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9 [Year 496 Fall]










16 hh







Last Visit:

05-09-2020, 10:44 PM


Signos: 60 (Donate)
Total Posts: 18 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 6 (Find All Threads)

full reference
senna of house hajakha
In Scarab, he had been born two princes too late to have been blessed with a moniker. Only the first five princes received such an honor, and Seneca of the House of Song had been the seventh.

But if fate had smiled a bit more favorably upon him, if his mother had been wed to the king just a bit earlier — he would have been named Sokar. The Falcon.

Senna — he has long since shed his birth name of Seneca — is a striking creature. Falcon-esque like his could-have-been moniker suggests, yet infused with a sharpness, a richness, that heightens his features to something beyond mortal. Hyper saturated. The chimaera blood in his veins has never quite managed to settle.

Beginning with his wings: sleeker than a falcon’s, they stretch almost twice the length of his body, and taper into refined points that whisper of the speeds they are capable of reaching. In his younger years, the skies were where the seventh princeling had reigned supreme. (In his older years — and he is not even that old, mind you — he has settled for conquering the much more tedious world of politics.)

His pelt gleams in shades of crimson, painted redder still by the faint glow of his jutting, ruby horn. Seemingly cut from the gemstone itself, the craggy horn glows not from magic, but from natural bioluminescence. Along with a set of needle-sharp fangs that protrude slightly from his lips, both are distinguishing features of the House of Song.

Blood red eyes appraise all in silent calculation, and Senna rarely — if ever — wears anything close to a cheery demeanor. With a gaze (and cheekbones) sharp enough to cut, the Hajakhan head has lived past his days of charm and vanity. Habits from his time as a Scarab prince, however, still remain: his ribbon-sleek hair, long enough to scrape his fetlocks, is knotted every morning in the style of the Song, and the few adornments he wears, though priceless, were the only finery allowed to princes with no hope of ever ascending the throne.

But just as he has shed his name, Senna has shed his princeling roots like snakeskin. As the most prominent member of the Solterran nobility, Senna is utterly intimidating in the way he holds himself — for his build, in contrast, is avian and sharp instead of powerful and sturdy. Yet with a Marwari's high carriage and a panther's grace, he needs nothing save the curl of a fanged lip and a snarl as smooth as it is guttural to render any who dare oppose him as speechless as a gaping statue.

a letter from the advisor charon
To say that Senna is ambitious is to comment, rather blithely, that an adder is venomous. You might well have said nothing at all. (And if you are inclined to spouting such proverbs, I warn you to hold your tongue around the man himself. There is little he detests more than idle chatter.)

Many serpents are venomous. Many men are ambitious. To distinguish the ambitious from the zealot, then, the python from the viper, it is more enlightening to ask one: what are you willing to lose?

I did not know Senna as a young man. Though, over a decade of proving myself as the most competent advisor he would ever have on hand, and the rare occasions he had endeavored to drown himself in drink, I am confident enough to presume that if he had been asked that question back when he was a prince of Scarab, he would have answered: everything.

From my knowledge, the most valuable talent a Scarab prince can possess is magic. Deadly, otherworldly magic — it is the reason why their king takes a bride from each chimaera house, ensuring himself a stock of half-mortal, half-monster heirs. Senna, by his own admission, had inherited a far weaker version of his mother’s blood magic, and had endeavored to impress the king by excelling at everything else. Swordplay. History. Languages. Warfare. Yet, essentially magicless, it is a wonder the princeling survived at all. Without the arrival of Princess Zofia, he very well would not have.

If you think the Solterran court mad, then by my lord’s own words: “This is a court of foxes, Charon. Sly, uncivilized foxes — barbarians, the lot of them — but mere kits to Scarab’s hounds.” And despite what you may say about his actions (he certainly had not ascended to the head of Zolin’s own house by being merciful) I have yet to meet a man as ruthlessly brilliant as he.

I have also yet to meet a man who is as addicted to his work as lesser men to opium, or to the comfort of women. You will do well to remember this, when you gape at the tasks assigned to you: no matter how hard he works his men (to the bone, and beyond — I often wonder if he means to work us even in death), his room is the only one in the castle where the candles burn into the hours of dawn. I do not think the man sleeps.

Such dedication as that elicits a strange sense of loyalty from all those who serve him, myself included. Though, do not be mistaken — he is the furthest thing from honorable. He has not been honorable since birth (the only compliment he will accept; I advise against honeying your tongue unless you mean to lose his goodwill, of which he has a severely limited amount). But he rewards a job well done, and is generous with his coin.

