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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.

Spotlight

Character of the Season
Theodosia

Member of the Season
Nestle

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


DISCORD

- Florentine
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#11

It came with the threat of a waning moon
And the wail of an ebbing tide,


The forest below is alive with music and the flicker of candlelight. Its trees are thrown up the mountainside, clinging to its edge but standing tall. Above it, high, high above it, Florentine’s toes grip the edge of the slick stone floor. 

Her eyes are closed beneath the golden light of the morning sun. It has not even crested the blanket of clouds that keep it bed-bound, but it heralds its coming with a sky that turns from gold to red, royal blues and bruised purples. Late stars still twinkle and shine, determined not to give way to the day.

It is a long fall from where she stands to the crowns of trees below. And an even longer fall beyond them to the mountain’s foot. But Florentine stands and welcomes the skyhigh winds as readily as a sea’s tide rolling up the beach. The cool winds nip at her toes, so dirty with soil and mud. She might have been ashamed, were all the festival revelers not bare footed and carefree too…

Her fingers tangle in the ivy crawling up the pillar beside her; the only sign that she may not wish to fall after all. Free winds catch the skirts of her dress which is just as tatty and dirty as her feet. Her veins sing with alcohol and her muscles still feel the frenzy of dance. She cannot open her eyes yet, not whilst she still remembers what it is to be down there within the vaulted boughs of fire-lit trees.

There is not one part of Florentine that is well kept. Her hair, is a golden tangle of leaves and flowers – so many, many flowers. She is a flower girl, but here her flowers are nothing compared to theirs. The Anthousai.  So many more flowers they have woven into her hair and dusted so much pollen onto her skin her gold is nearly gone beneath purples and blues, pinks and yellows. Here she is plain, but they make her other.

At last, Flora turns away from where the temple’s edge and steps back into the building itself. She wonders if this place is merely a ruin, or if he prefers the way the forest infiltrates this shrine of stone and reverence. Flowers erupt from cracks in the stone floor, grasses grow between them and ivy weaves over every expanse of stone. Trees grow in between pillars and vines hang between their elegant branches.

Ah the god of revelry and vegetation. He has it all here. Except… Her nose wrinkles as she moves to stand before a great stone statue, her eyes slowly perusing the sculptor’s work. After a moment more, she steps beyond the statue, over cracked rock and through the streams of golden, dawn-light. 

Chalices of wine stand upon steps that climb up to a dais, and there, in front of the pillars standing tall before the dawn, is a rough-hewn altar. Bunches of grapes and silk, gifts of food and wine lie in mass at its feet. The dawn is more beautiful here and with the disrespect of a girl, never accustomed to following a god, she sits upon the altar, her legs swinging, a bunch of dedicated grapes clasped in her hand.

A sparkle of gold catches her eye and Flora looks up to the ceiling, where gilded maenads dance their feverish dances and wine overflows. She eats a grape, then another and another. Florentine does not pause from eating them, not even when flowers whisper and leaves rustle as feet move between them. “They didn’t get your nose quite right.” She says of the statue, without pulling her eyes from the ceiling's maenads, or the wine brought to life by paint and a little magic. By now she would know it is him in any guise but here, especially, there is an otherness to him. “And I really hope, for your sake, they got their dimensions all wrong.”

It is not enough to sit here watching the sunrise. Not when he is here. And so, she tucks her feet up and stands, walking across the altar. Festival wine still tingles in her veins as she stands, smiling. “I met them.” Florentine breathes with heart pounding and eyes wide, “The anthousai.” She clarifies as an afterthought as she looks to him. She stands so high above him, here upon the dais and its raised altar. Flora feels like the mountain, framed in dawn light. 

It is true that she would not have had the courage to stand upon the altar of any of Novus’ gods. But she never knew them, never felt them nearly die beneath her hands. Fallible, broken, so nearly swept from existence. So Florentine stands upon his altar for fear she may kneel before it and pray to another god for his salvation.

T A I S C E



She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#12
i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

TEXT HERE

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world

She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#13
Winter's End Festival
An Invitation:


-- -- --
 Dear Queen Seraphina,

This is a time to celebrate the dying year and to look to the new. We in Terrastella would like to invite you, and all your court, to our Winter's End Festival. There is no part of Terrastella that is not touched by this occasion. It is a chance for all courts to gather together, to celebrate, send lanterns into the sky, leave notes for one another, pledge yourself to the coming year and give thanks for the one gone by.

Come, join us and be merry.

Yours,

Queen Florentine


-Every land in Terrastella has something different going on as part of the festival, so come and explore! The festival will conclude on the 31st January -
 



She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#14
T a i s c e

Beware, they say, when you stand upon the cliffs of Terrastella and see a ripple of hair within the sea foam.


Beware, they say, when you walk along the beach of the Terminus Sea and hear the cry of horses out in the waves.


Beware, they say, when the tide rolls out smoothing sand, and there are hoofprints in its wake, freshly pressed.


