It’s been great to see everyone taking advantage of the extra quest opportunities and everyone’s characters getting decked out in perks. However, this has created a massive, on-going backlog of quests that’s gotten pretty hard to handle with all of the other staff responsibilities. So we’ve decided to turn to all of you wonderful writers for help! ♥
(Plus freeing up some staff time will allow us to work on some really awesome ideas we have planned....)le gasp
To help us get caught up we will be looking for volunteers to help write some of the interactive quests that still need to be done. This is open to anyone! We will be assigning the quests randomly and no one will be asked to write their own. Each assigned quest will be given a time limit for completion of 2 weeks, but completing a quest in 1 week will earn an extra ‘bonus’. Once you have finished your quest and everyone has had a chance to volunteer - second quests can be asked for, provided there are any left.
Thank you all for being the most amazing community that makes us all feel comfortable enough to reach out for help. We love you all! ♥
What You Will Earn
For a quest completed in 1 week you will earn: 300 signos + 2EXP to any (1) character
For a quest completed in 2 weeks you will earn: 200 signos + 1EXP to any (1) character
For a quest completed in 3 weeks you will earn: 100 signos Compare this to the normal 5 signos for an IC post!
Guidelines
If the member who you're writing the quest for has specific parameters requested, please make sure to follow them! When you are assigned a quest, staff will send you the link to the member's restricted item redemption with all this information.
Please keep in mind when writing your assigned quest, that the replies will have to be 500 words. The quest itself that you're writing can be lower than this, but need to have enough going on in them to make a 500-word reply possible.
Finished quests will be sent to @inkbone for approval and posting from the Random Event Account - however, we will give you credit on the actual post for writing it. So you may include a small note for us to add if you wish!
If you’re stuck on ideas, anyone on the staff team will be happy to provide and brainstorm ideas. Just shoot them a message!
If you wish to include the actual Gods in any of the quests, please message and discuss with staff first.
How to Get Started
To volunteer for a quest please message @inkbone either on discord or through Novus.
He has grown used to how the carpet of the Scarab swallows his footsteps -- he is soundless as he treads each careful step towards where Aghavni had pointed him, those few days ago, when they had discussed his employment and his sponsorship through the Scarab -- go to Vikander, she had suggested even as she had pointed out the way to his new living quarters, and finally he had settled in enough that he felt he could seek out the magician.
The door itself is easy enough to find, just down the hall from his own -- and he hesitates before it, his tail twitching uncertainly between his ankles, before reaching out and gently tapping upon the door with his horn, tap tap tap, quiet as a mouse and unwilling to disturb the man inside if he were doing serious research. Even when he strains his ears, he catches no sounds of life inside except for the occasional rustling of a page being turned -- he waits a few minutes and then tap tap taps at the door again, delicately, afraid to be a bother, and his tail twines around his ankle as the seconds tick by.
When there is still no answer, he decides that he will wait here until the man inside emerges -- he settles himself in the hallway with a deck of cards that he pulls from his satchel, dealing himself a hand of solitaire, and every so often his tail twitches into a soft pap pap against @Vikander's door as he concentrates.
In the marbled expanse of her bathing chamber, Llewelyn’s voice carried easily into the adjoining parlor and bedroom. She stood before a massive, gold framed mirror mounted on the polished porcelain wall adjacent to the doorway. There, she recited from memory the definitions and rules that had been drilled into her by tutors and instructors over her lifetime.
“The customary code of polite behavior in society or among members of a particular profession or group.”
Llewelyn turned slightly in the glow cast by the faery orbs and candles, checking the symmetry of lines as she painted her customary golden accents over the skin of her two front legs. It was something that she had been doing since she was but a filly, having found the pattern in a tome from her father’s study. As a youth, she had found the solid lines and symmetry both fascinating and comforting, and now the application of the accessory was as much part of Llewelyn as her imperious nature.
“Ladies should walk erect, with dignity, neither trotting nor running, nor dallying; with their eyes hooded and demure.”
