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Current Novus date and time is
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 Year || 503
 Season || Fall
 Temp || 35℉ (℃) - 69℉ (℃)
 Weather || The iron grip of Summer 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


Inactive Character

The Character


Age:6 [Year 497 Fall]
Gender: Female
Pronouns: She/Her/Hers
Orientation: Heterosexual
Breed: Anglo-arabian
Height:16 hh
Health: 10
Attack: 10
Experience: 10
Signos: 0 (Donate)

Joined: 12-10-2017
Last Visit: 03-18-2019, 04:23 AM
Total Posts: 44 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 7 (Find All Threads)

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Full Reference

“I am the swift uplifting rush / Of quiet birds in circling flight. / I am the soft starlight at night.”

Cyrene is stained by autumn’s loving touch, her bay coat imbued with the vividness of sangria wine. At her points, her coat darkens like the parched tips of fallen leaves, rich and gradual; yet in places where sunlight hits, she radiates a burnished red. Her sable hair is a wood fairy’s, wild and soft and garnished with the spoils of the day’s exploration—sprigs of berries, crowns of marigolds. It curls with a mind of its own, and the girl rarely bothers with taming it, occasionally twining the strands into intricate braids if the mood strikes her. The ringlets that adorn her tailbone transition from her signature wine red to a muted yellow, as if dipped into a pool of molten gold.

Wings reminiscent of an eagle’s rest upon Cyrene’s slender shoulders, the same fluctuating crimson as her body. Sleek and majestic, the pristine feathers still whisper of the agility and strength they used to hold in abundance; lack of use has not diminished those qualities in the slightest. Perhaps her most dazzling feature is the celestial starlight specks sprinkled like fairy dust upon her wings and topline. Close inspection, however, will reveal that these are far from the embellishment of beauty many assume of them. They are scars, tiny pocks in the feathers and skin sealed over by gilded scar tissue. A constellation of Cygnus just below her radius glimmers brilliantly—Cyrene seared it in herself, the lunar flesh that crusted over the wound opaque. Seldom are her wings open.

The fae girl stands at a respectable height of sixteen hands, though her lithe frame suggests a lesser number. In her build she is nymphlike, willowy and limber, moving with an airiness that makes one wonder if her wings are somehow involved. They remain folded by her side; rather, her gait comes from a lifetime of scampering through the woods, a deer-chasing second Artemis.

A white blaze runs straight and true over the delicate planes of Cyrene’s visage, and snowy stockings cover all four of her legs. Lion eyes carved from smooth amber shimmer with mirth and wit, her gaze as fleeting as dusk’s ember glow; blush-pink lips perpetually quirk into a dulcet smile, capable of painting the world’s secrets across a violet sky.

Character Summary

Name: Cyrene Ioannou (Cy)

Birthday: Autumn equinox

Build: Tall and slim

Wings: Eagle

Hair: Loose sable curls

Coat: Deep red wine

Eyes: Tawny lion's gold

Scent: Pine & primroses

Symbol: Firefly

Family: Cassandra, mother; Cygnus, younger sister; Idas, father (all deceased)


"And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on."


Flower Child, Lion Killer. Cyrene delights in collecting titles like butterflies—short-lived and ephemeral, but lovingly preserved for eternity. She is a Forest Sylph, her presence akin to a curtain of sunlight beaming through rain soaked leaves—in the warmth of it, you doze contentedly; but when you wake, she is gone, and you are unsure if she ever existed at all. The dewy-eyed nymph leaves no trace of herself except the fading scent of pine and primroses, and remains elusive as a shadow. She never stays in one place for long, and locating her proves difficult, if not impossible.

Whimsical and mercurial, Cyrene knows no fear. A lover of adventure and thrill, her infectious laughter pours from her like sticky honey as she indulges in her limitless curiosity; it takes a truly steadfast soul to resist the magnetic pull of her effervescent charm. Admittedly, she is reckless and rather fickle. However, keen intellect and quick wits keeps her head on her shoulders (quite literally); and though Cyrene's laughter only grows more elated at the crest of danger, she prefers to diffuse treacherous situations through peaceful manners and soothing words. Senseless violence is a last resort she shudders to undertake.

