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4 [Year 501 Spring]








Marwari X


16.2 hh







Last Visit:

04-16-2020, 03:30 PM


Signos: 0 (Donate)
Total Posts: 14 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 3 (Find All Threads)

How can a boy be both so beautiful, and so jagged? So marked by angular lines, effeminate features; the hard cut of marble-like muscle, the gaze of the infinite, all within a young body.

Never has one’s appearance been so suited for their disposition. He is ink and alabaster; ebony and ivory; obsidian and pearl; black and white. It is almost as if his rigid morality has manifested into each and every aspect of his being; into each and every pour. His conformation is a physical manifestation of his ethical rigidity; the angular lines of his face are a reflection of the sharp, cutting promise of his beliefs.

His head is primarily white, with a splintering of black covering his blue eye. There are numerous black patches that cover his otherwise white body, and his tail is two-toned. His eyes are very pale, one blue and one yellow, like the sky and the sun.

Additionally, Pravda has an unforgiving body, Spartan and utilitarian, where each muscle stands out in stark, statuesque relief. There is no spare flesh on him; each movement promises violent, purposeful action. Even his stillness, there is something about his angles, his disposition, that does not seem still. Instead, a bizarre grace envelops him; a dancing, constant suggestion of motion—the smooth flick of a cat’s tail, or, perhaps more akin to a statue of David immortalised mid-motion, forever in the midst of a stone-throw.

Pravda is predominately a combination of Marwari, thoroughbred, and Anglo-Arabian. He is some 16.2 hands tall, with a build both powerful and elegant. Pravda’s back is broad and short, his body strengthened with dense bone, all attributes which make him suited for power, endurance, and strength. He is refined, aristocratic, and striking in a way he has no right to be. It would suggest, perhaps, some sort of princely breeding—royalty. If he had been true to his breeding, it would have promised a fiery but royal disposition, and solid colours of grey, bay, or black—certainly not a jaggedly articulated piebald. The Marwari appears not only in his disposition and composition, but in the exotic curl of his ears.

The Black

“The first thing you must understand about honour,” whispered the Priest. “Is that it cannot exist without fear.”


There is no love in justice. No forgiveness. No empathy.

Justice is the black and white epitome of consequence. There is no reason behind sin or evil; there is no excuse for dishonourable deeds. Pravda is and will forever be the Priest of Truth and Justice; the keeper of honesty; the deliverer of judgement. And in this aim, he is as pitiless as a crocodile. There is no room for love, for compassion, for forgiveness. Only swift and condemning judgement.

To those who Pravda judges as dishonourable, there is no ability to redeem themselves. In his past life, this meant death. In this life, he is uncertain as to what it means.

Either way, the “black” aspect of Pravda’s soul is a rigid disciplinarian. It is apathetic, condemning, and unimaginative. This creature does not feel empathy, or remorse, or forgiveness. This creature does not feel love, or hatred. This creature possesses only the self-righteous, condemning fury of a pagan god. Pravda is closed-minded, strict, and occasionally cruel. He takes upon his shoulders the weight of the worlds sins, and although he feels deeply and empathetically, he does not express such sentiment. His beliefs are bone-deep, and uncompromising.

If they weren’t, they would destroy him. The White

Although a reincarnation of his older self, and young and inexperienced in this new body, Pravda is nothing without his ideas of honour. His ideologies encompass everything Pravda is; they are his bedrock, his god, his purpose. Of his beliefs, honour is the mother.

Pravda attempts to embody it. He strives to be a person of integrity, of compassion, and civility. He is polite to a fault, humble, and softly spoken. He willingly assists others, without hesitation or impatience, and delights in the doing of good deeds. Genuinely, truly, delights in the service of others. But Pravda’s beliefs, and self, are more complicated than that. Honour, after all, is embodied in a number of other virtues or “rules”, according to Pravda’s ideology.

