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Current

Current Novus date and time is

▶ 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)

Spotlight

Character of the Season
Pavetta

Member of the Season
Nestle

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!

see here for nominations


DISCORD

Private - THE LAW OF ALL THINGS
El Toro — Day Court Warrior Signos: 0
▶ Played by Muirgen [PM] Posts: 31 — Threads: 6
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 7 — Atk: 13 — Exp: 11
▶ 6 [Year 496 Summer] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 17.2 hh Bonded: N/A
#1
HE MAY KNOW THE LAW OF ALL THINGS, YET BE IGNORANT OF HOW-

For all his dedication to staying on his feet, El Toro had collapsed shortly after Raymond shrunk into the distance. He couldn't breathe, really, and he bled quite a bit, and it grew hotter as midday approached and - really, these weren't ideal conditions for anyone - he fainted. The pale stallion had awoken to the setting of the sun, on what day he did not know. After laying there a while he wiggled about, wincing and groaning and sort-of breathing, before forcing himself up onto wobbling legs like a newborn colt. Everything hurt.

With a respectable amount of determination, Toro hobbled off in search of sustenance, not realizing until it was far too late that he'd wandered into the mountains and not the fields. Hunger and exhaustion overtook him as cool night fell upon the world; he slid down against a rock, wheezing, and fell asleep.

@Isra
poem

"What I say,"

What I think,
CREDITS
plotter
tracker
please always tag the proper character for replies


Reply
Isra — Night Court Sovereign Signos: 1,210
▶ Played by nestle [PM] Posts: 92 — Threads: 15
▶ Female [she/her/hers] Hth: 12 — Atk: 8 — Exp: 15
▶ 5 [Year 497 Winter] Active Magic:
▶ 15.1 hh Bonded:
#2


The night does not settle easily for Isra and the last of autumn barely beats back the coming winter chill. All her fires of purpose have long turned to nothing more than ash and embers. Long gone is the sting of foxglove on her lips and the bitter tang of septic weeds is replaced by the cool sweetness of dusk. There is only the pull of dried blood on her cheeks and the tenderness of her knees to keep her company this night.

Days have slipped by her as if the mountains have swallowed up the tick, tick, ticking of time that shifted around her. It feels as if she blinked and the dead were gone, the leaves turned to gray dust beneath her hooves and the Indian summer turned to the hint of first frosts.

Perhaps her stories are a dangerous thing this high above the sea, as dangerous as all the broken and devilish stallions that found her deep in the forests and mountain-side cliffs. They devour time.

Isra is lost in the remembering of her stories; when she spoke them and tasted blood and flowers on her tongue. She's lost to remembering a world made of spider-webs dusted with dew drops that held galaxies in their spherical edges. So lost is she that she doesn't notice the way the stallion unfolds before her gaze like a climax between leather covers and inked pages.

Suddenly he is there, slumbering and bloodied and more golden that the last man that smelled like death in the mountains. Isra blinks and she feels a tendril of dark hate that these mountains (her mountains) are full of the dead and dying and she is perhaps the only thing left alive here that knows what it's like to really suffer and carry on across the rocks and towering trees.

This one at least is closer to the meadows, to the flowers and weeds that offer life even when they feel like liquid lava along the nerves.

“You are not dead.” She wishes, wishes, wishes her words to be true, to be more prophecy and magic than the weak bleating of her voice. Her knees, tender from the hours spent weaving her worlds over Lysander as he slept, sting when she folds herself down to lay in the space between him and the rest of the rocks around them.

When she kisses a touch of her frown to his cheek her lips shiver for thinking that they must burn again so soon. “Wake up.” Oh how she wishes with the taste of blood in the air and the night settling like a tundra around them that his eyes will open and his lungs will carry on the weak rattle she can hear beneath his skin.

The mountains cannot bear anymore dead. She's still weary from grave-digging and her horn is still crusted with dirt and ash from the nights before this one.

And her wishes sound like prayers that she might bury no more dead things in the wild mountains.



* * * * *
we shiver but know nothing of the cold


@El Toro


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El Toro — Day Court Warrior Signos: 0
▶ Played by Muirgen [PM] Posts: 31 — Threads: 6
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 7 — Atk: 13 — Exp: 11
▶ 6 [Year 496 Summer] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 17.2 hh Bonded: N/A
#3
WHEN THERE'S NO ONE LEFT TO FIGHT / BOYS LIKE HIM DON'T SHINE SO BRIGHT


Toro’s dignity had been successfully stripped for the moment; he’d been reduced to a half-dead pile of meat in some unfamiliar hellscape, bleeding all over the place and continuing on out of an intense desire to not die first. Now, he slept, his mind full of wavering colors, swirling, dipping in and out, red eyelids, blue sky, flesh, scarlet, sand, vermillion, aurora borealis and off-black. There was no pain in sleep.


