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▶ 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!

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  find life in the swan's breath
Posted by: Isra - 11-13-2018, 01:18 PM - Forum: Vitreus Lake - Replies (1)

Isra who begged water to dream

" I have thought some dreams should never be dreamt, but I would hate a world where that was true.” 

The waters of the lake look less like mirror glass in the daylight when they are green with algae instead of silver-dark. Whippoorwills tickle at her belly and the round rock feels as flat as coins beneath her hooves.  Sometimes her eyes catch on the pale pink of a conch between the gray rocks and other times she smiles to watch a crab that does not belong catch a tadpole. 

Behind her there still lingers the traces of war but also the traces of something else and it all catches in the sunlight like rusted metal and stained glass. When Isra turns to look with just a fragment of fear tightening down her spine she feels as if she's looking only at the corpse of a story. 

“That just will not do.” She says to herself while she begs that silver pool of magic in her bones and below to her soul rise like the sea and drip from her like rain.

 Someday she will tell the court it came to her in a dream. One night she'll tell a gray stallion that it really came to her when she flew and sailed on and over a sea that lived in a universes where there were only two creatures alive to walk the shores. Someday, she thinks, she will share this thing with Eik. 

If she can figure how to bring it to the real from the deep dark of her dreams. 

And so Isra wades into the water and her skin shivers for the needles of cold that sink past her skin and into her bones. It will help keep me awake, she thinks.

 Beneath the waterline where her hooves sink into the soft waterbed the soil melts like molten metal and turns to textured gold cut through with dapples of wood. The metal and the wood stretch out behind her, back to the shore like a path to a dream space that lives only beneath the surface of the still water. There it fans out and diamonds rise up from the soil like plants to line the edges of the pathway. 

Then Isra begs the water to change, to turn to mirrors instead of liquid and curl around her like a rib-cage. She begs until sweat pools above her eyes and along her spine. But try as she might the water refuses to listen and only the soil seems eager to dream of another existence.


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Posted by: Vincent - 11-12-2018, 10:21 PM - Forum: Accepted - Replies (1)

Character Application

Player: @Apothic
Referred By: 
Characters: @Blyse
Are all characters active? Yes
When was your last character approved? 10-28-2018
Have you filled out the "OOC Account ID" Field? Yes

Name: Vincent
Age: 10
Birth season: SUMMER
Court: DAY
Rank: Commoner

Health: 5
Attack: 15

Items: Passive Magic && One Mutation 
Item Explanation: Passive does not need to tie to court values
Incentives: Passive Magic Incentive


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  screaming the name of a foreigner's god
Posted by: Blyse - 11-12-2018, 05:22 PM - Forum: Rapax River - No Replies

heaven and hell
are just words to me
Darkness came early to Novus, announcing its reasons with screaming wind and distant thunder that hushed every living thing within Blyse’s earshot.  He felt as if he was the only creature alive then, acutely aware of each graceless step he took by the riot it produced against the silence.  Only the wind kept him company, running its chilling fingers through his tangled, ivory hair as it howled around the curves of his body praying for his steps to falter.  It seemed to push him back, willing him to go back where he came from—whether just to the mountains or back across the sea he did not know, but he simply ignored it over the deafening sound of his intuition telling him to press forward.  

Novus had produced an abundance of mixed-messages for him since he arrived.  Some he catered to, others he called a bluff—really there was no rhyme or reason to either choice, just instinct…or faith, perhaps.  Truth be told, he did not care much for that word or its meaning. It called for the murder of logic and control and many things in which he held in high regard.  But this new land called for some level of faith; Gods by their very nature demanded it.

Blyse drew his eyes up to the heavens, casting an ireful glance towards to the sea of boisterous black clouds that threatened the earth with its promise of perpetual darkness.  It was, in its own way, a form of prayer—but not one that would please any God.  His prayer was a demand for retribution without sacrifice.  He desired a place in this new world and a purpose, but one that did not intermingle with celestial beings he did not wish to give his devotion to.

In a seeming expression of reprisal there came a surge of lightening, so bright it forced Blyse to pull his eyes closed in reflex.  The roar of thunder came tumbling slowly after, rattling the earth to her very bones.  What is it that they say?  Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn?   Yes, scorn would nicely define it, if coincidence would not suffice.

The  backlash was quickly followed by the sound of a downpour creeping toward him from across the vale.  Blyse watched as it raced across the river and through the fields; watched as the high grass bowed to the torrent and the trees turned over the last of their leaves to welcome it.  It was strange to see rain move like that, like a curtain drawn over the earth.  And then it washed over his body, drenching his wings and permitting the coldness to penetrate his mahogany coat to slide its icy fingers against along his spine.  He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, before taking his leave of the open fields to find a bit of cover in the mouth of a nearby cavern that lined the hillside.