With this in mind, Pravda is brutally honest. To a fault, even. He does not tolerate lying, theft, or cheating in any capacity—and for another to do so, regardless of his relationship with them, is to be immediately and swiftly condemned by him. Pravda fancies himself a guardian, especially of the disadvantaged. Pravda does not condone violence, unless in self-defence or in the defence of another unable to defend themselves. However, Pravda believes this extends bast the physical idea of “protection” into an emotional and ideological realm. Although directly tied to conceit—or perhaps even a bit of narcissism—Pravda is assured that the vast majority are unable to “protect” their virtues, and is therefore a shameless advocate for living a righteous life.

In addition, Pravda is shameless in his pursuit of knowledge, and regards this as one of his greater purposes in Novus: understanding the customs, cultures, and wide array of society to the best of his ability. He is a scholar, historian, and rhetorician. At the end of this life, Pravda believes he will be reincarnated back to his homeland and this knowledge will be shared with his people. Knowledge is a key facet to living an honourable life because, as far as Pravda is concerned, “ignorance is no excuse” to lacking virtue, truth, or wisdom. One of the greatest personal failures he can experience is to be cornered with the thought that I didn’t know that. Knowledge, more directly, is tied with power—and honourable people must be powerful in order to be a strong example of what honour entails.

He strives to respect others despite differences in cultures and attitudes, judging only on a basis of character: whether or not others qualify as a “good” or “bad” person. So long as one demonstrates they are a person of integrity, Pravda will treat them with the utmost respect and dignity.

The Grey

This is the new world. This is a new life. Pravda is young, in a body that does not remember the eons of his past; as such, he has far less control over his emotions and facial expressions, restricting his nuanced apathy to what his mortal body interprets his internal thoughts necessitate. He may be perfectly serious and struggling to keep back tears, or to control inflections in his voice. He jumbles his speech, often talking too quickly and in a rather childlike fashion.

He is insanely curious of this “new world”, even the most simple of things. Despite decades of experience and knowledge that he retains from a past life, he did not live on Novus or as a “commoner”. The result is that he marvels, quite often, at the simplest of things. He can come across as righteous, overly proper or polite, and ignorant. Pravda is few of these things, but his inexperience at living a “normal life” often appears pretentious, unassuming, or condescending. It is not uncommon for him to embarrass himself. This goes so far as to include pain, stress, and hunger—all feelings that Pravda rarely, if ever, experienced in his old life.

Pravda is both insanely disciplined and dutiful. The result is that he takes everything seriously, even menial tasks, and a stranger could quite frankly trust Pravda with their lives. He has an inherent soft-spot for children and animals, and an innate innocence that contradicts his own judgemental nature. There is a hesitancy, an uncertainty in Pravda—one that seeks out the true meaning of life in the form of sentiments, self-development, and change.

More than anything, he wants redemption. But Pravda is not even aware of this fact of himself, and it is one he wrestles with constantly.

”To understand true goodness, one must first understand true evil.”

Those words would change everything he had ever known, or believed in. Those words would revisit him for many years; in his waking hours; in his sleep. When he spoke quietly to a lover, on in the midst of a bloody battle. Those words were the undercurrent, the thread, that bound everything Pravda was or would become.

They were the words, spoken by a Priest, which ushered him as a foal forward into the dark room and closed the door behind him. They were the words that left him alone. He backed himself, haunches trembling, to press against the cool metal, his eyes peering into the darkness. There was a rustling noise, the sound of many sheets of paper falling, or leaves in the wind… then silence.

After many long moments, his eyes adjusted to the light that fell from the foot-by-foot square window high, high above. He was not, in fact, alone in the cell.

The paper—or leaves—rustled again, but now the sound seemed reptilian, cruel, more like chainmail… Suddenly his eyes focused on a bright gleaming, and it was one shining eye, staring back at him. Then the paper—the leaves—the chainmail, whisper quiet, rustled again. Two eyes fixed on him.

