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Beautifully drawn by Sid (Erasvita@DA)!
Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 503
▶ Season || Summer
▶ Temp || 74℉ (23℃) - 100℉ (37℃)
▶ Weather || The end of Spring brings about, once more, the warm embrace of Summer. 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
El Toro

Member of the Season
Griffin

Thread of the Season
Bring Me Thunder; Bring Me Steel

Pair of the Season
Eik and Isra

Quote of the Season
"Her mother lives all in day, her father all in night, and Apolonia straddles the thin, dusky line halving her heart with not so much grace - startling awake in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn, trying to find some way to compromise." — Apolonia in
The Vine & The Rain & The Light

see here for nominations


DISCORD

Private - These here are my desires
Leto — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 235
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 2 — Threads: 1
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10
▶ 6 [Year 496 Winter] Active Magic: Starfire
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
#1
stars hide your fires


-- -- --
 

The skull mask is pearl upon her face. Its teeth sharp as they curl about her slim nose (that emerges like a tongue from the mask’s bone maw). The skull is alabaster to her obsidian skin. All across its smooth surface painted and carved stars and moons gleam in gold and black. The mask is night, the mask is bone and its skull is fierce. Feathers plume like a spiked crown from its poll and beads hang to clack and clink with the rhythm of her steps. The sounds they make are the snap of jaws unseen.
 
Each step is slow, as Leto drinks in the court. There is nothing about this girl that belongs here. She is a creature of the fringes, one born to sleep with stars as her roof and trees as her walls. She makes her beds in swamps and upon mountains. She dances to the beat of animal skin drums and the music of stars. Chants are upon her tongue all the night long. The stars and the earth are her gods.
 
Leto is not made for the silk and glitter of a ball. All that adorns her is earth born and sky fallen. Pearls gleam within the twines of her ebony mane. Their light dances across gold painted leaves that lie like daggers against the soft of her throat. Across her skin is a ritual display of litanies and blessings. Each is drawn in gold by Ilati hand, they curl like shining serpents and silver stars scratch their fires into the very substance of her obsidian skin.
 
Leto is the shadow of the night, her black is the endless, falling spaces between stars. She is the black star, the darkness that pulls you in, in, in. And she stands upon the edges of the vibrant ballroom, both ancient and young. She is as endless as the stars, as old as the earth. She is knit together with stardust and ancient magic.
 
From the black orbits of her skull mask her eyes gleam, silver and bright. Those eyes are starfire burning, bright and fierce. Galaxies twist and turn within that gaze and nebulae gleam with light as old as time. Starfire roars in Leto’s ears and in her blood. Her heartbeat is a tattoo against the curve of her breastbone, beating ivory blood about her body harder and harder still.
 
The violin music tugs and begs and weaves like ribbons about her slender torso and just, just when she may succumb to this softer sound (softer than drums and the shattering of stars), Leto looks up, up, up. Feathers arch back with grace to touch along the curve of her spine. The tattoos weave up her throat, her jaw and on they go, endless and bright and savage. But none are as savage as her eyes that light the ceilings and watch the window that draws in Denocte’s night and stars.
 
Upon her lips is a chant, fearsome and wonderful, soft as song, terrible as supernovas. But suddenly she turns, pressing, weaving and dancing into the throng. Her limbs are the drums of the deep, her bones the rattle of percussion, her blood the keening of starfire. The violins will do, but for tonight alone, for above, so very high above, the stars are shifting.


@Asterion - finally! i get to write someone else with him - i think its always been Flora! (bc Raum would just be disgustingly mean to him lbh)
 




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Asterion — Dusk Court Sovereign Signos: 1,015
▶ Played by Griffin [PM] Posts: 241 — Threads: 23
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 32 — Atk: 28 — Exp: 69
▶ 6 [Year 496 Winter] Active Magic: Water Manipulation
▶ 16 hh Bonded: Cirrus (Pallas's Gull)
#2







 
Asterion drifts through the rooms of the castle, counting up dreams.

Wonder by wonder they lay before him, more numerous than the stars. There are ribbons and banners in colors he has no name for, tapestries whose threads glimmer and shine. In one room fish swim, suspended in crystal bowls, bright as flames in lamps; he wonders if they feel anything like their brethren at the lake to (he wonders if they are real at all). In another a solitary singer weaves a story with her voice as dancers in matching masks trail fire in sweeping arcs. But not all of the wonders he counts are so temporary or so strange - each grin he sees, each laugh he catches - these are all dreams, too.

The bay stallion still wears his mask, filagreed silver that hugs his cheekbones, presses cool around his eyes. The silks he wore are long gone, discarded in a heap somewhere after too much dancing, too much drink. Instead he wears lamplight across his shoulders, star-shine down his back. There is wine in his bloodstream, and joy, and the crowds wheel before him like a great murmuration.

It is a wailing, rising song that drawls him into the next room. One of the greatest wonders of Novus, he thinks, is its music; never before had he heard strings or horns or something so simple as breath blown across a reed. Now he follows the sound of a solitary violin into a room like a galaxy, and falls into darkness and noise.

Here horses dance like planets, like comets, like stars. Here they each wear masks and move free. His eyes shine as he scans them, this symphony - and then his gaze catches on one figure alone.

None dance like she does. None have skins so black or hair so wild. But it is not just her dancing that snags him, but the markings that crawl up her shoulders and neck and throat like runes - for he recognizes them.

Oh, he has not seen Rhea since their first meeting in the swamp; he can only pray she has survived the storms. But he could never forget the letters and markings she wore, painted on the bridge of her nose and carved into the curls of her horns. He had not thought he would see them again, here in a room where chanting echoes off the walls, round and round, pulling him down, below the thin wail of the violin.