Smiling thinly at her reflection, Llewelyn released her telekinetic hold on the mink-hair and cherrywood paintbrush that she had been using and left it, along with the small jar of gold paint, upon the lip of her massive soaking tub. The maids, when they came twenty minutes after the femme left her chambers for the day, would tidy clean the brush for tomorrow and place it in the same position for Llewelyn’s pre-dawn use. Lifting her left front leg and rotating it just enough to see the gilded appliqué shimmer beneath the candlelight, the maiden sighed blissfully and turned toward the arched doorway leading to the sitting room.
Stepping into the chamber, dark hooves pressing into a plush emerald rug, the youthful mare quirked a brow, noting the blaring lack of her most cherished - and most resented - companion. Was he somewhere else in her apartments? He had never been late for their weekly dawn tea before. She cast a glance at the horizon through the windows that lead to her balcony and felt the unfamiliar pinch of worry in her chest - the sky to the east was brightening from black to a slate grey; there wasn’t much time.
Swallowing and pursing her lips, Llewelyn made her way to one of two overstuffed cushions that accompanied a low mahogany table and perched upon it. The lines in her body were tense, where was he? The Lady did not like being saddled with uncertainty, and the sensation felt like oil, thick and slimy, oozing through her veins. Calming breaths did little to soothe her nerves, and rearranging the tea service set for two had begun to feel more like nervous fiddling than anything else.
Releasing the gold-dipped ceramic teapot with a huff, Llewelyn took to murmuring more lines from her etiquette instructors as she waited, hoping that the familiar syllables and rhythmic lines would help calm her near-frantic thoughts.
“A Lady may accept whatever gift from another that may be useful in the care of her person, or may look charming, or may remind her of her companions, providing, however, that in accepting the gift it is clear that she is acting quite without avarice...”
It was strange how much of life was dependent on each respective deity, and how the mindset about each deity was one of absolution.
The sun could rise, yes, Oriens made sure to wrench it from slumber each day, wresting the magnificent star from it’s bed beyond the eastern horizon. From there, he shuttled that unwieldy orb across the heavens - but only to a certain point. At that moment, when the last drop of dawn gave way to daylight proper, Orien’s brother-god would heft the unwieldy disc from the Dawn’s back and carry it on to evening.
So, too, was Vespera’s assistance a necessary ingredient to the lives of mortals, for who else could be trusted with the care of the weakening sun? The brothers, for all their immortal wisdom and might, didn’t contain the gentle, matronly touch that was gifted by the Healer of the cosmos. For millennia, those first three had worked together to shepherd the grand burning globe that was Novus’ sun back and forth across rainbow skies. Even the outcast sister, the half-blood Caligo, played her part in preserving the movement of time and nature.
Yet, the mortal children of timeless beings still bickered and spat over their preferred god-sibling, heralding whichever was better or more important to the survival of equine kind. It seems that they would never learn, no matter the tomes and scrolls preaching the values of unity and the chaos of a nation divided, mortals were too arrogant and too petty to listen to the past.
It seemed to Llewelyn that they were all doomed. She scoffed, what a joke.
Not that anything truly mattered in the long term, she supposed, and proceeded to mentally wash herself of the thoughts; shaking them away like so many flies.
Regardless of the populace’s — or even her own — opinions on religion, she presented the image of a proper little lady; pious and devout in her faith, even when her faith was chosen for her before birth.
It was that same faith that had landed the mare in her current location; Illuster Meadows provided the easiest footing and quickest route through Delumine to the cathedral housed upon Veneror Peak, and Llewelyn had never been one for anything but easy footing.
Moving through the meadow, it’s flora slumbering beneath a generous blanket of snow, the maiden made sure to make her way along the path carved by the hooves of those before her - she was intelligent, but she was no ranger, and could easily find herself lost within the porcelain expanse. Sound seemed muffled within the snow, and the light crunching of her hooves and the soft huff puff of her breath were her only companions. Pursing her lips, the Lady found herself momentarily grateful for the plush emerald cloak cushioning her skin against the cold.
