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Thana
Dawn Court Regent
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Age:

Immortal [Year 499 Spring]

Gender:

Female

Pronouns:

She/Her/Hers

Orientation:

Bisexual

Breed:

Unicorn

Height:

15.3 hh

Health:

20

Attack:

20

Experience:

32
Offline

Last Visit:

03-28-2020, 11:59 PM

Joined:

12-28-2018
Signos: 430 (Donate)
Total Posts: 87 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 3 (Find All Threads)

Thana, although she's made from all the pieces of too many other hoses to count, simply looks like a unicorn. Her horn is almost too large upon her brow and it's spindled in a way that makes it seem as if half her horn has been peeled away like an orange rind. It looks weak enough to shatter but Thana knows (even though she's not sure why she knows) that it can dig into flesh like a screw.

Below her horn there hangs a purple stone, smooth as ocean-worn stone and as shiny as a moon. It's strung on a thin, silver wire. Thana has no idea where the stone and the wire came from. Each time she runs and the stone taps on her horn like a sad drum something ghosts along her thoughts like a breeze that she can never catch. Her eyes are the same color of that stone and every time it makes that tapping sound something dark passes across her gaze (like another breeze).

Her body is built as finely as the old unicorns and her bones seem almost slender now that she's forgotten what fury fueled them before (she only knows there was one). From her withers her neck curls in a way that makes it seem too long for the almost desert build of her back. But of course, once her horn catches in a ray of light, it's easy to see why she needs so long a neck.

Down the right side of her face there runs a jagged streak of white. Against the dark chestnut of her coat it looks as stark as dried, old bones under a full moon. It runs from poll to nose and when her long forelock isn't draped around her face it looks very much like a bolt of lightning. Another jagged line of white runs in a small arc on the right side of her neck.

It's almost like only half of her was storm-struck.

Finally there's a shaft of black hardened keratin, curved like a scythe, that juts out from the tip of her lion's tail. It grows slowly, slower than her hooves and sometimes when it scrapes against a rock she thinks perhaps there is something she's supposed to do with it.

Everyday is a discovery of her personality, and each season is a new chapter is figuring out what gears turn beneath her thoughts.

There is always that low simmer of rage and violence. It sparks under her skin like a low hum of electricity that hasn't quite learned how to light and consume the world. Sometime she feels like a wildcat, a predator stalking the forests with clacking teeth and a skin made of nothing that belongs to this world.

Sometimes she feels like a monster.

Some days she feels as youthful and awkward as a newborn. Each shift of a cloud overhead seems the flapping of a dragon or the stretch of bear skin over mighty bones. That day Thana might walk with her eyes tangled in the heavens as she counts all the beasts made of water and air. Her hooves might even stumble over rock and root as she forgets that she's made of flesh and bone instead of cloud-stuff and gossamer silk. Thana might even dream of love, as she dances through the sunshine.

Maybe, she thinks, I could be as beautiful as the stone hanging between my eyes.

Other days Thana might hide in shadows and watch the horses around her whisper in a language she knows (although she still cannot remember how she knows their words). Sometimes, when the shadows feel like home, she is afraid of the world around her, afraid of the violence that licks at her bones like rot licks at a corpse.

There are some nights were she feels as careless and bold as a god. Those are the nights when the rage in her bones takes hold and bangs, bangs, bangs inside her. That night she might look at a horse's leg and know which bones are the most fragile and which tendons might sing like a harp-string if she were to play a tune with the tip of her horn.

Those nights, instead of feeling like one, she is a monster-- the beast of the rift made from pieces with a soul of rot.

Always though, she is wondering what things really live between this cage of flesh and bone and what it is that she's searching endlessly for.

They shouldn't have been arrogant enough to travel through the rotten rift magic and think it nothing more than a thing for them to wield like a weapon.

But the magic wasn't a weapon and it was more than just a strange tear in the world. The Rift was alive, as sentient as all the horses that traveled through it between words (and it soon because as angry as it was rotten). And so when they took to the tangled, broken magic that spread out like oil in the cracks between worlds it decided to take back.

It started gathering up pieces of all the horses that traveled through it. Each time they moved between worlds it would pluck a piece of them to keep. First it was a piece of dust scrapped off from a horn when a unicorn dove headfirst into with with the roar of a lion rattling her bones. Then it was a ruby, carved out from the cheekbones of a mare that smelled like the sand and rage and silence. After than it took a shard of bone, whittled off the blade of a red stallion. Even then it still took and took: a feather, a bit of blood, a scale, gold dust, fire, wind, lightning.

Thana was made from all the bits and pieces that magic scavenged from the creatures traveling through it. She was made from bones and bits of flesh to be nothing more than a monster of the rotten magic. All she knew, as the pieces of her were stitched together, was rage and agony and death.

Over and over a chant ran through her head and it sounded like a drum inside her skull-- bang, bang, bang. Find all the pieces to be made whole. Bang, bang, bang. The pounding never stopped no mater how many times she walked, alone though the rotten magic that she knew to call Rift.

And so she walked for more minutes than she knew how to count. Do I know how to count, she would ask herself, or do I know only rage and want? A few more steps and then she would ask herself, am I only death? Her tail would lash at her side and the Rift would horde drops of her blood too.

One day (or was it one year, one hour, one minute, one century?) she followed an oily river of magic to a place where something other a white-black nothingness arched over her head where a sky should have been. There the Rift spoke to her look there, look there and smell something other than rot and magic.

Thana lifted her head to the end of that rotten not-quite river and she tasted the air like a lion might (although she could not say what it was in her that felt like a lion). What she tasted made her feel like both a furious star and a dying sun. And so she ran down that river, magic kicking up at her heels like sand.

