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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 - claw marks and clouds
Marisol — Dusk Court Warrior Signos: 260
▶ Played by RB [pm] Posts: 47 — Threads: 8
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 19
▶ 4 [Year 498 Fall] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
#1


heaven talks
but not to me



Amber, sea salt, cinnamon. Even post-disaster, life still thrives in Denocte’s dark. 

Lamps glimmer weakly from their sconces, wet silks drape the stalls. Coins flicker in and out of sight from wallets and gold shimmers like sunlight off strangers’ necks. A lonely kind of string-sound wails from somewhere down the street, beautifully silver and awfully sad, and Marisol slips through the dilapidated markets with all the grace of a rabbit in water: uncomfortably stiff, too unfriendly to be Terrastellan, too awkward to be a Night Court native. She wears the otherness like a second skin.

Those gray eyes watch the world carefully, distrustfully. Constantly she is watching Denocte’s dark corners for the wrong silhouette, for a stranger wearing blood. Rarely does she even think of looking out for her fellow Terrastellans, too distracted by her fears to be concerned with those she halfway-trusts, and so it almost shocks her to find a familiar face in the markets.

In the deep-dark, in the throng of people, in the softly-whispering crowd, Mari sees the shining of a star and almost turns away. Where a month ago she might have gone up to the sovereign with a smile, now she fights the urge to spit at his feet. The only thing that keeps her moving is the sense of duty that follows her as closely as disaster seems to follow Asterion, a concrete weight in her chest that she dreads for the way it drags her toward him, nagging, insistent.

Knitting her eyebrows in half a frown, she extends a wing in a little bow, as contained as it is sarcastic.

Asterion, she says coarsely. Even for the commander the tone seems a little sour. 

credits
"a burnt child loves a fire."


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Asterion — Dusk Court Sovereign Signos: 175
▶ Played by Griffin [PM] Posts: 197 — Threads: 22
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 32 — Atk: 28 — Exp: 56
▶ 6 [Year 496 Winter] Active Magic: Water Manipulation
▶ 16 hh Bonded: Cirrus (Pallas's Gull)
#2










       A S T E R I O N

                                   in sunshine and in shadow*




He loathes the way he loves this place.

Once, Florentine had tried to describe to him what it had been about Denocte and its gypsy-thief king that had so stolen her heart – and oh, hadn’t some part of him (a part that had been captured by a girl with storm-blue eyes, with a constellation set into her skin) already understood? But he had only shaken his head at her, then, and gone out into the soft and golden fields of Terrastella, and down to the sea on a path that had already memorized the feel of his feet.

Now, though, he sees it in a way he hadn’t before. The City of Starlight is wild in a way that the Dusk Court can never be, so in love as it is with the idea of duty; each laugh, each ring of coin and scent of wares and wail of string tells him to let go, let go, let go. The night says he could be anybody, could change his name and change his life tonight – right now – if only he let himself.

The king (though nothing marks him as such; he wears only the small pale star on his brow, and what is a king who abandoned his court, anyway?) leans toward a table of maps bearing shapes of worlds he’s never heard of. Islands that have yet to be explored written in thick ink on paper that smells of a spice he’s never tasted and the sharp cedar of a new ship. Shadows dance like waves across empty expanses of sea and he could almost forget Novus entirely –

Asterion.

As he turns the guilt settles back in his belly like a familiar yoke. Such thoughts were not for him, not anymore, and he knows it as he turns toward Marisol with the quick smile of a boy caught shirking his duties by his governess.

“Commander,” he returns, and his heart pangs as she folds her wing once more. Even in the dim (and didn’t they always meet like this, beaches in silver fog and streets in cool moonlight?) he can read each sharp sketch of her muscles and line of her face, and her anger, her disappointment, is all the worse because he knows he deserves every measure of it.

He wonders if his distance from her lately has been intentional, a subconscious avoidance. Asterion keeps his expression smooth as he meets her eye, but it feels strangely like a sin to not be wet, or shivering, or wounded.

He wonders, too, if she will slip Vespera’s name into conversation as is her wont. Lately it feels more like a curse than a blessing.