@Sparrow // Bring whoever you like ❤  we’re just standing in a field getting rained on and feeling cynical today apparently.

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  pull out your heart to make it easy;
Posted by: Isra - 11-11-2018, 06:18 PM - Forum: The Night Markets - No Replies

Isra of the embers

"and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other.” 

It is a strange thing, Isra thinks, to see the night start to fade against the thin strip of blue across the horizon. All the bonfires have dimmed to soot and smoke. The treasures of the night markets have been locked up or tucked away beneath curtains of silk and shrouds of burlap. She watches the last of the court yawn, turn away and make their way back to their downy pillows and gold-dusted dreams. 

Soon almost every else but her is gone, just as the pinks and colds crest above that thin cold blue strip of day. In the solitude her skin feels too tight. Isra thinks there could be a million caterpillars changing beneath her skin for the way that her flesh seems to stretch and itch and burn. And so she paces through the quiet pathways, a lone sentinel guarding the night from the heat of the day.  

It's only when the black turns to golds and yellows that Isra lifts her eyes and realizes that she's not alone at all. Ahead another wanders the streets, darker than her against all the daylight. Isra wonders, as she draws closer, if the other mare feels like there is a beast alive beneath her skin. She wonders what keeps Katniss from dreaming away the day with the majority of the court. 

“Katniss.” She calls out and the wind whistles out a song between the curling hollows of her horn. When she draws close enough her lips twist in a smile as fragile as paper wings. Everything is different in the daylight and their last meeting was filled only with darkness, storm-clouds and a thing circling above their heads.

 Isra cannot help but think that the mare looks larger in the light when there are no shadows to swallow up her edges. 

“How have you been?” Her voice is a quiet thing, thick with the start of tiredness and lingering dreams. She hopes that perhaps they might not be strangers much longer, that they might soon share something more than a dark cave and a story without an end. 


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  Skymail, pt. 2
Posted by: Somnus - 11-09-2018, 12:40 AM - Forum: The Dusk Court - Replies (1)

stay determined
Dawn heralds a solitary figure roosting upon a balcony balustrade of Terrastella’s capitol. A tawny-colored barn owl rests from a long journey, a sealed scroll tied with fine leather cord about one of her legs. She waits, watching with beady black eyes until the one she is searching for arrives.
The order had been clear, and she had promised to uphold it. No one but the Dusk Sovereign shall remove the scroll from her leg, and Alba had every intention on keeping such a promise. Whenever a curious equine would plan on approaching, smitten by the fine-feathered barn owl with a curious letter, Alba would balk, large mottled wings spreading outwards to beat furiously at the air as loud ’pops!’ came from her beak.
No one but Asterion, for the delicately penned words scripted inside held far too intimate of knowledge for just anyone to know.
’Dear King Asterion –
Greetings from Delumine proper. I pray that this correspondence finds yourself and your Court within fine health and far better conditions than our last exchange. Slowly the fires to the north grow smaller, and I believe that we are ever closer to finding and ending the source of our smoke-laden plague.
I pray that Vespera and Oriens both bless your land, and that you and yours recovery swiftly and with little travesty. Soon, my friend, I hope that we can exchange pleasantries in person rather than by ink, parchment, and wings. Regardless, I have written to implore your kindness, and the possible mercy of a friend and ally both.
My son is ill. He was born small and frail this autumn-past, and I fear the fires have only made his condition worsen. Delumine’s most talented of healers cannot aid him despite their best efforts, and I am searching now not as one King to another, but a desperate father to a friend. I understand that your healers are needed on your home front, as Terrastella has suffered greatly these weeks past, but I beseech you spare the wisdom and talent of even a single medic.
I have heard rumors of your great Shamans and knowledgeable Potion-Brewers. Traditional medicine and prayers have offered no reprieve for my son, and I fear that if I do not act soon, we will lose him. His mother nor I would survive such a loss. I cannot allow it to happen.
Please understand, we have little to trade in such dire times, but I swear upon my crown and upon Oriens’ great mercy and wisdom, that compensation will be made. Be it coin or resources, I will provide whatever I can.
Alba has seen this letter safely to you. I beg you allow her to rest and recover, but she is strong and able-bodied. I know you are busy, my friend. I know that you are all mourning and recovering, but please take a moment and write back as soon as you can.
I will be patiently waiting.
Best regards, your friend and ally,




Open to everyone else, as well, but Alba will only give the letter to Asterion. :D What he does with it afterwards is up to him.