I shall leave you with a last piece of reflection, before this letter becomes unbearably long. Senna is a complicated man. There is no written description that will ever capture the full intensity of him, so you'll just have to meet him yourself. (And straighten up when you do, lad — he will not suck your blood, like some rumors say. The fangs are mostly for show.) If you asked Senna now “what are you willing to lose?”, I am not certain what his answer would be. He has already lost his wife, of which she was his world. His daughter’s safety — and throne — are yet to be secured.

I am a perceptive man, you see, older (and wiser, for which I suspect is a large part of why he has kept me on for this long) than he. And what strikes me as the most tragic thing about Senna, is his own realization that the more his ambition obtains for him, the more he has to lose.

— a letter left by Charon, Senna's closest advisor, for his replacement
after his relocation to the White Scarab

scarab, unabridged
a tale of a prince and princess
Far across the sea, in a kingdom of sand and sky, there was once a half-mortal prince born to a full-mortal king.

This prince was not the first prince, and he was not the second. He was not even the third — no, this prince was the seventh in a line of ten. His mother, of the House of Song, named him Seneca after her father, and in her heart she was glad he had been born too late for her to have named him Sokar.

You see, Sol, this is a tale where the prince’s mother did not love the king, and the king did not love the prince’s mother. What he was in love with was her magic, and a little bit of her wildness; so when the seventh prince seemed to inherit all of his mother’s wildness and none of her magic, the king did not love him at all.

No matter, thought the seventh prince. I shall make him love me for my brilliance. And then he shall love my mother, for raising such a brilliant son. Armed with such a declaration, the years passed like seasons. And true to his own words, brilliant the prince became.

He spoke languages that even Sova, the Owl prince, could not speak. He tricked thieves and wise men that even Solovey, the Nightingale prince, could not fool. He spoke of wars and kingdoms that Samael, the Serpent prince, did not know, and hunted boars and criminals that Rasha, the Stag prince, could not catch.

But it was not until he disarmed Oroszlán, the Lion prince, in a heated spar that the king spoke to his seventh son at last. “You have best all your brothers in all they are best in. But what of your magic?” It was not unheard of for a half-chimaera’s magic to appear late in adolescence. To which the seventh prince replied: “It has come, father. I... have not been able to compel more than animals yet, but I assure you, I will be far more useful as a tactician in your wars. Not even Samael knows of the maneuvers that I have studied —”

“Yet the fourth prince’s magical prowess is unmatched. Can you say the same?” was the king’s reply, swift as an executioner’s blade. The king had no use for chimaera brilliance. All he had ever loved, was chimaera magic.

(It is too soon to despair, Sol. The seventh prince surely had not. Besides, I have yet to reach the best part.)

Far across the sea, from a kingdom of sand and sky, there came a mortal princess born to a greedy king. Princess Zofia from the House of Hajakha (Have you realized at last? Smart girl.) had come to visit this kingdom with its abundance of princes.

She was greeted with a procession fit for a queen, with five chimaera princes kneeling before her. Oroszlán. Solovey. Sova. Samael. Rasha. The king had sent only the first five princes, his most powerful sons, to meet her. They escorted her to their beautiful palace, and treated her as a foreign princess ought to be treated. But not one — not even Sova, to his grievance, for the princess was very beautiful — knew her language, and as the days crept by, the princess grew terribly tired of fumbling over their tongue.

Until one evening, to both of their surprise, she wandered into the chambers of the seventh prince. The seventh prince had not been allowed to see her, but he knew her name, and most wondrously, he knew her tongue. In near-perfect Solterran, he said to the Solterran princess: “We have not been formally introduced, Princess Zofia. My name is Seneca, and I am the seventh prince.”

Over the course of her winter stay, the princess came to love the seventh prince. For his brilliance, for his slyness, for his sharp, peculiar kindness. And when it came time for her to return to her own kingdom of sand, she asked for the seventh prince to come with her. “They do not deserve you,” was all she said. But it was all he had needed to hear.

So he bade goodbye to his wildling mother, who, without a son in the court, was at last allowed to return to her home. He bade goodbye to his brothers, who were not much saddened to see him go. And finally, he bade goodbye to the king, who saw the loss of one son hardly a matter to grieve over.

The rest of the story is, as they say, history. (And because it is getting far too late. Your father will not tolerate you being up at this hour.) There is no happy ending I can tell you, because the story has yet to reach its end. But when it does, as it will one day, I have faith that you will tell it well.”