Run, they say, if the sea rolls in, red with blood.



~~~~~


APPEARANCE



Taisce is the steel blue of a sea broiling before a storm. He is the lancing of gold that spills out across his skin like veins - like rivulets of gold running out into the sea. This kelpie is a work of marbled gold and blue. His mane and tail are thick and tangled, hanging in waves as though each tendril was seaweed caught in the tide of the ocean. Look closely and you will indeed find seaweed caught within his mane and tail. The seaweed comes in every shade the ocean grows it, but oh his hair is the colour of the ocean at midnight and the grey of brooding clouds, struck through by highlights of white - lightning through a stormcloud.


His eyes are the pale white froth of a churning wave. In his gaze you can see the way the seaspray bubbles, you can taste the salt upon your tongue. Down from his eyes and there, along each side of the bridge of his nose, are gills. They are thin slits, sharp as a cut from a knife, that open as Taisce falls into the sea and close as he rises like a monster from the deep.  Lower still and his lips are silver-blue. So often they are stained with the red of his prey, but the water is gracious, and if you are lucky, it has already washed the blood away. His teeth are sharp - so far from any a horse’s should be! They are long and canine, made to grasp, to rip and to bite. Those steel-blue lips are good secret-keepers, for unless this kelpie wishes to show you his teeth, you might be tempted to never think he is one at all.


You look to his ears for they might be longer than a normal horse’s should be… but you are not sure as it is a subtle elongation - one that lures you into thinking it must be normal. But everything about Taisce lures you into thinking he is normal. But what is abnormal, what whispers dangerously of the ocean, are the fine, fine fins that branch out like wings from the edges of his ears. They are the same fins you find behind his elbows.


His limbs are long, as muscular as his lean torso. Ah this boy was born a Solterran soldier, his body knows everything of war. It is muscular and honed for battle, it makes him a dangerous adversary upon the beach. Now a kelpie, it is the power of the ocean that propels him along the beach. His muscles ripple like the rolling waves and his breath is the hiss of the ocean tide - in and out, in and out. As the tide creeps up the shore, surprisingly fast, trapping the unwitting within its grasp, so too should you watch out for Taisce, for he rides the tide like a pegasus the sky. His cloven feet move like a whisper and he is upon you before you know, with his teeth in your throat and his strong body pulling you out, out into the sea.

She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#15
i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls
Text

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world

She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#16

f l o r e n t i n e


Text here.

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart


She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#17
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
 
Vengeance. His prayer comes back to him, no less a prayer than a vow. It pours from the shadows like midnight pouring from the sky. It came from a voice with no earthly belonging.

Out of the darkness she comes, adorned in midnight’s splendour. Raum thought he knew midnight, ah, he thought he knew darkness, but nothing compares to her.  She drifts as shadows might, pouring across the floor of her temple. Liquid black turns to solid skin, but oh her hair remains spectral and wild.

Through the blue of his eyes (as bright as the teeth that gleam beneath her obsidian lips) he drinks in his goddess. She steps into the light beside him and his lips close tight to stop a stray command. Stop. He might have told her then, for the darkness suited her better, always.

Yet Caligo does not stop (she never would have, even had he spoken), for his part he does not sway or balk as she comes to stand before him. She is close, too close. Even darkness struggles to pass between the space she left between them. It is but a breath, just a hair’s breadth; if he moved they might touch. Oh to touch!

Midnight meets silver in the darkness of her temple. He is the moonlight to her night, the flash of steel to deliver her justice. Raum does not move, his skin is silver metal, his body a fierce statue.

His breath is a tangle in his throat as hers pours over the mercury of his skin. Raum is poison but his goddess is the alchemist that made him so. Only she knows the antidote to his wicked crimes. He breathes out, slow, smooth as if his goddess was not stood there as if he merely stared at another Denoctan.

She speaks and the words are static between them. He lifts his electric eyes to gaze upon her, her shadows rise, a stray hair reaches for him and seems to stop. Obediently his own silvered hair rises to meet it, until it too stops short. A veil of divinity lies between them. It keeps the mortal, mortal and the goddess divine. Yet it is so thin! He could strike through that paper-thin veil – were he any other man.

Instead, Raum drinks Caligo in, he basks in her presence, though his gaze does not soften and his lips do not tip into a smile for her. How long has it been since his lips have known how to wear a smile? Wildness, fearlessness, anger and retribution are painted across the lines of his face. Raum is the art of chaos, or war and vengeance. He was made for darkness and here is home.

Quicksilver. That is the name she gives him, from ebony lips that smile like pitch. Midnight is the name upon his tongue, one he does not speak, but he names her so, in the silence of his quicksilver mouth.

“Ours, Caligo.” He answers the goddess at last, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. Her name is curling smoke upon his tongue, there and then gone. His daggers gleam wicked and keen beneath them. “Does is need to be categorised? My vengeance is for those who have been rejected. All of them.” At the last he tips his chin the slant of his gaze razor sharp and hot with promise.

She commands him to pick up his steel and obediently he does, his gaze never falling away from her as he lifts the keen daggers from their resting place. They hang beside the Midnight goddess and her Quicksilver soldier, tight in the grasp of their master.

“What vengeance do you seek?” He asks of her in satin, with a voice that pours like whiskey. A dagger slowly rotates in the air, its hilt tipping away from him to point at Caligo. There it hangs before her, in offering, in challenge. That static between them heightens and their darkness seethes. “We have been rejected by those we loved. You know the pain like I do. This vengeance is ours.” And still he stands close to her, his body unmoved, his soul quaking like clashing stars.

“What will you have me do?” He murmurs into the thin, thin space between them as the darkness seethes and drinks and basks.


Tag here

She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#18

She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply
Florentine — Dusk Court Citizen Signos: 1,355
▶ Played by Obsidian [PM] Posts: 306 — Threads: 41
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 56
▶ 5 [Year 498 Spring] Active Magic: Time Travel
▶ 15 hh Bonded: N/A
#19
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.


 



She is clothed with strength and dignity, 
and she laughs without fear of the future 


Reply


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