She wasn’t grateful for the maid that had brought it to her before she left and insisted that the scribe wear it, mind you; no, that was the servant’s job, why would she be thankful for something that could be expected? Indeed, Llewelyn was a busy mare, she had better things to do than prostrate herself in thanks for some lowly maid; she saw that the girl was fed, wasn’t that enough?
Heavily tressed tail undulating behind her, strands held carefully above the snow, Llewelyn continued her travels as if it were nothing more than a spring stroll, effortlessly effortless in her pursuit of elegance.
the huntsman drew off the wolf's skin and went home with it
S
moke clings to him like a second skin, its touch warm and lingering. The golden ring upon his horn is bright and shiny, as if it too, is laughing into the night.
But oh, his eyes laugh the loudest.
They’re greener than the sea that the city sits beside, especially on this moonless, godless night. Tonight he is the only god that matters, a god of fire and smoke and deceit. He was as bright as Solis, as clever as Oriens, and he had the same darkness as Caligo. Untouchable, or so his mind had convinced him.
The roar of the flames and the shouts of horses fell away behind him, but he could still feel the heat flushing his cheeks. Let them try and stop it, his thoughts were wild, wicked things that flew through his mind at the speed of light. None of them are fireproof. He doesn’t know yet who would fall victims to the flames, if anyone did - nor does he care. His role in the destruction is done. The citizens of Denocte could do what they wanted with the aftermath.
He had not stopped to look back for Abel. They had arrived too quickly, faster than he had thought they would, and the first mare had run at him without hesitation. He supposed he should consider himself lucky; it had not been him, after all. But he would thank his skill for that, and the golden charm that had turned him into a ghost. Perhaps it was for the best; Toulouse had seen the conflict in Abel’s eyes. The boy could lie with his mouth, but not with his body. Denocte was still his home,
He had released the enchantment not far from the fires; Raum may have preferred him to wait until he was safely out of the city, but the silver king wasn’t here tonight to tell him so. Toulouse was alone, and he fully intended to revel in knowing so.
Ducking through an alley, Toulouse weaves through the darkness and reappears back on the main streets. A single street lamp casts its pale yellow glow upon his back, bringing life and color back to his frame.
For a moment he’s still, basking in the lamplight. Behind him the city is in chaos, flames more beautiful than any sand dune in Solterra dancing the night away. He’s tempted, dangerously so, to go back and watch - to even help, just so he can be there to witness his work. The wind plays with his hair, tugging him back the way he’d come, convincing him to return…
But he shakes his head. His diamond-shod hooves sing sweetly against the cobblestones with every meandering step he takes. There was time yet before he had to leave for the lake, where all those who made it out clean would meet up. He knew at least one man who wouldn’t be there, and one who would, but he would have to wait and see who else joined him at the silver water’s shore.
He had time to wander until then.
And wander he would, while smoke choked the cloudy sky behind him, not a star in sight to witness the smile hiding upon his lips.
Anzhelo | "speaks" | notes: something short to get us started!
IF YOU CATCH THE TRAIN TO NOWHERE, YOU'LL FIND THE STRANGEST MAN I'VE EVER MET. WHO CLAIMED HIS EARS WERE RINGING WITH THE SOUND OF HIS REGRET, BACK THEN TIME HAD NOT YET TAUGHT ME, REGRET WAS NOT THE SOUND I KNEW, SO I THOUGHT NOTHING MORE OF SILENCE WAS LEFT BY THINGS YOU DIDN'T DO.
It was a quiet, pleasant night, where the air was just cold enough to nip at noses and ears but it was not quite painful, not quite offensive, just chilly enough to frost the ground and fill the city with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting pecans. It was serenely, tranquilly quiet, as the Dusk Court often was.