Quicker than he could perceive, quicker than anything he had ever perceived, the creature lunged—violent, abrupt, slashing, and his blood splashed hot and red on the cement floor. The beast then roared and gagged, drawn back by a chain at his throat, just so that it could no longer reach him. Still, the shadowed creature strained—coughing, sputtering, gagging—and then just as abruptly, just as violently, relented. It withdrew to the other corner of the cell, and continued to assess him with vicious, primordial, glowing eyes.

Pravda’s urine ran hot and wet between his thighs, trickling on the ground with a quiet splatter.

—— Dobrodetel’Nyy was a land far from Novus, foreign and remote—a different World. From what Pravda remembers, it was dominated by clean white marble and tropical, sunny days. Some seasons hurricanes blew in, and ravage the seashore and capital city of Debro. But most seasons were not faced with such hardships; they remained tropic, fruitful, giving, with pleasant sunshine and lethargic humidity. The people of the Debrodetel’Nyy lived in harmony, a culture and political climate of prudence, humility, and rigid discipline. They were not diplomatic—in fact, one might even say it was rather tyrannical—but there was reason behind their madness. They were ruled by the Seven Priests, who would choose a successor only once in a millennium. The successor was educated in the Old Ways and the Code of Honour from a very early age. Pravda only ever knew it as a utopia.

Pravda was born no differently from any other foal. His parents cared for his deeply, and the first year of his life was spent largely at play, helping his parents with their merchant stall, and being educated in the devout rituals of the Debrodetel’Nyy. The trajectory of his life, however, changed at the annual Festival of Blagosloveniya, or Blessings, where parents from across the nation brought their foals to the capitol of Debro. This was so their children to be blessed by the Seven Priests. The parents would wait for days before seeing the Priests., for an encounter that lasted only seconds.

When Pravda was brought to the alter, to be blessed, Priest Muzhestvo saw something in his soul. He declared Pravda his successor, and Pravda was taken from his family the next day. But it was not a matter of tears; it was a matter of joyous celebration. Being chosen was a great honour, not that he knew what to make of it, at the time. He would not think about his parents for a very long time, after that—the first advise Priest Muzhestvo gave him was to, “Store away your feelings of them, and your duties as their son. Take your memories—of your time with them, the good and the bad—and section them away. Visit them only on rare occasions, in your memories. You will never see them again as their child.

— —

Priest Muzhestvo stood before him in a small, dusty classroom, where the light struck weekly through the high windows. Priest Muzhestvo said, “Excellence is never an accident. It is always the result of some high intention, sincere effort, and intelligent execution; it represents the wise choice of many alternatives—choice, not chance, determines your destiny.’ That is a quote, from a very old philosopher, from another world entirely. Besides the governance of our people, that is the most significant task the Priests are charged with—to gather the knowledge of the Worlds, and to catalogue it, to memorise it, to share it. This is the most important thing I can teach you, young Pravda. Excellence is never an accident.”

It was a week after his imprisonment with the creature; the creature which now infested every shadow, dominated every nightmare, and creeped in his peripheral during every spare moment. There was only one other student in the Priesthood; a mare several years older than himself who, when questioned, had stared at Pravda with apathetic eyes. “You fool,” she had said. “Each Priest is tasked a different Virtue. Mine is Humility. My first Lesson was spending a month, starving and begging in the streets. My companion is a street cur.”

None of these things had made sense to Pravda. And Priest Muzhestvo again imprisoned him again with the creature, after a week of classroom lectures.

As the door slammed, Priest Muzhestvo stood outside: “‘A Native American Elder once described his own inner struggles in this manner: inside of me are two dogs.’” The creature was spitting, hissing, from the corner of the cell. Pravda bunched as far as possible, shaking against the door, small and exposed. “‘One of the dogs is mean and evil. The other dog is good. The mean dog fights the good dog all the time. When asked which dog wins, he reflected for a moment and replied, ’The one I feed the most.’’ That’s George Shaw, Pravda. A man from another World.”