Of course he approaches. He must know for sure; it is too hard to watch with the way she whirls and weaves, moving across the room like moonlight on water. Asterion, too, must move like starlight to reach her, for all the room around them is a current fast-flowing. It is difficult to reach her, more difficult still to catch her eye, to find a moment when she is moving slowly enough to reach for her ear. Yet he catches the curl of it, above her mask of bone; he is not afraid of the teeth it wears, not tonight. “I did not expect any of the Ilati to venture here tonight,” he says at last, “but I am glad you have.”





@Leto

and hardly ever what we dream





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Leto — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 235
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 2 — Threads: 1
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10
▶ 6 [Year 496 Winter] Active Magic: Starfire
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
#3
stars hide your fires


-- -- --
 

Above the stars are keening, their siren cries falling away beneath the thrum of drum music. The girl dances upon the earth that beats like a heart and the earth that echoes with revelry and wonder. She does not look up now, not since she saw the stars falling, not since her white blood began to warm - more sun than the star itself.
 
The king comes with stars upon his skin. He moves below streaming banners that pour out like the ichor of gods, bathing their worshippers in a thousand colours. Upon his face his mask is pooling, curling silver. Though Leto dances, she watches him come bearing the reflection of her white-bright eyes. Asterion arrives as stars might, resplendent and commanding, planet-struck and comet-bright. Beneath her gasping throat, her heaving sides, those painted sigils he watched shift like water and magic. They glitter as fresh snow beneath a newborn sun and how stark they are upon the black, black of her skin.
 
His gaze is a fingers touch upon them and she shivers for each is sacred, each has made her skin sacred and also nothing of worth compared to the value they hold with her god. Leto is a canvas to the art of her people and the space for stars to hide their fires. Stars fall to her, summoned like rain upon the desert and though she watches the Dusk king she listens to their starfires shift.
 
Her skull mask tilts, pearls and bone gleaming, illuminated in the sea of candles and nebulae light that makes up the grand room. Feathers atop her mask sway as rushes might, pointing like clock hands, counting down the seconds she holds him in her silver-fire gaze. Her smile curls eternal and delightful across her lips. It is as sharp comet tails and wicked with fierce promise. But it is gone like a clap of lightning and the girl, black as night arches her nape with pride.
 
“They shall not break us.” Leto means of the gods and of her home so recently sunk beneath water, rife with disease and only just recovering. Her starfire eyes are full of ghosts, of those Ilati who did not survive, of the multitudes of drowned Dusk citizens who now walk its moonstruck lands as trapped souls.
 
Leto smiles again, a black star swallowing light. Her sigils shine like splits in the very fabric of her skin. But oh how those runes bind her together with liturgy and religion. She does not tell him of her shed-star blood (though that is the reason she stands beneath the Night Court sky this eve), not when he asks of the Ilati.
 
The air is rich with alcohol, the hum of it is in his veins, in the glimmer of his eyes beneath his mask. Leto might ask of the joy in his blood, the taste of liquor upon his tongue, if not for the tide of revelry-filled dancers that push and pull at the king and his subject.
 
“What wonders have you seen tonight, Asterion?” Leto asks, betraying that she is a girl of the fringes who knows nothing of how to address kings when stars are upon her tongue and earth-magic in her soul.

@Asterion 
 




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Asterion — Dusk Court Sovereign Signos: 1,015
▶ Played by Griffin [PM] Posts: 241 — Threads: 23
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 32 — Atk: 28 — Exp: 69
▶ 6 [Year 496 Winter] Active Magic: Water Manipulation
▶ 16 hh Bonded: Cirrus (Pallas's Gull)
#4







 
It seems strange to see her dance beneath a roof, however lovingly adorned, however bespelled (if only for a night).

It is perhaps a testament to his time in Novus that, prior to this moment, Asterion had not thought it strange to stand in a ball-room and listen to music with a hundred strangers and friends. To wear silk or bone or anything at all. Only now does he see it as strange; when he is near enough to speak to her he closes his eyes and sees them not within a great walled castle but out beneath the sky with its river of starlight with the wind in their hair.

Oh, his thoughts are turning fanciful again, and for a moment he lets them.

This near to her he can smell Terrastella on his skin, and he does not expect the way it makes his stomach twist with homesickness and his heart tug with longing. There is the wild salt of the sea (so different from Denocte’s bustling port!), there is the thick rich scent of Tinea, there the sweet summer-grass of the fields that roll like carpet out from the city. No matter how wild she looks, no matter the strangeness of her skull mask and the ringing bells wound in her hair, she still smells of home, and Asterion’s heart beats bright against his ribcage.

When she speaks he is still caught in that rush of feeling, and so he knows at once what she means. “No,” he says, and in his voice is a vow. “They will not.” But as soon as he says it his gaze shifts to curiosity, for he is sure he does not know this girl, sure he has not even heard the ring of her voice even in a dream.

So when she names him he is doubly surprised, as though he has forgotten he is a king. Beneath his mask his dark eyes widen for a moment, and then he laughs like moonlight on the sea. “More than I can name,” he tells her, as the bodies turn around them, a push and pull like the tide. “And yet each moment brings another.” They are foolish words, those of a inexperienced prince and not a king tested, but his blood is wine and starlight and his eyes are full of a wild girl with magic writ across her skin. “I will tell you one in return for your name,” he says, and his dark mouth curls into a smile, bare inches from her cheek. The thought that he could simply ask (or order, if he was that kind of king) does not cross his mind at all. 




@Leto

and hardly ever what we dream





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