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Posted by: Seraphina - 11-08-2018, 06:44 PM - Forum: The Day Court - Replies (1)

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

and she spoke words that would melt in your hands
and she spoke words of wisdom

Salt and brine bite at the mare’s lips almost as sharply as the cold as she stands on the edge of one of the ancient wooden docks that border the sea, staring out at the tumultuous, depthless grey surface of the Terminus. The waves are up today, splashing cold water across the already-slick wood in a foaming spray, but, in spite of the cold and the poor weather, – Seraphina thinks that she can smell a storm in the distance, if the wisps of dark clouds hovering at the far edges of the waves are any indication, and, for the gods’ sake, that’s the last thing they need – figures swarm around the docks. A group of children, no more than a few months old, play fight near the edge of the pier; a big, sand-colored colt shrieks and flutters his feathered wings in a childish mimicry of a teryr, and a trio of brave guards, led by a small, quick commander lead the fight against him. One of the guards steps too close to the edge and slips, nearly careening over the edge and falling into the waves below, but she steps forward in one smooth stride and closes the space between them, pressing her dark muzzle into his side and pushing him upright. He stares up at her, brilliantly green eyes wide with alarm, and, edging away, mutters his sheepish thanks. His eyes linger on her collar for a fraction of a second.

“Mmm,” comes her noncommittal response. “Just be careful.” The small group nods, as though she is chiding them, and they quickly back away from the edges, towards the sandstone roads that border the maze of piers. A far better place for them to play, she thinks, though she has the feeling that she’d scared them off – although the queen had been in her role for the better part of two years, now, she had the feeling that she’d gotten no better at setting her people at ease. None of them knew her, here, and she could take some comfort in the quiet that her anonymity provided, but, then, all that they knew of her was around her neck. The children might know whispers of what the thin band of silver represented, but they could not know how grateful she was that their stares did not hold the same fear and apprehension that she’d grown so accustomed to in the past – they could not know that, rather than filling her with a certain sternness, that it delighted her in some passive way to see them simply playing along the docks, that they only played at war, rather than fighting it themselves, that they, though poor, perhaps orphaned, wore no collars around their necks. It was surprising, she thought, to see how quickly the past became something inconceivable, at least to the young.

The wind twisted through her long masses of white hair, brushing it into her eyes, and she cursed herself inwardly for leaving it loose that morning. Her eyes linger for a moment longer on the children, and she wonders how they’re handling the cold – if they have been ushered to shelter from it, or, as children thrown out on the street often do, they shy away from authority and stay in the cold. Her gaze catches on a passing sailor, and, with a flick of her snowy tail, she strides towards him. He stands alert at her approach, snorting.

“Do you know those children?” Her tone is cool and eerie – a question in phrasing but not in intonation.

“Only in passing.” His accent, she notes, is foreign; she wonders from where he hails. “The sandy one – his mater used to care for the bunch of them. But now she’s dead. Solis knows what happened.” He eyes her suspiciously. “Why do you ask, lass?”

“It’s cold, to leave them out on the streets,” she says, simply, and brushes on past him without another word. She’ll send someone to fetch them tonight, if they can find them; it’s dangerous for children to be out on their own. (Gods know there are still slavers about, and this snow…) The guards can take them to shelter, though she knows that it’s a flip of the coin if they stay. Children like that don’t trust authority.

Exhaling clouds of glistening white, she continues her patrol down the docks.


notes | hello friend I am rusty
tags | @Elif


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  in dreams of darkest creation
Posted by: Rhoswen - 11-08-2018, 05:57 PM - Forum: Veneror Peak - Replies (1)

[Image: commission9-by-ameameridian-dchoc51-by-o...chp7gz.png]
In the heavy blue she moved. The cacophonous red pacing of her unholy heart thrashed against the silence that held a finger to her lips, ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR, over and over again in the heartbreaking hum of a collision that unfolded before her eyes a thousand times and back again. Where did her mind end and the blood begin? What, in this chaos - in this solitude, had she become? It was a question she could not face for fear of the answers that lay in its wake. The glasshewn threads holding her together glinted in the moonlight, revealing a skeleton filled with a cyclonic emptiness that rattled between the hollow of her bones, left alone to scream into the night without a soul to hear its plight. For was not that the nature of grief? To drain the very light from one's life and leave them with only the husk of their flesh and skin, damned to wander this dark barren earth with only their perforated honeycomb memories. 