A small slab opened at Pravda’s feet against the door, and a clay plate was pushed through.

It took him a long moment to discern it was a plate full of meat. The creature was snapping at the end of the chain, inches from Pravda’s face, reeking of death.

But Pravda, fighting back the urge to retch, waited. And waited, for days. Until the creature grew tired, even when Pravda moved; and then, and only then, did he throw a piece of meat in the beast’s direction.

— —

It was over two years later that Pravda saw his parents again. It was at the Festival of Blagosloveniya. They were blessing another child, a child stark white with bright azure eyes, a child that was everything Pravda would never be. They came before each Priest, hooded in the silk of their chosen colour, and offered the child to be blessed. “His name,” they said, “Is Radost.” It meant joy.

They came before Priest Muzhestvo, and Pravda stood behind, hidden in blood-red silks. Priest Muzhestvo blessed the child, and the tears of relief welled in his parents eyes, as the words were spoken, and the child spared. They moved on to the next Priest, and never said a word to Pravda.

He placed the memory in a box. In one of many boxes.

— —

When Pravda was placed with the creature—he had changed his mentality from being ‘imprisoned’ to being ‘placed’—it no longer lunged at him.

It sat opposite the cell, and observed him with those primordial eyes. It was a great, prehistoric beast—and Pravda had noted that it grew, as he grew. When he had first been placed with the creature, it had been roughly his size—colt small, leggy, awkward. Now, it seemed massive in the small confines of the cell. It was all black, gleaming scales and spines and feathers, and the rustling was now non-existent, as though it had learned how to move itself specifically for silence.

They would regard one another quietly for days and when the food came, Pravda shared it with the creature. He dared nearer and nearer each week, until the beast would take the chunks of meat from a proximity near his face, where Pravda was met with the creature’s pure enormity. Although not necessarily large, and certainly not gargantuan, the muzzle was long and dark and full of jagged, piercing teeth. The nostrils would flare so wide the red was visible, and then the beast would exhale, taking the meat gently on bloodied breath. The beast’s great talons scraped along the floor, tracing incomprehensible, runic symbols, and the tail would slash the air behind it. The creature’s eyes were cat eyes, large and incomprehensible, dilated in the darkness—and a plethora of unnamable, ageless colours burned within. It was its presence that made it massive.

Pravda does not remember when, but one day, abruptly, he no longer thought of the creature as “it”, but as “he”.

The days spent with the beast became cryptic; full of thoughts that were not words but images and feelings; they would stare, and stare, until Pravda saw only his face in the darkness, and the beast saw only itself.

— —

They had taken to reading in the gardens with the laughing fountains and the bright, vivacious green plants. Everything was full to the brim; everything bursting, plump and gregarious in its liveliness.

“Machiavelli said, 'People should either be caressed or crushed. If you do them minor damage, they will get their revenge; but if you cripple them, there is nothing they can do. If you need to injure someone, do it in such a way that you do not have to fear their vengeance.'” Priest Muzhestvo recited. Reclined as he was, enjoying the sunshine, the stallion was wisened and statuesque. He appeared a part of the gardens; grandiose and lively. “This, Pravda, is the Justice of the Priests. There is no other way that Dobrodetel’Nyy would function. We live in a Utopia; of no war, no crime, no suffering. Our people are fed, our borders safe, our laws enforced. It is because there is only black and white; all crimes are punished the same, whether large or small. We live by the Code of Honour; no one lies, cheats, or steals. No one behaves with cowardice or dishonesty. Each man is equal, and allotted the same privileges. The governance, the Priests, can be anyone.”

Pravda nodded sagely. These were things he had always known; these were things he remembered as far back as a foal. But now, after many of these Lessons, many of these teachings, he had to ask: ”But how do we know we’re right?”

