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Current

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.

Spotlight

Character of the Season
Avdotya

Member of the Season
Jeanne

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


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Private - driftwood, carcass
Marisol — Dusk Court Warrior Signos: 35
▶ Played by RB [pm] Posts: 6 — Threads: 2
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10
▶ 3 [Year 498 Fall] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
#1

THE ARCHIATER.

Darkness and light, and Marisol weaves through the patches like a fish through water. Above her the sky has dimmed to black and purple, gauzy with cloud cover, and all that remains visible is what is touched by torchlight, stamped into the ground at wavering intervals. It dances across her skin in gold smoke, lights the gray of her eyes to silver and ice. Darkness and light. Quiet as ever she makes her way through the festivities, and quiet as ever, she goes unnoticed, head dipped to her chest, black wings folded to fit her ribs. The short bristle of her cropped mane looks hard and angry in the torchlight; she moves quickly, and her efficiency in closing the fields makes her nearly anonymous. She could be anyone - dark-skinned and silky and disinterested. The only real indication of her status is the row of cloth across her feathers, fat slashes of bright-white silk a beacon in the gloom. 

In Marisol’s eyes, this is not a celebration. It is a means to an end. Not a drop of liquor has passed her lips, not a word has been spoken from them, and the Commander does not greet people so much as she watches them, gaze cool and brusque under those long lashes. Music plays lightly from over the hills and comes to rest inside her bones. Around her girls in silks go whirling through the fields, and conversation is mumbled just loud enough to hear, passed from mouth to mouth like something sacred; eyes and teeth glint in the low light, and everyone is falling in love, and Marisol is nothing like everyone. She has to remind herself of the fact constantly. You are not like these people, and the thought goes rolling through her brain and back again, you cannot be like these people, because they do not know their duties. 

A crowd has gathered around a merchant selling mead, and Marisol finds her way into the frayed edges of the group with little resistance. On every side someone is laughing or talking and the noise grates at her soft ears. Under His eye, says someone in greeting as they whiz past, and Marisol gives them a dirty glance before she sends a silent prayer up to her own god. The night is young and dense with heat, and already Marisol feels sweat beading on her skin, half from the warmth and half from her anxiety, the constant fear that follows a girl occupying a position like hers... Her wing shudders involuntarily, just brushing the side of the bright red stallion next to her, and she snaps it back to her side as quick as those bird-bones will allow. She speaks then, and the rasp of her voice makes it obvious that she does not speak often.

Apologies.




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Raymond — Dusk Court Warrior Signos: 1,165
▶ Played by Odeen [PM] Posts: 26 — Threads: 6
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 10
▶ 9 [Year 492 Winter] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 15.0 hh Bonded: N/A
#2
The festival was certainly a means to an end, though the ends might vary from one individual to the next, but Raymond was not the sort to conduct his business with a scarecrow's finesse and all the enthusiasm one could find at a wake. He wore his floral crown - a loop of white lilies with pink and purple gladioli lying like a cascade of petals along the sinewy arch of his neck - at a proud and jaunty angle on his head, and on this particular evening he had taken to sampling an array of locally-brewed beverages on offer.

He spoke with surprising eloquence on the subject, having picked up a diverse palette through years of far-ranging travel. A casual glance would have thought him quite a natural part of the landscape indeed as he flitted smoothly from one interaction to the next, appraising the delicate bouquet of a vintage here or suggesting additives to round out a flavor profile there.

One merchant's mead in particular had caught the red stallion's imagination. He had offered Raymond a sampling of rich, full-bodied honey mead with a pleasantly smooth texture. Raymond gladly told him as much and earned an appreciative nod from the artisan. Free space seemed to be at a premium, but even with the generous flow of drink most horses managed to navigate the throng with relative grace.

Until a pegasus' errant wing brushed along his side.

The red stallion arched a brow and swiveled his head to identify the culprit, the passive arc in his leonine tail tightening ever-so-slightly at the question raised by her contact.

She was black as pitch, her coat striving not quite successfully to dissipate into the night's encroaching shadows, with tightly-furled wings and hair trimmed short in a style Raymond knew well. He had reason to doubt the sincerity of her apology but didn't hesitate to seize an opportunity when he saw one. "You'll have to excuse me - splendid work, truly -" he murmured warmly to the merchant as he telekinetically swept another sample of mead from the display and extricated himself from amongst the throng with relative ease.

"No harm done," he said, this time to Marisol.

It had taken but a brief moment for Raymond to disengage. He cut a rather odd figure, the sharpness of his features contrasting impressively with the confident looseness of his stance and the incongruous halo of flowers about his brow. Without waiting to see how she would react, he offered her the sample. "Mead?"


Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around


@Marisol



aut viam inveniam aut faciam


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Marisol — Dusk Court Warrior Signos: 35
▶ Played by RB [pm] Posts: 6 — Threads: 2
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10
▶ 3 [Year 498 Fall] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
#3
marisol

THE ARCHIATER.

The crowd around her shifts and reforms, and Marisol turns a blind eye to it: the necessary apology extricated, she returns to feigned ignorance with a hard blink of those gray eyes and a strategic shift to face away from the object of her accidental brush. She is closed-minded, hard-headed. Blood rushes in her ears, loud and hot, and she pulses her jaw in an attempt to stifle the ocean-sound that overwhelms her, although the ocean is miles and miles away. So inordinate is her focus that she does not acknowledge the movement of the man beside her until he speaks - until not acknowledging him would become sheer idiocy, stubbornness without a cause. Mead? Then she glances over her shoulder at him and turns.

Regretfully, no. The cold gray of her eyes is sleety in the dim light. Marisol gazes at the festival-goer with intensity and without shame, taking in the easiness with which he stands, the flower crown tilted at a jaunty angle over his head, the sharp, convex blade at the end of his tail, tensing slightly as they turn to face each other. A strange yin-yang they make - black and copper, dark and light, and yet strangely similar - centered, muscular, that close-cropped hair a mirror of militaristic upbringings, though Marisol can’t help noticing that the cut of her mane is cleaner than his. 

He smells of Terrastella, and yet they’ve never crossed paths. Perhaps Marisol’s seclusion is a detriment, she muses now, if she cannot recognize those of her own court, the men and women she’s meant to protect, by anything other than scent and the barest touch of passing-by recognition. Perhaps there is something to be said for socialization, at least in the name of duty. But even the thought makes her uncomfortable; as Marisol opens her mouth she struggles for something to say, or even the motivation to say it, and the more she struggles the more the tension in her muscles is heightened, the more the pulse in her jaw grows, the more her eyes flicker back and forth, sharp and carnivorous.

Incense blooms in her nostrils. Hail Vespera, she murmurs coolly. It is almost-amused, but even as she speaks, she can’t help hoping her instinct hasn’t steered her wrong.

The sky is dark and fragrant. Marisol tilts her head at him and they stew in their silence, the warm night an impending ruination.




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Raymond — Dusk Court Warrior Signos: 1,165
▶ Played by Odeen [PM] Posts: 26 — Threads: 6
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 10
▶ 9 [Year 492 Winter] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 15.0 hh Bonded: N/A
#4

"Regret's supposed to kick in after the party," he replied with a sage grin. Goodness knows the mare looked like she could use the loosening up as she appraised him like a hog at a county faire - specifically one that wasn't listed on her entry sheet. Raymond didn't mind. Her critical eye merely gave him leave to measure her, though he did so in a less obvious manner that mainly appeared as though he was waiting for her to respond.

The red stallion recognized her as a denizen of Terrastella much the same way that she did him, though she had been there long enough for the scents of the swamp, plains, and court life to congeal and seep into her very skin where it clung to him like morning dew. She had the mannerisms, too, of citizens of the court, and had he actually called the place home for any length of time he would have questioned how he could go so long without running into her before. Alas, nearly every face he spotted was a strange one, and he did not begrudge anyone their solitude if that was their preference.

What she said next took him a bit off-guard.

Raymond was not what you would call 'religious' by any stretch of the imagination, though he had gotten a surface-scraping run-down of of things before coming to the festival. His were a people of long memories and rigid tradition, who counted their ancestry in particularly high esteem, but there was no grace to be measured that could not be afforded through hard work and solid preparation. If that were not enough, he had grown quite fond of his autonomy and I daresay arrogant about what he could accomplish purely under his own power. Faith, in his eyes, was a crutch - or a vulnerability.

That was why, in Ravos, he had sided with the heretics even when the gods had faces and walked among them as mortals do. That was why, when Marisol invoked Vespera's name as though to push back the encroaching Oriens-ness of this particular shindig, he found himself quickly rifling through his options. He did not wish to offend, but he had absolutely no desire to talk religion with a stranger.

Great way to ruin parties.

"Thats the goddess of Terrastella, right?" he asked, passing off the brief delay as a newcomer's ignorance (which was a completely honest choice, as he'd hardly been there long enough to wipe his hooves, let alone recite any religious epithets or the history of the region). "Did you take an oath on her name not to enjoy yourself at festivals?"


Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around




@Marisol - Oh my god I'm sorry he's a sassy boi



aut viam inveniam aut faciam


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