The mountain had been calling her name. Rhoswen, it whispered at the birth of every new moon, Rhoswen, it hummed in the floodlight of the sun. At first it had been easy to ignore: it had been nothing but an itch at the back of her neck. But slowly it had grown into a plague that set her body aflame. And for the first time in a long time the woman felt something beyond the eternal grey torpor that had woven its way into her very essence. What that feeling was she could not, would not, name. And from the shadows she had come; patiently, obediently. The violet blush of a new dawn had begun to bloom by the time she reached Veneror's foothills, and the kaleidoscopic light fractured in such a way behind the mountain's crest that it almost broke her heart to gaze upon it. 

"I am here. I have come."

ooc -- uhhh so this is tiny and all over the place (like me atm) but pls bear with me! rhos has been awol up till now, anyone feel free to jump in!

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  hit me like that snare;
Posted by: Acton - 11-08-2018, 02:14 PM - Forum: The Day Court - Replies (1)


How good it felt, the sun hot enough to make his coat shiny with sweat, the sand in his teeth. Acton had never been made for the cold. 

Neither, of course, had Solterra. Just to see it back to the way it ought to be (painfully bright, each eye he met glittering with challenge) felt like a good omen, like maybe everything could go back to normal. Never mind that normal had once meant war

All this to say Acton felt more alive than he had in months as he clattered his way across the bazaar, looking for Bexley. 

He missed her more than he missed the Crows, more than Reichenbach, more than knowing his place in the underbelly hierarchy of the Night Court. He missed her the way he missed who he used to be, before everything went sideways. 

What a relief it was to feel his heart kick back into that battle-drum rhythm the moment he saw her, talking to some poor messenger with a look that could singe a lion. It was a lucky thing whatever business they had concluded by the time Acton arrived at her side; he wasn’t the kind to stand politely by. 

Nor was he worried about the stares of others (more likely that he enjoyed them) as he pressed his muzzle to the crook of her neck like he needed to touch her, breathe her in, just to make sure she was real. 

“Been a while, Goldilocks,” he said at last between his grin, pulling away only enough to meet the bright glass blue of her eye. “Figured you’d been missing me long enough.”

the moth don't care when he sees the flame
he might get burned, but he's in the game


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  decay will feed the bloom
Posted by: Basileios - 11-07-2018, 02:31 AM - Forum: The Day Court - Replies (1)

Truth be told, Basil was adjusting to their status with more alacrity than they thought they'd possessed. It was difficult, of course, to remember that they were no longer the shrinking violet who prayed their presence went unnoticed; every habit was hard to break, and this was no different. Each step was a lesson in projecting poise, but now it become a lesson in command while poised. It felt akin to balancing on a tightrope — too callous and they would face the same violence their parents and cousins had met; too soft and their remaining family members would devour them alive.

Perhaps some day, in the distant future, there would come a day when Basileios held more pride in their status and less constrained dread. It might be a long ways off, obscured by the clouds of uncertainty, but it was there alongside it's faithful steed, Hope.

For now, Basil hefts their heavy load of scrolls, some of them flecked with unsavory brownish stains, towards the Court's libraries. The scrolls are some of Azhade's oldest and, though their stories are likely duplicates, Basil would rather the historians have a chance to search through them than condemn useful information to the sands of time. It is good luck, or poor luck, that as Basil is trotting along, head down to make sure they don't lose any of their precious cargo, that dark, striped legs swim into view— their abrupt skid to a halt tumbles several scrolls from their grasp.

"Sorry—" they sputter, narrowly missing colliding with the legs' owner, as they scramble to pick up the dusty tomes. "Oh— I was so worried— No, they're okay," they nervously reassure themself before their brain catches up with them. "O-oh. Seraphina. Um, good afternoon," they manage, after a moment spent gaping, ears sinking as they sketch out a bow before their sovereign. Seraphina elicits more than just nervous awe from them— her silver collar evokes that particular shame that surrounds their family's part in the regime that strangled so many young lives. Looking like a blundering idiot in front of the person they so desperately wanted to impress was only half their flustered state.

Basileous shyly looks down, away, at the tile that is suddenly more interesting than Seraphina. "I'm sorry, it was rude of me to go scrambling around," they apologize again, slipping so easily back into the reserved, wallflower persona that had kept them safe from their family's notice.


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  Affiliate Update: Fimbulvetr
Posted by: Fimbulvetr Staff - 11-05-2018, 07:42 PM - Forum: OOC Threads - Replies (1)

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