At least, until the doorway of one of Tucson’s frequented taverns opened and the warm light poured out. Along with it came the muted chatter of the guests within, and Tucson’s far less muted—one might even say howling—protest. ”What’dya mean I was disrupting’ the peace’? Again?” Tucson crowed, audibly, as he was ushered out by none other than the owner herself, Maurice. She was a stern draft cross, with curved ram horns and grey coat dappled in green, who was taking none of his nonsense. ”Come again next week, when you’ve learned to behave yourself,” she chastised, and the door slammed behind him.
The warm atmosphere of the tavern was abruptly replaced by winter’’s pinching, prevalent fingers. Tucson shivered and shook himself out, to include his membranous wings, mumbling under his breath. ”S’me joint, that.” It wasn’t as though he had been the only incriminating figure! For the sake of the almighty gods and goddesses, those scoundrels had put him up to the task! Tucson should’ve known better, then rise to the jest of his fellow Dusk Court soldiers. It had been the music! The live band had picked something besides what might have been Courtly proper, and the soldiers had gone to hollering. Tucson couldn’t help but climb up on the table and dance, clumsily spilling the contents upon his compatriots, the ground, and possibly the barmaid.
He stood listening to the din inside for a moment, but the ruckus had calmed down significantly with his impromptu exit. It just wasn’t right, Tucson thought, that a tavern could kick him out for something as innocent as table dancing. Back home, you could shoot a man and still get served—
Tucson caught himself and attempted—successful or unsuccessful was yet to be decided—to somber his thoughts. I ain’t home, Tucson reminded himself. He was Courtly now, and Shane would have died laughing at the thought. Tucson glanced back at the tavern and then began to move down the street, swerving slightly, as he headed toward the next bar he could think of… turns out, however, one did not come readily to mind. This tavern was established close to the soldier’s quarters, and made quite a bit of profit of serving the young men and women…Ah, damn.
The stallion turned around, snuck through the alleyway to the back, and whistled at the cook through the rear door, which was open to let the heat of the kitchen escape. ”’Ey, Scotts, c’n ‘ya gimme a bottle of something? Ol’ Mrs. Killjoy kicked me out. Again.” The scrawny pegasus that tended the bread and stew cracked a wide grin. ”You’ve got to stop dancing on the table, Tucson, or she’s going to kick you out every week—”
”I d’n wanna hear it, Scotts, can’t bear it, it’s downright tragic, I tell ya, that you Dusk Court fellas can’t party in peace.” There was an opening on the other side of the kitchen, and as Tucson heard the owner’s voice, he ducked low in the alley behind a series of crates. He waited patiently for several minutes, before Scotts exited with a bundle of trash and a bottle of some type of whiskey or scotch. ”Now, you behave yourself, Tucson.”
”Aw, Scotts, y’know I’m nothin’but a’ sweetheart.” Tucson winked, and with a flourish of his draconic wings, he coiled his haunches and leaped from the alleyway. He heard Maurice cursing behind him, but it was too late. Tucson, with several beats of his wings, was sky-born.
It was not much later that he had secured himself a position on the cliffside. He opened the bottle telekinetically, and took a deep drink of the fire-water. It left him breathless, but Tucson enjoyed it, and that’s what he focused on—breathing in the clean sea air of the cliffside, and enjoying the warmth in his stomach that fought the chill of the night, and the pang of loneliness he felt deep within him.
Staring out at the sea, he knew he wasn’t looking west—but when the sun set, always westward, he would follow it home with his eyes. Now, though, the sky was dark and the night was quiet, and all his previous animation had left him still and thoughtful. Or, at least, as thoughtful was Tucson ever was—which was to say his mind was occupied with the burn of the drink, the sweet sea air, the feel of the chill, and… and was that a sound?
HE SAID HE HOPED THE SOUND OF NOTHING WAS THE WORST I HAD EVER HEARD. BECAUSE REGRET DRIVES YOU AS CRAZY AS THE TASTE OF SWALLOWED WORDS, "IT'S A STONE THROWN IN A WELL," HE MUSED, AND THIS I'VE NOT FORGOTTEN: "IT'S LISTENING ALL YOUR LIFE AND NEVER HEARING IT HIT THE BOTTOM."