And the Priest smiled in a way he did, sometimes; revealing everything and nothing all at once, a hard-edged smile and yet infinitely intimate. “We don’t. But we believe we are right; and we all live by the same rules. ‘Rightness’ is a matter of subjectivity. But our people do not suffer, and everything among our people is shared. We are not starving, and we have great arts and educations. And those things we condemn—murder, cheating, stealing, disobeying the Laws—are things that are not right. So how can we be wrong?”

Pravda’s days were spent in such discussions, for many years. He grew older, but not older, for the gift of Priesthood was immortality. He only grew more knowledgeable, and visited the creature more often.

Priest Muzhestvo was the Priest of Truth and Justice. And so, too, would Pravda be. It was only after he had apprenticed for decades—how many, Pravda did not know—that he was allowed to sit in on a Trial, and a Punishment.

— —

The creature was not there.

Pravda was no longer taken to visit with the beast; he chose his times, and frequently sat in the cell with the creature, sometimes for days at at time, mediating in close silence. He was now solely responsible for its care; its feedings, cleaning the cell, and more.

But one day, the creature was not there. And that day bled into weeks, and the weeks bled into months. Priest Muzhestvo was busy and absent, as he had been in the past, as midwinter approached, and with it the Festival of Proklyative.

Then the time passed, and Priest Muzhestvo reappeared, and told Pravda he would be present for the Trial.

— — The Festival of Proklyatiye occurred in midwinter, the opposite of the Festival of Blagosloveniya. It was a dark Festival. The people of Dobrodetel’Nyy wore their hooded cloaks and painted their faces black. It was the Festival of Curse. The people would bring their sins before the priests, their petty crimes—white lies, small thieveries, internal dishonesties—and they would be forgiven.

But they would be forgiven with blood-offerings.

The Festival of Blagosloveniya was the only time of the year when Trials were held, at night, secluded from the eyes of the populace. The police, the investigators, they would bring forward the accused and the evidence. They were brought into a pitted arena, where there were fourteen seats raised above the earth—Seven in front, for each of the Priests, and places behind if they were to have Apprentices. Only Pravda, the older mare, Smireniye, a new apprentice, Znaniya, occupied those seats.

That year, it was a man named Smekh. He had been accused of lying several times on issues of severity—in the market, to his wife—about infidelity—and to the Priesthood, when they asked of his sins. The punishment for such extremities, although always the same, was always decided before a trial.

Although each Priest was equal, Priest Muzhestvo was the Priest of Truth and Justice—and so he presided over nearly all Trials, as he was the Priest of Justice. And so, Smekh was brought before them, wearing no cloak, bare in the moonlight.

He admitted to his sins. And Priest Muzhestvo, in the darkness, cloaked in red, stated: “We are nothing without our Honour. And so you, are Nothing.”

With the sentence, a gate was raised beneath the judges’ seats—there was a silence, and then a whisper, a rustling… like leaves, or paper… or chainmail.

The creature rushed out with that whisper, dark in the way sleep was dark, and circled Smekh. Smekh’s pleas rose, sharp and piercing: “Oh Priests, no. Oh no, I’m sorry—please, please—“

The creature struck, quicker than what was perceivable, quicker than light—one slash and Smekh was hamstringed, collapsing forward in awkward, disjointed motions, on legs that sought to run but no longer had the anatomical capability—another quick slash and blood gushed from a torrent in Smekh’s chest, and he was screaming, screaming, screaming—

The creature looked to the Priests—and those otherworldly eyes, Pravda was relieved, he was relieved, because they were not the unimaginable, complex colours of his creature. They were a different kaleidoscope, a different type of carnal, hunting evil… And then Priest Muzhestvo whistled sharply, and the creature began to feed.

Pravda fought off the feeling of retching. The new apprentice, Znaniya, did not have as much self-control; she stood near him, hot with tears and muffled screams.

The next day, he found his creature in the cell; but he did not go in.

