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

▶ Year || 503
▶ Season || Fall
▶ Temp || 35℉ (℃) - 69℉ (℃)
▶ Weather || Summer's iron grip has slowly faded into the gentler Fall embrace. The morning dew frosts over in the early morning hours and melts by the time the sun hits high in the sky. Many of the trees have traded their lush, vivid green for a more suitable array of red and orange hues. But don't blink, for Winter's cold embrace is fast upon Fall's heels.


Character of the Season

Member of the Season

Thread of the Season
r.i.p. to my youth;

Pair of the Season
Atreus and Fiona

Quote of the Season
"Are there lines she's crossing? Should she toe them or touch them with a pole and stay away wholly? But to avoid such a storm he offers, such a taste of life; to withhold herself from the chance to taste starlight, to love satin and silk and swallow pomegranate seeds not yet offered... She should be stronger." — Moira in
Small as a wish in a well

see here for nominations


All Welcome - torment
Mathias — Day Court Citizen Signos: 135
▶ Played by bruiser [PM] Posts: 15 — Threads: 3
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 5 — Atk: 15 — Exp: 10
▶ 12 [Year 491 Spring] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
if you wanna start a fight, you better throw the first punch

He walks through the court like a whisper of what-might-have-been, his sides slatted with a hunger that should have disappeared upon the cusp of summer -- he is a shade chained to life, his steps heavy and slow as he meanders his way along a beaten sand path. From the corner of his eye, he sees a mother pull her son away from him, and his smile is twisted and bitter -- he wants them to fear him, does he not? To be wary and to stay away from him?

His chest clenches with loneliness, a constant hollow ache that he has never understood, and it only serves to help fuel the fire banked low in his veins.

He whirls and offers the child a bared-teeth smile, stalking towards the stilt-legged thing -- the same age as his own sons, the one and only time he had laid eyes upon them, when he’d left a bag of gold for each of them at the doorstep of the orphanage they’d been brought into, a letter tucked inside as well that had explained his side of things, their heritage should they ever wish to seek it out.

“Do you believe in the bogeyman?” He mutters to the child as the mother freezes, torn between the urge to run and the instinct to defend her round-eyed offspring. The boy shakes his head, too quickly, and a harsh laugh burst from his chest.

"You should."


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