Yet those with the brightest smiles conceal the darkest sorrows—for Cyrene is far from the carefree, guileless fairy child she appears to be. The stench of woodsmoke elicits a choking panic in her as the flames of the pyres lick at the edges of her memory. She’d ignited so many, the ashes falling like snow. Snow. So she smiles wider, laughs louder, loses herself in feigned cheerfulness so that one day, she won’t have to feign anymore. Her naturally selfless tendency has intensified into a deep-seated sense of duty to save all those afflicted with pain and suffering, and Cyrene dives to unprecedented lengths to heal their shattered hearts. If to do so she must be beaten or blamed, or suffer in their stead—then she will, without hesitation. In this, a disturbing facet to the ethereal girl is revealed: her unconscious mind’s last resort at self-preservation slips her into a trancelike, borderline sociopathic state. Devoid of feeling and conscience, she will bloody her hands as she fells a worthless life to save a suffering one, deaf to the screams; she will drip crimson red as she endures the punishment for an act she didn't commit, barely registering the pain. Her time spent in this condition only returns to her in nightmares.

Out of a fierce will to prevent others from enduring the pain she will forever carry, Cyrene devotes herself in healing their bodies and minds to the best of her ability. No matter how much of her heart is devoured by darkness, no amount of suffering she undergoes will be able to extinguish her wholehearted belief in the goodness of others. A flower-strewn Robin Hood, the lion-eyed girl dances an eternal duet with Death: her oldest friend. He can take her, but he will not take them.

Additional Notes

  • Sometimes, Cyrene will reference her hometown's gods and goddesses. Her birthplace, Pelion, is based off of ancient Greek civilization; as a result, she grew up worshipping Greek gods and goddesses. Though Cyrene is loyal to Novus' deities, that loyalty will always be shared with her old religion as well.

"Death takes what man would keep," said the butterfly, "and leaves what man would lose."

I. Cassandra
The humble settlement of Pelion is inhabited by an age-old herd of pegasi made wary from decades of isolation, and a war long ago that had decimated their numbers. Yet this sleepy village houses one great secret: a group of healers so skilled that their medicines inspired tales of revival and immortality, their potions rumored to be brewed from ambrosia and dragon hearts. Cyrene’s story begins with Cassandra—a silver-eyed Panacea among these healers of legend—and opens with a prophecy:
A child born on the Day of Sun and Shadow is swifter and stronger than any other, for she arrives with the harvest and bears the blessings of both summer and fall—but beware, as within her there exists a duality of heart, an ever-oscillating pendulum between good and evil: she is an amalgamation of Life and Death.
Silhouetted against the autumnal equinox’s ember moon, the seer’s voice crackled like snowfall upon a winter bonfire. Her milky eyes gazed at the still-slick foal already struggling to rise—she was a scrappy thing, more leg and wing than filly. The utter opposite of her ivory-pelted mother, whose sweat-soaked sides still heaved with the exertion of birth. “Her name shall be Cyrene,” Cassandra spoke, not a quaver escaping her solemn voice. Cyrene—it was whispered from ear to ear among the villagers like an enigma, a phenomenon. The child’s fate seemed all but sealed.

Under the attention lavished upon her like wine, Cyrene bounded into adolescence with mirth pouring from her lips like sunshine. The spirited lass cared little for prophecies and even less for moderation, growing wilder by the day as she raced eagles and battled boars; a huntress who sought laughter in lieu of death. Cassandra’s scoldings fell on deaf ears as her nymph of a daughter charmed her way out of every chore, every tedious lesson given by exasperated healers as she soared across the skies to chase the tail of her own curiosity. Apt to disappear without warning, she returned only when the moon peeked above the horizon, and Mama’s fury simmered just a degree below boiling.

Cassandra knew that the tranquil village would never be enough for her lion-eyed daughter, who housed a maelstrom in her elfin frame. Even so, her keen eyes could not overlook the magic that lay dormant in the girl’s blood, more potent than her own. Her resolve steeled, Cassandra became Cyrene’s sole instructor. Steadfastly, the master healer taught Cyrene to stir sleeping draughts counterclockwise until they turned verdant green; to stoke the fire with wind generated from her wings until the contents of the cauldron boiled; to add a drop of her blood into every batch, for the magic that hummed in their veins was what made their potions revered—not ambrosia nor dragon hearts. Yet as her graceful hand brewed elixirs of myth, Cyrene’s slapdash manner yielded as many coughing failures as it did wondrous concoctions. Try as she might, Cassandra could not quell the storm that raged inside the young fae.