— —

“Now, Einstein says, ‘Any fool can know. The point is to understand.” Her voice was exaggerated, eccentric; she feigned a man’s voice, grizzled and old. The look in her eyes was always one of mischief. She spoke easily, readily, and made friends much more quickly then Pravda ever had. The Priests smiled at her, this bright-eyed, sunshine girl. She was even the colour of the sun; beautiful palomino, her mane burnished white gold, her body pale sun. She was the apprentice of Mudrost, the Priest of Wisdom.

She brightened his life and also, condemned it.

He did not know then, in her youth and in his naivety, that she was the undoing of everything. That she would seize the Priesthood with her jaws and bleed the life’s blood from it. That she would destroy everything he had worked toward; his hard-earned excellence.

No. Then, he only learned to love her.

— —

Priest Muzhestvo came to Pravda one day, what seemed like centuries after their first meeting; and he said, “You are ready.”

It was so simple, for him to say that. It was so simple, for him to decide. And in doing so, Pravda’s life was altered irrevocably again. Priest Muzhestvo went on what they called the “second journey”. He left the lands of Dobrodetel’Nyy in portal opened by Priest Nauka, a portal that warped time and space and transferred Priest Muzhestvo elsewhere, to live a normal life, a chosen life. It was a way to repay them for their service to the nation.

One day, they believed, he would return with the knowledge of another World. And that was how the Priests learned. It was how they gained knowledge of many times and many places, through their “second journey”.

But suddenly, quite suddenly, Pravda was both alone and elevated. He became Priest Pravda, the Priest of Truth and Justice. He became the administer of Trials and Punishments, the keeper of all things True and all things Just. His creature, his companion, was Named: Prigovora. She began to follow him everywhere, and those vicious of his youth of a great creature lurking at is peripherals manifested into a true form.

And he felt the building of a sentiment he had never understood, in such a way: romantic love. He had known love for his parents; he had known love for the Priests. But this love was new, and poisonous. It was for the Apprentice; it was for Znaniya.

He boxed it away. Oh, he tried—he tried so hard, to section it from his heart and mind, and bury it for another life.

— —

Their nights were full of passion and intimacy. She visited him often, and Pravda hoped it was in secret—but he also new, inherently, that nothing was secretive among the Priests. They could read the love on his face. They could read it in his eyes.

They strolled the gardens, discussing philosophy; the visited the people of the city, sharing Wisdom and Truth. They were two parts of a whole, he felt; two complementary virtues. And oh, how it consumed him—how it punished him.

He was surprised when the Priests made no comment; when they turned their eyes from what he believed must be sinful. It was only when the Priest Strasi, the Priest of Passions, came to him, and said: “Martin Luther said, once, ‘Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.’ Your Priesthood demands the most of you, out of all of us. To be the administer of justice… oh, that is a heavy thing, and it weighs upon the soul. If this love softens the burden, and keeps the hate from devouring your soul, enjoy it for as long as it lasts.”

From then forward, their days were spent openly in the gardens; they were spent with intimate, joyous whispers, and days of light and love. They were the best days of Pravda’s life.

He did not know she was planning a rebellion.

He did not know that she did not believe in them.

He did not know she sought to overthrow the “tyrannical dictatorship” of the Priests; that she sought to impose “democratic free-will and fair trial”; that she believed in the power and beauty of choice.

He only knew her for a girl that laughed in the sunlight, and said, “Any fool can know. The point is to understand.

— —

For everything that Dobrodetel’Nyy was, it was peaceful—there was a Priest Mir was charged with peace, and the knowledge of peace. He was charged with the implementation; with the enforcing of it; the encouraging of it; the settling of disputes. He travelled more than any of the other priests to secure it.

He returned after a many month journey throughout the nation, and he returned with news of the growing rebellion; he informed them of the peoples’ dissent, and the violence on the outskirts of their nation.

The other Priests could not believe it. They thought he meant only petty disputes. There had been no such thing in the history of the Priesthood. Priest Mir had to have been exaggerating, over-sensitive to arguments on the fringes.

They were mistaken, when violence erupted in the capitol only a few weeks later.

