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4 [Year 501 Spring]








Anglo Arabian


16.2 hh







Last Visit:

08-03-2020, 11:17 PM


Signos: 380 (Donate)
Total Posts: 38 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 7 (Find All Threads)

“It was her chaos that made her beautiful.”

There is in her form a cacophony of desert violence, and avarice, and wealth. From the delicate dish of her face to the sinew and strength of her body there is a hint of what could be if only regalia and ferocity combined to make a single constellation.

It starts at the tips of her slightly curled ears, and continues through the curl of her crest, ending only at the terrible chattering of her braided and cuffed braids. She's a mix of beauty and horror, violence and lust, endlessness and terrible fragility of youth. The gold of her eyes seems more molten than icy, more center of the sun than hidden treasure. Amaunet does not understand the strength of subtly. She is made to be noticed.

She demands it no matter the setting she finds herself in.

When she is in the pits, spending the desert nights lusting for blood and gore, Amaunet is all war-paint and grace. Her wings are nothing more than weapons attached to her form. The braids banded with gold are nothing more than marks of her heritage, an instrument of fear for those that hear her coming (Davke girl, come for the pulse below their throats). The whisper of her feathers is nothing more than a reaper's coo, a eulogy, a serenade to bones instead of hearts. In the pits, hidden even among the underbelly of Solterra, she is a thing feared, a bastard of wealth and brutality that has for a year carved her name into the flesh of many while she laid her teeth at their throats.

And perhaps it is only at high-noon and midnight that Amuanet becomes anything but dangerous. It's in those hours that she lets herself fall into the hotblooded, lazy lure of her noble blood. She's as easy brushing shoulders with the highest rings of Solterra culture as she is carving her name into skin. From wine, to flesh, to gold, to jungle fronds trapped by courtyards, there is no caste of nobility that she cannot carve herself into. Because when she dawns her silken, blood-red cape and her golden adornments who is there to say that she has not been bred to conquer everything her gaze can touch?

“True art comes from flying with the madness so close you burn your eyelashes.”

Volatile. The word has been used maybe times to describe Amaunet. Her mother was the first to call her explosive (even by Davke standards she was). The pathways of her brains lean towards wildness, more predator than horse. She's all fight and the song her heart sings known nothing of flight-- unless it's diving off a jagged cliff towards a storm sea, or leaping from the top of the canyon and racing the other wild ones to the caves at the belly of the it.

Amaunet has always been the first to leap and the last to feel regret creeping up her spine like a shadow. She is more quicksilver by the day.

What she does she does by full measures. If she is to fight it's not until the blood letting before death that she might stop. If she is to journey it's to the end of the world or not at all. And if she is to love it is by tooth, and marrow, and death. Her mother named her after the hidden one, but Amaunet's passion is always exploding at the surface. All that fire of her is hot enough to burn, and smolder, and singe.

Perhaps the only part of her that is ever hidden are the true plans behind her molten gold eyes, and the reason she's always been so reckless. Sometimes she does not even know why the leaping makes her blood sing and the fighting makes her heart soar. (Her mother would tell her it's the nobility in her blood and her father would tell her it's the violence of her Davke blood).

Whatever the reason she lives her life as all the wild things do: until her lungs ache and her heart trembles like a dying thing.

“Raised in leather with flesh on her mind.”

Violent delights have violent ends. Solterra has lived for years by that knowledge. It has thrived in it, grown bloated and vicious in it. The beginning of Amaunet was no different. She is passion bred from passion, violence from violence, desert-royalty from desert hardiness.

She is everything that sets Solterra apart, what makes it a violent world for the hungriest of them. Perhaps it started with her mother, a Davke warrior who left the desert to raid the city center back in the days of the silver queen. Perhaps it started only with that hate (blood on the streets and fires blazing through doors for purposes that had nothing at all to do with warmth). Or perhaps she began when her father stumbled upon her vicious, feral mother, and knew an ache so violent it felt like a sword running him through.

Perhaps it doesn't matter how she started. The fire is enough of her tale to know. She is passion after all, she is recklessness, she is Solterran.

From the first she was a strange Davke. Delicate instead of hardy, clever instead of brutal when it suited her. But perhaps the only thing she never differed in was her tendency to boldness and blood. Her trials as a youth were the first time the tribe took notice of the half-bred girl (before that it has only been beware, she's tainted. She's wilder than she should be, nothing good will come from being near her). While the others had set off for a massive sand snake that had been hunting the outskirts of the tribe she had set off in the other direction.

And she'll say she had every intention of bringing home a sand snake of her own. To this day that's all she will say.

But when she left and traveled north while the others went west, she had stumbled instead upom a gypsy caravan. At first it was the boy who drew her in, his smiles the brightest thing she had ever seen in her two years. At first it seemed like fate that she should meet him. At first she thought that being a gypsy might have been a better way to live, to dance and sing around a fire with no law to follow but her own. Late into the night she had followed him through the camp, listening to his stories like a lamb listening to a lion promising salvation.

The next morning it was his body she dragged back to the tribe. And on her body was blood-paint in the same pattern as the warpaint she wears into the pits.

In the year after the trials, when she was fully accepted into the Davke culture Amaunet has started to drift away. Perhaps she still sees that gypsy boy each time a new group of youth wander off into the desert with their targets and their knives. Or maybe the lure of the Davke was only in being on the outside of them and wanting feel the fire of the center between her teeth like a rope.