It was then that Time lifted its broken head and knew that Rift had stolen things that it should not have. Magic should not have been able to act like a collector of bones and flesh and hate. It should not have been able to give itself a name.

Time gathered what was left of its strength and dove into the magic like a bullet. Every mile (was it miles or inches?) that it cut like a blade through the magic Thana was running closer to the end of that not-river and hunger was a hot, heavy thing in her chest. Every mile and every inch a hundred worlds collapsed without Time. Some froze in place, others crumbled to dust and others gave birth to new worlds.

Still Thana ran, screaming out her rage, and the rotten magic smiled and took the last thing it would ever take from the fury pouring from her like snow. Just as she was about to burst through the blackness at the end of that river the bullet made of Time struck.

She still burst through the darkness but the bullet rushed through her skull and it exploded that chanting war-drum that banged over and over insider her bones. Gone was the song, Find all the pieces to be made whole.

But the fury was still there.

And so when she first opened her eyes to the world of Novus she had two thoughts....and nothing else.

I am Thana. and then I am searching for something--

Active & Parvus Magic

Magical Rot


Of course no unicorn made from rotten magic and stolen parts of other horses could wield a magic that does anything but decay (if it can be calling magic at all). When she was made, Rift poured poisoned magic into her veins instead of blood. It was as black and thick as oil. Only when she crossed out of that world of fury and nothingness did all that rot thin, turn red and flow like blood should.

It's thinner now but it's still there, rot and death and decay.

Parvus Magic


Her parvus magic is so small that it's almost easy to miss if one doesn't look close enough. Wherever she stands, for only as long as she is standing there, anything an inch from her feet withers and ages as if time has skipped ahead. Grass turns brittle and brown, a rug might turn pale and dusty, rocks might crumble and turn to dust. It seems almost as if nothing can stand to thrive in the small void of rot around her hooves where she ran through the poisoned not-river towards Novus.

I. Discipuli


At first her magic is wild and as uncontrollable as the bits of memories and fury-drum song that comes to her. She can turn a leaf to nothing more than thin, dead veins and dust. A clover might wilt and crumble the moment it touches her lips. Only one thing at a time rots, and luckily her magic is so weak that it's wildness can do no more than make her go hungry for a few hours. Sometimes she thinks that if she can control the memories and capture the fleeting bang, bang, bang in her chest that she might learn to control her oily magic.

II.Vexillum


Bit by bit, as the song of her fury returns and she starts to recall what it is she was searching for. her magic stars to feel almost tame. (as tame a lion of death in her bones can be). She cannot reverse her magic, she was not made to save, but can can start to stop to the process of decay if she really sets her mind to it.

Sometimes she's glad that she can only rot a few feet of the world at a time. Sometime she's happy that outside of her shadow the flowers can still bloom. Other time she wants the world to rot with her and for everyone to feel all the aimless rage and hunger that she feels. And it's in those moments that she's almost as dangerous as the Rift wanted her to be.

III. Periti


Thana has discovered that she can wield the magic in her blood almost as well as she can wield the weapons of her body. She can send it whipping through the world and she can then devour all the magic when she's focused enough to stop the rot in it's tracks. It still slips free sometimes when her emotions run as wild as rapids through her body. Sometimes she lies and says she cannot stop it from leaking out when she can.

The rot can spread up to thirty feet from her body, like a black hole around her where everything dies (but her).

IV. Dominus


By now she's discovered how much she's like the rotten magic and how little she is like a unicorn. The world around her often withers and dies: trees, grass, soil, stone, metal. Everything in a fifty foot radius around her seems to slip free of time and ages as if centuries have passed in seconds. And if a horse steps to close, they might find that their magic curdles in their bodies and works as well as a broken bowl might (their magic returns once they leave her black hole). Luckily even at her strongest her magic is nothing compared to the decay that created her and she cannot destroy an entire world all at once. It no longer always controls her but sometimes.. sometimes it still slips free.



Passive Magic





Bonded



ELIGOS the NERUBYIAN



Someone once said, violence breeds violence. Perhaps they were thinking of war when they said it, or the way crimes pile on top of each other like bricks until they become altars to the lost gods. Perhaps they were only thinking of the dead king, Raum, and his violence without end.

Or maybe they were only thinking about madness.

And if Eligos knew the saying, he would only blink slow as a jungle cat and hold his secrets close. Because he knows, in the same way he knows that only the death unicorn can hold the weight of his wrath, that he is nothing more than the creation of violence.

He started out simply, violently, suddenly. Like a young star he had been born with a bang-- from blood, and death, and hate. Some say that he seems born of the desert sand, other that he is made from pieces of all the monsters the gods once sent. Eligos had been born from both, and had appeared fully-formed, in the spot where the cruel king died. His own blood runs not red, like the pool he awoke upon, but golden as the desert sand beneath a setting sun.

Eligos is a mix of fur and scale, tooth and claw, magic and death. At the shoulder he stands just shy of five feet. There is no name for his species, but in the time before Thana, desert shepards started calling him the Nerubyian after an old folktale whispering of a desert beast that feasted on flocks (and feasted until nothing was left). He has kept the name since.

No one but Thana knows about the magic in his blood, discovered on the battle of their meeting. His blood, his violent born blood, carries in it the power to turn the sand more monsters bred of violence. Each is fleeting, un-lasting, nothing more than a trick of the sand that after a minute is no longer deadly. He can only make them when the earth is charged by war, or brutality, or hate. And for that moment, that single minute, he might attack with a pack of sand-born, violent beasts that seem like his children.

It's easy almost, to think his magic is the most dangerous part of him, until of course one feels the prick of his fangs against their teeth. And then, it's easy to feel foolish.

note: his magic is can only be used once per thread and it not 're-charged' quickly.



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Played by:

nestle (PM Player)

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