They demanded for an egalitarian government; for representation; for the end of single-handed, violent Justice.

Znaniya later abandoned the Priesthood—after all, she had orchestrated the entire thing. She had fed knowledge to the people, empowering them, shaping their opinions. But she over-estimated her ability to sway the masses who, largely, were well-cared for and supported by the Priesthood. Priest Zaschita, charged with Protection, raised the army of devotees—and they waged civil war on their own people.

Ultimately, the Priesthood was successful—and due to the extreme circumstances, the Trials occupied the entire Festival of Proklyatiye. They were done before the masses, which had never been done in the history of the people. Those who partook in the rebellion were brought forward under accusations of “intent to harm fellow citizens” and “intent to defy the Code of Honour”. They were the worst imaginable offences one could commit.

Znaniya was the last to be sentenced. The sands were already stained and bloody when she stepped upon them, as gold as a goddess, as gold as sunlight. She shone defiantly, even then, in that tarnished pit of Truth and Justice—and she stared at him, just as defiantly, challenging him.

Her words, when he had visited in her cell, came to him violently in the moment: “It was Pablo Neruda who stayed with me, when I was with you. It was the words: ‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.’ That is how I have loved you, Pravda—and I do not hate you for this. We all have our beliefs… and in another life, I might not have believed yours were wrong. But your truths and my truths are not the same, except that one: that I love you. I know it is wrong, but you gave me courage—your utter conviction in your beliefs, gave me courage in mine… and it strengthened me when I was alone, even knowing that this… this would make you hate me. I can’t help but think it is wrong, that it is all so wrong…” Then, she attempted to convert him; to plead her cause, not for her sake, but for his. But Pravda could not believe it. He could not.

He had to watch. He couldn’t look away when Prigovora was released and the sentence was completed. He reminded himself: their morality was black and white. She had committed unforgivable treasons; she had endangered countless lies in her misguided pursuit of righteousness. Black, and white. Yet, as the commanding force behind Prigovora’s teeth, it was difficult not to recollect the words that began his journey: “To understand true goodness, one must first understand true evil.”

And he wondered. He wondered, more than he ever had, if perhaps he was not the keeper of both.

Pravda struggled for many days; for many weeks; for many years. But eventually… eventually, he folded the sentiments in his mind, and he boxed them away.

— —

His Priesthood lasted centuries. He chose an apprentice, unable to discern exactly what drew him to the young girl at her blessing ceremony; but he chose her, and he taught her, just as he had been taught. She was imprisoned with a creature her same age; and that imprisonment became a bond, a sense of solidarity, and she began to speak as he spoke, and move as he moved, and in her he saw all the ideals he had intwined with his very breath, his very breathing. She was confident and firm; swift and condemning. The thread was wound, between them; the thread was wound into the fibre of her being, from his own, and the education was complete.

He taught her, as he had learned, the Code:

Honour is a privilege of:





Truth and justice



The Laws of the Code are:

That one will never lie, cheat, or steal.

That one will protect those who cannot protect themselves.

That one will be knowledgable to the best of their ability.

That one will be honest, but tactful, in all facets of life.

That one will always remain faithful to their partner.

That one will respect others despite their differences.

That one will always be kind, and avoid cruelty at all costs.

That one will never intentionally harm another, physically or emotionally (unless in time of war)

— —

When his apprentice was taught, when she had grown old and wise, Pravda went to the Priest of Wisdom and asked to partake in the second journey.

He was very tired.

Both he and Prigovora closed their eyes, and went to sleep. The portal was created, and they were pushed through.

Pravda awoke—he didn’t know how many years later it was—in a different land. It was much colder, and the climate much more varied. He did not know where Prigovora had gone; and when he stood, it was the body of a colt, as though he had blossomed straight from the flowers of springtime. He wandered alone for quite some time, before happening upon an aged stallion that told him the story of the land, Novus, and the gods that inhabited it. Pravda, by then, did not want to be alone—and he set out toward the Court that suited him the most, in his newfound quest for knowledge in a New World. He arrived to the Dawn Court as an orphan, it seemed, yet wisened far beyond what was reasonable for a colt his age—he professed a desire to become a scholar, and to learn their ways, so that one day he might take the knowledge back home.