He dreamt of a gentle breeze; when he awoke he thought he must have imagined it but there was darkness over his seeing eye, the other encrusted with rusting blood, and a twinge of fear pulled at his chest, but he smelled mare. And she was saying, “Wake up.” The white stallion tried to sigh but whatever came out of him was hardly an exhale at all. There was a sharp pain across his flank with each weak breath, but he tried very hard to raise his head just to look her in the eye. Toro opened his mouth and closed it again, hurting, crumpled paper in the wind. He pushed himself up, determined not to be flopped against the rocks like a death-pale corpse (even if he’d always be death-pale). Something split and blood trickled from his side as he moved, gingerly, but not gingerly enough. He was too tired to groan. After a bit of shifting about Toro gave up on moving and went almost still, but he focused his good idea on the brown mare and said, ”Hi.”
On any other day he would’ve flirted and made a show of himself, flouncing around and making grand gestures and elaborately wrought innuendos. Tonight...it was not one such night.

@Isra beats

"What I say,"

What I think,
credit
plotter
tracker
please always tag the proper character for replies


Reply
Isra — Night Court Sovereign Signos: 1,210
▶ Played by nestle [PM] Posts: 92 — Threads: 15
▶ Female [she/her/hers] Hth: 12 — Atk: 8 — Exp: 15
▶ 5 [Year 497 Winter] Active Magic:
▶ 15.1 hh Bonded:
#4




They rise together.

She gathers her legs beneath herself and rises as he shakes off the slumber of the suffering and she the empathy of one who knows how to bleed rivers and oceans from her veins. The beat of her heart feels as thready as the flutter of air beneath his skin. “You should not have moved so much.” Her voice rings out like a story beneath the moon glow and starlight, it's full of stories and dreams and constellations.

For a moment she only watches him like a deer might, poised and quivering. Isra wonders if he's the broken conquer or the victim left to rot and freeze when the night comes calling. She wonders until a teardrop of blood rains from his wounds and her fury rises like a comet across the darkness.

There has been to much blood in this world of Novus, too much suffering of mortals.

“Will you let me help you?” Her hooves are whispers across the grass and her breath rises in patterns of heat between the two of them. All her movements drip caution and empathy as she eats the distance between them as fire first devours a forest (slow and full of banked embers that have yet to spark and rage). For a moment it seems as if the world inhales around them and everything feels both great and frozen and almost not quite real.

And then she touches her nose to his (white to black).  

The world exhales and the seconds start to rush like a waterfall over them. “I'm Isra.” Her name echoes like a question and her lips tingle with the crusted antiseptics while bits of ivy still cling to the spaces between her teeth.


ISRA OF THE AFTERMATH ;
our wounds are deeper than truth




art


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El Toro — Day Court Warrior Signos: 0
▶ Played by Muirgen [PM] Posts: 31 — Threads: 6
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 7 — Atk: 13 — Exp: 11
▶ 6 [Year 496 Summer] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 17.2 hh Bonded: N/A
#5
question mark / the length of silence / after a loon’s call
”You should not have moved so much.” He eyes her with that one good opal and says, “Can’t help it,” but the words are breathless and fall short of those last ones he spoke to Raymond. They hurt. She is not quite mist on the moor like that other woman, no, something perching on a distant tree-branch, pine-branch, dripping sap, trapped bird with sticky feet. Not too sticky. Not trapped. He wasn’t sure. His pale head pounded.

Her words would be carried along the wind had she been any farther away, but he bows his head to her, muscles straining to hold that weighty skull up and says, “Yes.” The stallion’s eye drifts half-shut and then there’s something soft against his nose and he almost flinches, just a twitch, but there’s a flash of panic in that cracking rainbow and a flick of crumbling-dirt ears. He consents but dreads. His chest pinches; that lung cannot carry his fear. He remembers what it is to be touched kindly, mother, and her name is out: Isra.
Not mother.
The last time he was touched, he lost.
Most times he is touched, he hurts.
It is not a matter of abuse - never was - but a matter of always picking fights because what else could be done when you are the one they want to hurt, anyway, even if it’s only on the inside? Hurt them on the outside, too. They’ll never forget if it’s gouged out of their chest, and neither will anyone who sees the cavity.
He wants to be touched kindly. Softly. Without malice, without challenge, without thrill of battle and glory of victory and shame of defeat. Softly. Softly. Like Mother, Isra.

Toro’s lip struggles into something that was almost half a smile, maybe a quarter, and he exhales, “Toro,” death-pale and aching.

@Isra poem

"What I say,"

What I think,
credit
plotter
tracker
please always tag the proper character for replies


Reply
Isra — Night Court Sovereign Signos: 1,210
▶ Played by nestle [PM] Posts: 92 — Threads: 15
▶ Female [she/her/hers] Hth: 12 — Atk: 8 — Exp: 15
▶ 5 [Year 497 Winter] Active Magic:
▶ 15.1 hh Bonded:
#6




Her lungs feel as breathless as his, thin things of membrane that are frailer than a dead winter-leaf coated in ice.  Each breath feels like a struggle. Each hum of her heart is a battle-field and each of her organs quiver as his must. All the parts of her cry out (silent beneath that cage of bone and flesh) for something, something, something. And when she says, “Toro,” it rings out like an echo, echo, echo and it tastes like a pleading word instead of a name. His name.