Leaving the warmness within her palace walls had been a painful decision. As the warmth deserted her bones and then her flesh and the chill superseded it, it was a cutting shock. As the zephyr beat her side, she grew sinewy; muscles fighting overtime to keep her diminutive frame upwards and steady. Her tresses were disheveled, a fine flag streaming. Though her hide was creamy, an array of spruce and mule with sections of porcelain, she wasn't camouflaged against the ivory scene before her.
Maerys wasn't sure what brought her to the frostbitten steppe, but she was there and in her weariness, she voted to patrol. She hadn't done much since she appeared a few days ago, for how busy could one get in less than a week? Eventually, she would have an arsenal of duties and tasks to accomplish, but for now, simply patrolling seemed natural.
Her breath was pale against the numbing air, her mind wandering as she blinked thoughtfully, captivated by the soft, dusty illusions of light that sat heavy on her eyelashes. She adored the snow, moreso when it was falling. Though the snow was beautiful it was cold and sharp. It was a crisp, white, pristine covering that transformed the landscape into something unrecognizable.
Despite the beauty that surrounded her, she felt a heavy weight in her heart. Maerys thought that because she had grown up in the violent streets of poverty with a merchant as her caretaker that she had seen everything. Still, she knew well nothing would prepare her for her future life as a soldier. She would see friends, allies, and perhaps even one day her own family perish. With vengeance, however, her foes would see the same perilous fate. The girl, so young and so brave, couldn't promise that her skills would be godly, but her determination and fire would prove unmatched.
The name is a juxtaposition of heaviness and excitement whispering to him from afar. It curls like the smoke of their bonfires, winding its way through every corner of his mind until his hair stood on end and his spine felt cold.
But why does it feel like coming home? Doesn’t his heart know that he’s left his home, that Delumine was a world away now? Gone were the sweet green meadows of spring, the fragrance of lotus trees and sweet cherry wine. It was winter now, and the sea spray of the coast carried with it the bite of snow, the promise of a cold night.
He supposes that is why they have their bonfires and night markets, to keep the chill of the darkness at bay.
It’s a funny thing, a child of dawn running away to the night. Perhaps he was always meant to return here - didn’t the gypsy king tell him so, once upon a time? Reichenbach may be gone, but sometimes his memory brings itself to the forefront of his mind, voice accompanied with the music of golden coins and laughter. Denocte still reminds him of the bay king, but it reminds him of a lot of things now. It’s a queen with scales scattered upon her ribs; it’s a dancer with eyes paler than a clear sky; it’s a sly child running barefoot through the streets, laughter trailing in their wake. It’s woodsmoke and salt to him, stories and dreams and feelings emblazoned forever in his mind, ripped out and laid bare for all the world to see.
There’s something about Denocte that has a way of breaking him in the best of ways. He’s vulnerable here, and it’s exciting and terrifying, much like the city itself. It’s the opposite of Delumine, where everything is safe, everyone is quiet, and only the flowers tell him stories. But perhaps that’s why he likes it so much.
The wind runs its fingers along his skin, tugging this way and that until his hair is dancing with the beat of drums. There’s a feather there, tawny and golden, hidden within the dark strands of his mane, braided tightly to keep it safe.
His eyes are smiling, even if the rest of his features forget to follow suit.
All around him the people are moving, going about their lives and their business with hardly a glance his way. Because he’s not a Regent here, or even a recognizable face. Those days are long past, his last visit nearly forgotten in the time that stretches between then and now. It’s strangely refreshing, and Ipomoea breathes in deep until his lungs are baptized and renewed in the wet, salty air.
He breathes until he’s just a boy with flowers in his hair and the same song running through his veins as everybody else’s.
