Novus
an equine & cervidae rpg
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Santiago
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Age:

506 [Year ]

Gender:

Male

Pronouns:

He/Him/They/Them

Orientation:

Homosexual

Breed:

Fell Pony x

Height:

14 hh

Health:


Attack:


Experience:

Offline

Last Visit:

01-18-2021, 09:10 PM

Joined:

06-22-2020
Signos: 1,000 (Donate)
Total Posts: 0 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 0 (Find All Threads)



god buried lily seeds inside my heart



Elliot has said many things to me that I thought were loving but turned out to be psychotic. The one that I think back on the most made me swoon at the time, and makes my skin crawl now.

He had brought me down from the sculptor’s podium. I was barely alive then; and I was too inexperienced to walk without leaning on his shoulder. Light filtered in through the huge, arched, studio window, and for the first time I saw dust swirling through the air, and I remember thinking that it was very beautiful, and for no particular reason.

He said: “Santiago, all the boys in the world are divided into two sorts. One sort is all the boys in the world except you, who all have mortal weaknesses and are very ordinary boys. The other sort is you—you alone, with no weaknesses and higher than everything human.”



I was made out of a very large piece of alabaster. The block I was carved out of arrived on a boat which made a harrowing journey across the sea, and Elliot tells me that it has been broken down, this last piece of wherever I am from. (He also tells me not to worry myself by thinking of this place. Wherever it is.)

Many people assume I was carved from marble. The difference—I have learned this from listening in to one too many sculptor’s lessons in the west wing—is that alabaster is significantly softer, extremely brittle and easily bruised. It can be scratched by a cat’s claw, even after being polished to a deceptively hard, glass-like finish. (Which I have been.) Anyway: we have never discussed it, but there is a reason Elliot is the finest sculptor in the world, and some part of me is convinced he chose alabaster even before he started carving me because it would bring me the closest to living softness.

He did not paint me much. Mostly I was brushed over with a pale lacquer of pink, leaving me more perlino than pure white, except for the perfectly centered blaze and four bright socks Elliot left untouched. He shaped my hooves from rhodonite, then dipped them in a layer of hard, pink gold; they match the long, smooth horn that juts from my forehead. My hair (though it’s not really hair, just like the rest of me is not really flesh) is dyed a deep beige and cut carefully into long, blunt layers. My eyes are two brightly polished moonstones—a cool, bright blue in the center fading to iridescence at the edges.

Sometimes he dresses me up; in clumps of pink, white and blue flowers, in artfully draped blue silk, and his favorite—the pink and blue noseband that lays over my cheeks and clasps behind my ears. This is how I looked in his mind, he tells me, when he first began carving.

I am perfect. I am perfect. I am perfect.



behold, you are beautiful:



Today I saw the sun for the first time.

Elliot worries about me. He fusses over the tiniest of scratches, the very littlest nicks in my rhodonite hooves. I try to keep myself pristine—I really, really do. (I don’t like when Elliot gets upset.) But in my three days alive, I think I have already learned that the cost of breathing is to be scarred, once in a while.

Still: the outside world is fearsome, and some part of me is glad that everything I could ever want is inside the House’s walls. I know I’m spoiled. That’s one thing I can’t argue with (even though I know that when Elliot’s students call me that word, they do it with a sneer). But it’s not even my fault, really. It’s the way Elliot wanted me to be. Or else he wouldn’t have made me so pretty, wouldn’t have spent so much on my silk clothes, wouldn’t have blessed my body in sweet-smelling oils or written his name with a chisel inside my leg.

I don’t know how much of me is me, and how much of me is him, and sometimes it terrifies me. I try not to think about it. Would it matter, really, whether it came from inside me or from his magic? Is there really any difference?

But there are things I know about myself for certain. I am quiet, especially in the company of people from outside the Academy, who Elliot always reminds me cannot be counted on to have decent intentions. I am sensitive—when I listen in to the violinists playing their sad quartets, it’s not unusual for me to tear up. And I am kind. I know this for certain because I have to work on it; it does not come as naturally to me as I think it does to the natural-born. I calculate every action according to that metric. Am I being kind today? Am I being human? Am I acting out of love? No one else sets the wings of the birds that fly into our windows.

It could be that my heart, unlike the rest of me, is still stone. I’m not sure there’s any other explanation for how much effort it takes me to act on my emotions rather than my anxiety.

But oh, I hope it’s not.



your eyes are doves.



Elliot has said many things to me that I thought were loving but turned out to be psychotic. The one that I think back on the most made me swoon at the time, and makes my skin crawl now.

He had brought me down from the sculptor’s podium. I was barely alive then; and I was too inexperienced to walk without leaning on his shoulder. Light filtered in through the huge, arched, studio window, and for the first time I saw dust swirling through the air, and I remember thinking that it was very beautiful, and for no particular reason.

He said: “Santiago, all the boys in the world are divided into two sorts. One sort is all the boys in the world except you, who all have mortal weaknesses and are very ordinary boys. The other sort is you—you alone, with no weaknesses and higher than everything human.”



I was made out of a very large piece of alabaster. The block I was carved out of arrived on a boat which made a harrowing journey across the sea, and Elliot tells me that it was indeed broken down, this last piece of wherever I am from. (He also tells me not to worry myself by thinking of this place. Wherever it is.)

Many people assume I was carved from marble. The difference—I have learned this from listening in to one too many sculptor’s lessons in the west wing—is that alabaster is significantly softer, extremely brittle and easily bruised. It can be scratched by a cat’s claw, even after being polished to a deceptively hard, glass-like finish. Which I have been. Anyway: we have never discussed it, but there is a reason Elliot is the finest sculptor in the world, and some part of me is convinced he chose alabaster even before he started carving me because it would bring me the closest to living softness.

He did not paint me much. Mostly I was brushed over with a pale lacquer of pink, leaving me more perlino than pure white, except for the perfectly centered blaze and four bright socks Elliot left untouched. He shaped my hooves from rhodonite then dipped them in a layer of hard, pink gold; they match the long, smooth horn that juts from my forehead. My hair (though it’s not really hair, just like the rest of me is not really flesh) is dyed a deep beige and cut carefully into long, blunt layers. My eyes are two brightly polished moonstones—a cool, bright blue in the center fading to iridescence at the edges.

Sometimes he dresses me up; in clumps of pink, white and blue flowers, in artfully draped blue silk, and his favorite—the pink and blue noseband that lays over my cheeks and clasps behind my ears. This is how I looked in his mind, he tells me, when he first began carving.

I am perfect. I am perfect. I am perfect.

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