— a story told by Princess Zofia to her little daughter, Sol
a letter that smells of ash
By the time this letter finds you, know that the rebellions have reached us at last. Do not come — I will no longer be at that gilded monstrosity of a castle. I have taken Sol and fled to a place I know to be secure, at least for a time. You shall receive another letter brought by Nestor if I have reached it alive.

This kingdom has gone to madness. That bastard of a king — I refuse to waste ink on his name — he has killed us all. Even in death, he continues to take.

Zofia is dead because of him.

I found Sol, fainted from the smoke, curled against her mother’s blood-soaked body in the ruins of her chambers. I do not pray to this nation’s gods, Charon. But for my daughter’s sake, I pray to Solis she is too young to remember.

— a letter from Senna to Charon, who had been away
in Denocte during the rebellions
a diary bound in gold
Spring, Year 501

Father has not visited for months and months. I miss him terribly, but it is alright — I received a letter yesterday that he shall be coming in time for my birthday. He has never broken a promise, but I am also not a princess without a spine — if Father ever does break one, I shall never let him hear the end of it.

The last time he visited, he told me that I deserved to know where he was spending his time. Of course I do — I am his only daughter. Anyways, he said that he is in Denocte, of all places, overseeing the completion of an establishment known as the White Scarab.

Scarab is the kingdom of his birth, but besides that I do not know anything else about this “White Scarab”. (And I suspect that Scarab — he rarely talks about his birthplace, because I know he has no love for it — has nothing to do with anything.)

I wish that Father would take me to see this White Scarab of his. Or if not there, anywhere. I am terribly bored of this half-empty mansion. My aunts never think me enlightening enough to talk to, even when I know that I am a very enlightening conversationalist, so the only explanation must be that my aunts do not wish to talk about enlightening things at all. Their loss entirely.

I think I hear one of my aunts calling for me. They only do so when they can’t find an earring, or a necklace, in their full-to-bursting jewelry boxes. Somehow they always think I have something to do with it.

Perhaps they aren’t as foolish as they appear to be.

— an entry from the diary of Princess Sol

Active & Parvus Magic

Passive Magic


nestor the gyrfalcon

Four years ago, not long after his own arrival to Novus, Senna was gifted a brown-mottled falcon's egg by an eccentric foreign emissary. And over the years, as Cerberus is to Hades, the Hajakhan head has become as much associated with his striking white falcon as she is to him.

A female white morph gyrfalcon, Nestor is formidably large (with a wingspan over four feet long), wickedly fast, and — according to some — more ruthless than her master. She is certainly more bloodthirsty, in any case; there is little the falcon cannot bring down, from grouse to gulls to other raptors (her favorite prey). When a son of House Sevetta's prized peregrine falcon went missing in court one day, one of its talons was uncovered in Nestor's mute four days later. There is even a rumor that the falcon once killed an adolescent Teryr alongside Senna, when it had ambushed them in the desert. Though it remains unconfirmed, few doubt the tale's credibility.

Proud and sharply intelligent, Nestor obeys no one but her bonded. Senna himself once jested (though it is always hard to tell with the humorless) that he merely gives her suggestions. She is rarely seen by Senna's side — when she is not hunting, she is circling the skies, maintaining her reputation as the nobleman's keenest source of intel — and only occasionally delivers letters for him (a task she thinks entirely below her).

Despite her prickliness, the falcon is a curious creature and treats other bonded beasts with respect. Their masters, however, she is more wary of. There are only two individuals in the world Nestor holds dear: Senna and his little daughter, (it does not matter how much she has grown; to Nestor, the princess will always be little) Sol.

Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

curved scimitar
A curved scimitar with a worn bronze hilt, its blade is wrought in intricate carvings of wings and two curving lines of foreign script. In the language of Scarab, it says: The crow does not roost with the phoenix. The only gift the king ever bestowed upon his seventh son, the saying is a cruel slight against Senna's weak blood magic.

Over the years, Senna has fought - and won - battle after battle against the seraphim with his scimitar, the words engraved upon it burned into his heart. His father believed him nothing better than a crow, sullying his roost of phoenix sons. A phoenix, or a crow? Which would he be?

The blade is the only belonging besides his heavy gold collar he brought from Scarab to Novus. Always sheathed to his side, he rarely wields it unless he - or his daughter - is faced with a direct threat.
  • an intricately carved gold pendant smaller than a coin, followed by two drops of gold, affixed to his forehead just below his horn
  • a harness-like necklace of gilded sun medallions studded with rubies (similar)

Agora Items & Awards

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hi it's ralli and as you can see I have a bias towards playing Troubled Male Characters

Played by:

rallidae (PM Player)


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