And so he had struggled through the “second journey”, reaching his third year of life in this strange New World, attempting… slowly, and surely… to become enlightened in the ways of a “normal life”, whatever that meant.

Active & Parvus Magic

Passive Magic


Primordial. Prigovora is primordial; he is a creature dredged up from the eons of time, pieced together by the nightmares of the living and the dead. “The creature” that has occupied Pravda’s life is reborn in the same timeless shape, and possesses the same timeless bestiality. On a realistic scale, Prigovora is most comparable to a combination of the Utah Raptor and Achillobator—two ancient species of theropod dinosaurs. He is best distinguished by a terrifying sickle claw and powerful haunches, which allow for agile movement, powerful leaping, and extremely quick acceleration.

He differs considerably from these “predecessors” however, in additional elements: his forelegs are considerably longer and he can shift between bipedal and quadrupedal movement with ease. Although he does not posse opposable thumbs, his claws are longer and remarkably dexterous for such a prehistoric creature, not unlike those of a osprey or peregrine. His entire physicality is consumed by a nearly feline grace, lacking the stiffness one might associate with a theropod. Despite his size, Prigovora is quite manoeuvrable, even in confined spaces.

Speaking of his size, Prigovora is again the mediator between a Achillobator and Utah Raptor—he reaches approximately 20 feet long, although the majority of that is a flexible tail that ends in a number of blade-like spines (over twice his body length). When it comes to weight, Prigovora is slightly over one ton, at 1,115 pounds, and reaches 5’10” at the shoulder. His teeth are serrated and recurved, and grow back frequently, like a shark’s.

He deviates, also, from what is expected of a typical dinosaur in that his body is covered in a number of serrated spines and feathers. His jaw curves into a beak-like protrusion, used for hooking and tearing at prey, while his limbs are primarily scaled and bird-like. Prigovora’s frame is thickly corded with muscle, and he is dominated by quick, assertive, predatory movements.

In regards of colouring, Prigovora is composed of the darkest blacks—except for the ravenesque iridescence that shimmers along his feathers and spines. The only difference is rather than a deeply indigo or teal, the sub-hue of his coat is deep, dark red. Another attribute Prigovora possesses is the presence of a loreal pit between his nostrils and eyes, which is the same organ that allows pit vipers to see in infrared while hunting. This essentially provides Prigovora with a “sixth sense”, in that he is able to pick up heat signals in the darkness despite being warm-blooded. His eyes are crocodilian, with a wildly slit pupil that dilates much like a cat’s in lower lighting. The colour of his irises is as primordial as the rest of him, and distinctly reptilian: a grey veined with copper and red.

Prigovora’s personality is a complicated manifestation of an ultimate predator. There is a certain amount of hubris associated with an apex male; he is clever, assertive, and aggressive. Prigovora is powerful, aware of it, and enjoys cruelty not for the sheer sake of being cruel: but in the same way a cat, when bored, will toy with live prey. He is apathetic to suffering, even his own, and lacks any semblance of compassion. Prigovora is the epitome of the most fearsome aspects of nature; merciless, intelligent, resilient, and competitive. Prigovora’s life is consumed by being the best, and only the best; and by being Pravda’s hammer of judgement. The beautiful irony of this, is Prigovora's indifference to justice, his utter disregard for "fair". He is a creature that delights in the weaknesses of others, as it highlights his strength. He loves nothing, but if he were to love anything, it would be Pravda: and he would love him with the fearsome joy that exists, equally, in nature, within shared bloodlines.

Pravda is his brother.

Pravda is his leader.

Pravda is his pack.

There is nothing as sacred as Pravda; not Prigovora’s hunger; not his meat; not his wellbeing.

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