II. Cygnus
During Cyrene’s second year, Cassandra gave birth to her second: Cygnus. Sweet Cygnus contrasted her vibrant sister in every way—timid, soft-spoken, a coat of muted dove grey. Enamored by the tiny, meek child, Cyrene showered Cygnus with care and affection, and little Cygnus followed her everywhere she went like a tottering duckling. But the swan-girl was weak of body, and prone to long bouts of sickness and bedrest. Thus, Cyrene devoted herself to her studies as she treated Cygnus’s various ailments, stunning their mother with her newfound diligence. For Cygnus’s gentle smile was the spell that had tamed Cyrene’s fierce heart.

For a year, their lives continued as it always had; until the day a strange boy covered in golden constellations collapsed at Cassandra’s door.

Barely able to speak, he recounted with shaking breaths of the horrible, horrible sickness that had spread like wildfire outside of Pelion’s isolated valley. “The Golden Plague”, he whispered.
Aurum phthisis consumes the afflicted from within, until all that remains is a rigid, hollow body encrusted with golden scars. The corpse decays at a snail’s pace, and must be burned to prevent post-mortem contamination. The Plague creeps into the body undetected, until pores open from the extremities and beyond, weeping a golden fluid—they then scar over, gilded. The Plague takes a limb, a wing. And if it likes the taste, it eats you whole.
The boy had been sent to seek out Pelion’s elusive healers and beg for a remedy, a cure, for his all but extinguished town. Along the way, the sickness had infested his body and begun its devastating reign. That night, his lifeless corpse undisturbed, Cassandra delivered a grave speech to her fellow healers. “We must begin developing a cure this instant—for that boy’s arrival has brought our doom if we do not find one with haste.” True to Cassandra’s grim prediction, their people began falling one by one, weeks after. Pelion became a hell, pegasi taking to the skies one after the other as the flames from the pyres burned ever higher. The healers worked without rest, the cure slipping farther from their grasp as the most skilled among them started weeping gold. Cyrene plunged herself into helping her mother brew tonic after tonic, her resolve only strengthening when she numbly observed the aurum constellations blooming in her own wings.

When gold flecks in Cygnus’s soft grey feathers glimmered brilliantly in the sun one morning, a gilded taunt, Cyrene’s heart sank. That night, Cassandra came to her, as pale and translucent as the moon’s glow. Half-hidden in shadow, she told Cyrene that she had at last discovered the key ingredient for the potion—the lifeblood of a healer descended from the ancient goddess of Pelion. Cyrene’s eyes widened with horror as she realized what her mother had done, but it was too late. Red—crimson red—stained Cassandra’s snowy pelt as blood poured from a knife impaled in her chest, draining into the boiling cauldron next to her. Her vision blurred with tears as her mother ran a tender hand through her daughter’s tangled hair, eyes closing as she murmured her last words. “I leave it to you now, my brave girl.”

III. Cyrene
The potion, viscous and radiant like magma, needed ten days to complete. Cyrene stayed by her sister’s bedside when not tending to the cauldron, stroking her feathers and struggling to keep her usual cheer as Cygnus’s frail body seemed to multiply in scars by the hour. Her sickness was progressing alarmingly fast, yet Cyrene could not risk rushing the potion’s process and losing the last hope for all those afflicted by the plague.

On the ninth day, Cygnus rose from her bed and clasped Cyrene’s hand with a small, golden palm. “Cy, will you take me to the forest to meet your friends? You always say you’ll bring me if I’m better, and I’m better now. Please?” Her dulcet voice and caramel eyes were shimmering blades in Cyrene’s aching breast. “Of course, my little bird. Climb up now,” and to the forest she flew. Gently setting Cygnus down onto the earthen floor, she swiftly wiped her tears as Cygnus giggled at the animals that came and nipped at her feathers. They stayed like that until nightfall. Under the starry sky, Cygnus’s body stilled as she let out her last breath, nestled against her sister’s gold stained wings.

Deep in the forest, Cyrene ignited the pyre. “Citius, altius, fortius.” Faster, higher, stronger.
“Let her fly forever amongst the stars.” She walked back to the village, as she’d used her wings for the last time carrying Cygnus there. In the ensuing weeks, Cyrene and the remaining healers distributed the cure to all who needed it, every life saved easing the sorrow in their hearts. After the Golden Plague burned itself out, the girl with constellations in her wings left Pelion behind, a small bottle and a downy grey feather dangling from woven twine around her neck.

