his heart fill. Seasons passed; when it began to get colder, Florestan found respite with a small group of other itinerant horses, but he was never able to form any significant bonds with any of them and left as soon as he was able to.

One early summer morning, just as the cicadas were settling into the rhythmic humming of their song, he came across a beautiful pond in the forest’s heart, its surface covered with lily-pads and irises and cat-tails. Sunlight entered the water in columns, glittering jewel-bright on the pristine water. On a whim, Florestan decided to immerse himself in the pristine water. Swimming was one of his favorite past-times—thanks to his coastal upbringing, he was an excellent swimmer. Treetops loomed over the sylvan pool, causing the water to be cool against his warm skin; it lapped away all the dust and grit it had accumulated from months of travelling. Just as he allowed himself to succumb to much needed relaxation, Florestan noticed something odd happen in the center of the pond: the water was rippling continuously, but (apparently) there were no fish or bugs or birds causing it to do so. Curiosity piqued, the colt dared to drift closer, but as he did so, the ripples came in ever-stronger pulses. Before he could react, the ripple became a vortex, devouring surface plants and detritus and fish, as well as a very frightened Florestan. It did not matter how strong of a swimmer he was; the void pulled him ever closer, tugging at his hair like an impatient child. He paddled and flailed frantically, but as exhaustion began to set in, giving into void seemed ever more enticing.

So, he gave in.

Predictably, it all went black.
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reference image – rhiaan @ dA
banner image – retoucher07030 @ dA
pixel – sourful @ dA
avatar image – ballare @ dA profile coding – tribs



The Player

▶ Player Name: krazie (Profile)
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▶ Other Accounts: krazie,
i use way too many em dashes
Florestan's Signature
[Image: UMxjwse.png]
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet



  


RPG-D