@open to anyone!
his timeline is a little wonky, takes place a day or two before the fires c:
By dawn's early light Maerys arrived, the sun opening up like a perennial on the skyline, rising to grant those petals of auburn to heat the forest - blade, limb, and root. The heavens were a symphony of light morphing from an onyx atmosphere as if twilight and daylight had matured into one lovely moment. This impressive spectacle came with a silvery hush- dawn had arrived.
Greystone rose from the land, unapologetic and bold to defy entrance and protect what lived in the halls of the ancient construction. These castle walls seemed impenetrable, bastions of protection and glory as they had been for eons. At the base of the intricate palace, below the thick layer of snow and frost, are arrowheads and hilts of broken swords and armor that had been used well. The snow-ridden forest enveloping the lands next to the edifice has seen centuries whisk past on the winds of each season and beheld the folly of Dawn Court's struggles.
Maerys' gaze caught sight of the river in the distance, appearing still, yet flowing under the thinnest of ice, awaiting the gentle touch of the sun. Though the air bared only the coldness of winter and the ground was frozen once more, the ice glittered with the swell each nascent ray.
As the wintry confetti descended from the heaven, dotting Maerys' spine like powdered sugar, the realization that this was home for the mare now set in. With a steady stride, Maerys travels towards the entrance, her mauve centers pitching to and fro hunting for other inhabitants. If this was to be her people those to depend on and esteem- she'd savor engaging with them as speedily as possible.
He would find the note on his desk: a slip of parchment with crisp edges, folded neatly and prettily. There is no wax to seal it, no emblem nor crest, no recipient nor sender signed.
Only a single blue feather, barred with black, placed delicately on top.
He knows Somnus will recognize it the same way he knew the golden king wouldn’t be away from his study for long. It was his usual scene, after all, with a cup of coffee steaming on the table and a dozen scattered books and scrolls surrounding him. Ipomoea did not know what task had pulled the king away from his chambers, yet he was thankful for it; it was far easier to leave a letter explaining his absence, even if it was not necessarily the bravest.
But he does it anyway.
And when he has, he slips out of the room, out of the castle, out past the gates. His heart was beating heavily in his chest, leaping into his throat, threatening to choke him. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, but he bites them back. They were no use to him now; there would be time to cry later, there would be time for guilt and remorse and forgiveness. Now was not that time.
He only hesitates at the border. Although it was not marked, he knew exactly where Delumine began and ended. It was as much by instinct as it was by love; love for his Court and all it represented. There had been many times the spotted boy had smiled in solace when he’d arrived back at the border.
But this time, Ipomoea was not returning to the Court. He was leaving it.
All it took was one hoof after the other, step after step after step. He draws himself up, setting his shoulders straight and steeling himself. One day, he promises, I will return to you.
And then he is gone, disappearing into a night that felt blacker and heavier than his heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Somnus,
I did not want to leave a note, but I have no time for anything more proper. I want you to know that I’m sorry for that. I need to do what I think is best, and this is the only way.
I’ve left for Denocte, by the time you read this I should be well on my way. I know now is not the best time, not with the borders closed and an unknown beast in our forest; but if not know, then when? The rest of the world is bleeding, brother, and I cannot sit idly by and watch it any longer. I’ve made that mistake before; I will not make it again.
Moira tells me of monsters that hunt in the night, of fireflies that feed on flesh, of women who lure men to their deaths, of countless other beasts and nightmares. But they are only that: fables. The nightmare to the east is real; our friends need us, and we cannot help from behind our walls. Denocte has shown me kindness time and time again, and now it is my turn to repay them.
I do not know when I will return, but I promise you this: I will return to Delumine once all this is over.
Stay on the lookout. I love you.
Ipomoea.
P.S.
I’ve left you the fables Moira sent me; although our own beast has been quiet, I hope these will help to uncover its identity. If I find any more clues in Denocte’s libraries, I will pass them on to you.
having no one,
forced by my nature to
keep wandering
because wandering
was the only thing
that i believed in