“Are you letting yourself some enjoy time without drills, or doing reconnaissance?” He frames it like a joke, knowing she hated to be idle more, even, than himself – but already it feels like the wrong thing to say. Too frivolous, arrogantly light, not just for the moment but for the people they were.

Though with Marisol, in this moment, he thinks that anything would be the wrong thing.










@Marisol


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Marisol — Dusk Court Warrior Signos: 260
▶ Played by RB [pm] Posts: 47 — Threads: 8
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 19
▶ 4 [Year 498 Fall] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
#3


heaven talks
but not to me





Above, clear starlight glimmers. It is wet, quicksilver gauze sloping down onto the both of them, and in it, for the first time, the Commander sees Asterion as night more than dusk: that one bright star against the darkness of his skin, the way he blends into the blackness, how the purple on his ribs is not the color of twilight but a shade of true night, like the sky overhead.

It makes her feel sick.

Denocte is too wild, too hard-edged, too strange. Mari cannot feel safe when every corner is sharp and every road is cobblestone, not dirt, and where not an inch of the air is not tainted by music, where there is no courtyard not pulsing with crowds and no alley not filled with conversations. Even when she stalks the borders in the early morning, so early the sun is still hidden by fog and soft darkness, there is no respite from the livelihood of the Night Court.

Even now her head spins with the noise and the light and the heat. She gazes at Asterion from under long, dark lashes, and perhaps the only real chink in her armor is the way she watches him, with far more obvious, heated ire than her usual demeanor would allow. When he speaks - too lighthearted, too casual - her frown deepens, blackens, grows stormy and awkward. 

Absolutely not, Marisol retorts sourly. If she at all recognizes the humor in his speech, it’s completely disregarded. Duty is not optional. She flicks him a watchful, obvious glance. Or shouldn’t be. 

Almost she feels bad for the way it comes out - bitter, harsh, baritone. After all, he is her king.

But only in Terrastella.

Are you alright? This time it is a little softer, a lot less cruel. Maybe they deserve it, anyway: a day without disaster, a skin not covered in mildew. But Marisol wouldn’t know how to take a day off if it was offered to her on a silver platter, and it never, ever has been.

credits
"a burnt child loves a fire."


Reply
Asterion — Dusk Court Sovereign Signos: 175
▶ Played by Griffin [PM] Posts: 197 — Threads: 22
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 32 — Atk: 28 — Exp: 56
▶ 6 [Year 496 Winter] Active Magic: Water Manipulation
▶ 16 hh Bonded: Cirrus (Pallas's Gull)
#4










       A S T E R I O N

                                   in sunshine and in shadow*




She is good at disguising her feelings, is the Commander; knowing how straightforward she is you wouldn’t expect it, that she could hide some things away so well.

But Asterion doesn’t need to see her frown bloom the way a smile does on some girls to know her disappointment in him. They are enough alike; he feels it for himself, too. (He does not, of course, suspect that she hates how he might belong here - but this is a feeling the young king also shares).

He is not surprised, then, by her retort. He even nods, and does not waver beneath the cold flash of her eyes.

“No,” he agrees softly, evenly, “it shouldn’t be.”

Her next words are less expected; one of his brows lifts, almost amused. It is not only that he is unused to Marisol asking him anything so pedestrian, it’s that the answer should be so obvious - Asterion doesn’t know of a single one of them that has been alright in weeks.

Right as rain, he thinks at first, and must fight back the mad grin that threatens. He has never given in to exhausted hysterics; if he must ever start he prays it will not be in front of the Commander. “As much as anyone,” he says instead, and any flicker of humor that might have been is wiped clean as his gaze scans the markets. Despite the flags and the fires, the wares and the music, there are too many wounded.

Denocte makes a beautiful illusion, but it is broken, too. He might not have noticed it, before, but Asterion has learned what to look for.

Marisol, though - he thinks as he looks back at her that she would never break. She wouldn’t know how. Not for the first time, he is envious of her strength, and grateful for it too.

“And you?” he says, his dark eyes holding hers, and then the bay gestures with a tilt of his chin down a star-silver street and begins to walk. He does not look back at the compasses and maps and promises of other worlds.  











@Marisol sorry it's so late <3


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