She wanders into Novus, into the court of Dusk; her smile hollow, her heart empty.

Additional Notes

  • Cyrene cannot fly, as the scars in her wings greatly disrupt her balance. As the plague only took her wings instead of her life, she is no longer contagious and cannot spread the disease to others. Instead, she bears its marks forever.

  • Her father was never mentioned, as Idas was a gentle man who never had much to say. He often took little Cyrene along to gather herbs, and taught her to love the forest as much as he. Idas perished as one of the first casualties of the plague.
Active & Parvus Magic


"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red."

Cyrene hails from an ancient bloodline of healers descended from Panacea, goddess of remedies and cures. The goddess gifted her people with the magic and skill needed to concoct potions of legend and poultices of rejuvenation. Yet to one special family, she endowed them with a darker magic: Panacea's Touch. The Touch chooses only one healer per century — in this century, it is Cyrene.

The Touch endows its user with the ability to heal devastating wounds or sicknesses with magic — but there is a steep price to pay. For the Touch obeys a simple law: one’s pain, one’s suffering, must be owed its reign. Wounds are magically transferred from the wounded to the healer, relieving the wounded of their pain while restoring them to near perfect condition. In return, the healer must suffer double the pain ranging from seconds (skin-deep cuts) to agonizing days (the last stages of sickness or a near-fatal wound). Physical manifestations of the wounds only appear on the healer’s body in severe cases, and these are the times the healer’s own life is put at risk. The extreme levels of pain the healer bears put a tremendous toll on her body as well, and using her powers without restraint will deal permanent damage to her health. If the healer overestimates her abilities, she will be doomed to a slow and ruinous death.

Parvus Magic
Cyrene’s body recovers from self-sustained wounds or sicknesses at an accelerated rate. Slashes or cuts heal over within a day, barely leaving a scar. She rarely becomes sick with flu, and fevers break in minutes instead of hours. However, this is nowhere near as efficient as her magic used on others, and fatal wounds are still very much fatal. She is not able to use her magic on herself.

Surface wounds and minor colds can be transferred to Cyrene without lasting damage to her body; and though the pain is not intense, she feels it for many hours longer than she would if she were stronger. She is not able to heal more than one afflicted at a time. If she attempts to heal more serious wounds, like deep cuts or a high fever, she will suffer intense pain and her body may exhibit physical damage. If she takes on a grave wound, the damage is permanent and she is at extreme risk of dying.

Minor wounds and sicknesses are easier for her to handle now, and the effects fade away quicker than before. She can heal multiple small wounds a day without her strength being drained considerably, and more serious wounds pose less of a threat to her health. However, she still cannot heal fatal wounds with a chance at survival, as the effects will overwhelm her body and kill her.

Small to moderate wounds are no longer as taxing as before, and the pain fades away quickly. Deep gashes, profuse bleeding, plague, etc do not leave lasting damage on her body, though the intensity of the pain never lessens. She is able to heal more than one wounded at one time, though her strength wavers considerably at three. If she attempts to heal a fatal wound like an arrow to the heart, she will survive — however, the affected part of her body will take on permanent damage.

She heals as easy as breathing now, able to sustain non-life threatening injuries of an entire group (up to five) at once. As long as they are still alive, she is able to repair organs and reset bones, replenish blood and dispel diseases like consumption. The pain she endures will never lessen no matter how skilled she becomes, but her tolerance has steadily increased, and grave wounds no longer damage her body permanently.

Passive Magic


Armor, Outfit, and Accessories


  • A braided piece of twine tied around her neck, with a small vial filled with golden liquid (the potion made from Cassandra's blood) and Cygnus's grey feather (one of the few left unmarred by the plague)


  • Three piece outfit that follows the fashion of Cyrene's home, Pelion (with Greek roots)
    • Hood: draped to hide her face and curls when she goes undercover, secured by silver cuffs that clasp around her neck; hanging fabric embroidered with spun silver to signify her status as a highly ranked healer, second only to her mother; a piece of carved amber weighs down the fabric on either side
    • Leather satchel: oftentimes worn alone when she heads out to gather herbs, always filled to the brim with supplies and the day's flora
    • Rug: worn when it's especially cold out; tassels made of spun silver weigh the fabric down

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Cyrene's Signature
[Image: corruptedcorvid_cy.png]
☆ ☽
I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night.
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