She's spent time with her father, learning how to be the bastard daughter of the Haajad family. But a few times a month she still returns to the desert wilds and pretends that's she's all violence and blood. Because the Davke at the most dangerous of friends and she has always been the most silently dangerous of them all.

They just haven't discovered it yet.

Active & Parvus Magic

“the control we believe we have is purely illusory, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion.”


Never has a magic been so well-suited to its master (and its master she is, there is no letting her in relationship with her magic, there is only domination). The magic in her blood stems from the passion in her marrow and the forces that bore her. Amaunet's Chaos magic is simply that-- chaos.

The world around her oft dissolves into anarchy and violence. Her own reckless wildness leaks into the world around her and in turn she charges herself off the madness. The more chaotic and angry the word is the stronger and stronger Amaunet will become.


There is an aura of foreboding around her, that weightlessness of looking over the edge of a cliff. Everything seems one step from falling, one step from war, one step from violence. Being around her feels like the freedom of jumping into abyss without a care for the bottom of it. The feeling of it is as heady as it is terrifying, because the way that her body starts to glow softly, golden as a distant solar flare promises to make the falling worth it.

I. Discipuli

At this stage her magic is more feeling than force. A heart with violence in it already might find it drawn out, unhinged and hungrier than before. Her magic can only grow that which is already there, it takes inhibition and burns it down into freedom. The only time her magic has any real power at this level if she find herself in a room full of powder kegs and lit matches.

The charge she gets from Chaos at this level low. She might fly faster or last a little longer fighting against a head wind. An attack from her might feel like it's come for a horse a hand taller and a few hundred pounds heaver than her. And when she uses the charge her body only glows soft enough that it might seem there is only a candle-light dancing gently over her skin. However when she does give herself over to the charge, and the chaos, coming back can be a fight all its own.


Her magic has some weight behind it now. There might only need to be the smallest bit of rage for her to fuel it into a flame. It can only effect a room full of people at best, or perhaps a group of closely clustered horses at the markets. A fight already in progress might grow feral if she presses closer (or joins it). A scuffle between two horses might become a fight until one of them falls.

At this level Amaunet can fight like two horses in one. Her attacks are twice as hard, her flights twice as fast and five times as wild. She glows like the edge of a bonfire. And to the touch she feels a little like laying a kiss to the altar of the sun god himself. Coming back to herself after giving in to her magic seems easier and easier.

III, Periti

Amaunet has in her the magic to give birth to a war. An argument that seemed so simple might become a blood feud. A market might descend into total chaos will each merchant left fighting both for his goods and his life. The fighting pits might turn into disarray and anarchy, the fighters reaching from wall to wall with little care to who there are attacking. But at his level she might only make a horse or two descend to madness (and then from them she might lead them to give their lives to the thrill of defending their right to it).

Her attacks feel like a small band of soldiers. She might be able to toss a horse across the room if she charges them. Her kicks feel like explosives and bullets. She glows bright as a morning sun, it hurts to look at her. She can fly for a day on a single charge of chaos and violence. Amaunet is both a creator and creature of war.

IV. Dominus

For a year she could fuel a war. Each time a soldier might think it's time to turn to peace he might find his belly feeling hollow and his bones like weapons begging to be free. Being around her is like being in the middle of a battlefield, all the adrenaline, fury, and fierce desire to live even just a single more moment before it's all gone. She is bright as a the noon sun and even when she is not using her magic there is about her a holy glow that never fades.

Amaunet is a battalion of her own. When she's charged by the chaos of her making she could fly through a tribe of horses with the force of a fiery spear. At this level even a rock might dissolve by the strength of her attack. She is a true berserker and there is very little besides an entire army all at once that might be able to fell her quickly. Because even charged with the violence and anarchy of war Amaunet can still bleed. She can still die.

Passive Magic


Armor, Outfit, and Accessories


Amaunet is rarely seen without a collection of gold bands holding her mane and tail into braids. There is also often around her neck a gold and red beaded necklace on which a single black and white feather hangs. And then there is her warpaint, an accessory she is almost never without. It's a reminder to her-- nothing is ever as bright as her, nothing as deserving of life.


Her outfit was a gift from her father when she first joined the highest castes of Solterran nobility. It's an outfit designed to stand out and make it impossible to call her the bastard daughter. The cloak she wears is of blood-red silk and woven with golden filaments in a pattern than sometimes looks like a million tiny suns. Above the clock rests a strip of wolf fur, a prize her feather won in his younger years as a solider. The cloak is held in place by strips of leather sturdy enough that she might fly through a thunder storm and never once be in danger of losing her cloak to the wind.

In addition to the cloak she dawns a delicate beaded head piece that loops in a suggestion of something fragile around her ears and cheeks. She hung from it two feathers to match the necklace her mother gave her the morning of her trial (and she dotted them with each with a spot of red paint). Even when she returns to the Davke, she rarely takes off her set of golden bands that frame a strange warpaint marking she often has on her front left leg. And finally around her neck there are three bands of gold around her neck and attached to her mane by strips of blood-red beads.

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Played by:

nestle (PM Player)


lovesome    //   


nestle #5513