“I will not leave you then.” Isra swings her hips towards his, wondering if he can hear the breathlessness of her butterfly lungs or the hum of her heart as it trembles in her chest. She's ready to catch him if he stumbles and if she's too weak these new unicorn bones of hers do no know it. They only know empathy and her horn glitters in the moonlight when a cloud shifts and they seem suddenly to be in a place between the world and the wild.

Around them the trees whisper in the wind. Isra shivers, wondering if the 'thing' that left Lysander dead could possibly be close-by. She knows enough of monsters and mortals to be leery, to look up at the stars and think of death and maybe only a little of beauty. Perhaps too he knows of fear, knows why it leaks into her voice like bits of sludge through the cracks in her innocence. “Can you tell me what hurts the most? Can you walk?” She's half afraid of the answers and she lets her nose drift upwards to bury in his mane. Isra acts as if she can smell the suffering on him, more than just the tang of his copper and iron blood. 

It's almost easy now to act brave when she can no longer even trust the darkness and shadows to keep them safe anymore. Easier still to be so close to his horns and pretend that they are no more terrifying than the one spiraling out from her own skull.



ISRA OF THE CRACKED LIGHT;
I found the pieces and tried to fix it




art


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El Toro — Day Court Warrior Signos: 0
▶ Played by Muirgen [PM] Posts: 31 — Threads: 6
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 7 — Atk: 13 — Exp: 11
▶ 6 [Year 496 Summer] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 17.2 hh Bonded: N/A
#7
His figure resembles the terebinth;
his hair, grass; veins, arteries; rivers, canals;
and his bones, the mountains.

She says his name and something inside him goes a little funny, if it wasn’t already, he’s not sure and he wants to hear her voice forever. It’s not the voice of a pretty girl (well, maybe), it is soothing and soft as a breeze on the night and he thanks her silently when she pledges to stay. He leans against her, not as much as he needs to but his pride won’t let him make her a crutch. His legs might, soon. He cannot imagine why she is helping him, cannot form the slightest concept as to why a stranger in the dark would see him and think, “ah, this one deserves a second thought”. He is worth nothing like this, too weak to fight, to defend even himself, never mind one who is perhaps the second kindest soul in the world - the first is mother, remember - but the whisp of air pressing through his lungs keeps him going and so does the hope.

She asks two questions. He is slow to answer. Toro whispers, ”My lung.” His eyes only water at the soft nose in his mane, the soft kind touch of her. He can’t understand. He wants to answer the second question in action, and for all his might he tries. Weight on the legs away from her, widening space between them - he stumbles, throws himself back into her - he hopes not too hard - air knocked out, face hot, embarrassment burning fast from skull to skin. ”Sorry,” he wheezes, and he cannot recall the last time he apologized for anything.

@Isra René Descartes and the Clockwork Girl

"What I say,"

What I think,
credit
plotter
tracker
please always tag the proper character for replies


Reply
Isra — Night Court Sovereign Signos: 1,210
▶ Played by nestle [PM] Posts: 92 — Threads: 15
▶ Female [she/her/hers] Hth: 12 — Atk: 8 — Exp: 15
▶ 5 [Year 497 Winter] Active Magic:
▶ 15.1 hh Bonded:
#8



The first thing she feels is fear. It starts as a rattle in her lungs, an echo of his. Then it's a frost of ice over her bones. Higher and higher the ice creeps, bones then organs and skin. It rises, rises, rises until it explodes in bits of glittering snowflakes across her vision when the edges fade to black as the panic creeps in.

When he collapses against her, her eyesight speckles and her bones groan with the weight of him. But she stands as firmly as a unicorn before the storm-sea and bares his weight with little more than a sigh of pain and heartbreak. For a moment she thinks all his wheezing will cease and he'll suffocate surrounded by the endless air of the mountain-side. Her touch turns a different kind of tender (the tenderness of sorrows and goodbyes) when she tucks it against his cheek and welcomes more and more of his weight.

“We shall not walk then.”She coos against his skin and bends her knees to encourage him to collapse once more into the soft pine-needs and loam at their hooves. “Stay here a little longer and I will build us a shelter. Isra brushes the words across his brow before pulling away. Her smile seems to whisper to him as well, dream, dream, dream. Dream away the pain and I will build you a utopia of beauty.

There is is something almost sad when she pulls away from him, something full of longing that dances in the dark star-flakes of her gaze. She doesn't wander far, just a few steps and her eyes never fully leave him (how could she?).

Her telekinetic magic is almost fragile when she encourages the low pine branches to bend and the small ribbons of ivy to wind between the branches in a tight weave. The magic is shaky at best, weak from disuse from all the months she's spent living as wild things live in the mountains.

Her voice though is as strong as a moonbeam cutting through the dark when she returns to his side and tucks her nose close enough to his horn to taste the strange desert smell on it.

“Let me tell you a story.” Isra smiles at him then and blinks back the frost of her fear. “There once was a whale, a desert, a witch and a day that never ended....” Around them the night seems almost as endless as the start of her story.

Overhead the stars flicker violently and more brightly than before over the two mortals tucked beneath the pine and ivy roof.




ISRA OF THE WITCH;
“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”




art


@El Toro


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