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Beautifully drawn by Sid (Erasvita@DA)!
Current Novus date and time is
... currently in progress!

 Year || 503
 Season || Winter
 Temp || -10℉ (-23℃) to 55℉ (12℃)
 Weather || Winter has left a blanket of pristine white snow in many parts of Novus. Only Solterra remains mostly untouched by the season's frosted hold, but even the desert may feel a cold breath of wind now and then. With Winter now settled across the continent, dreams of Spring dance in the minds of many.


Spotlight

Character of the Season
Seraphina

Member of the Season
E-cho

Thread of the Season
Coloring outside the lines

Pair of the Season
Moira and Asterion

Quote of the Season
"There is something to be said for how soothing habit could be, when one was trying to avoid words they shouldn’t say." — Theodosia in
Cinderblock gardens

see here for nominations


DISCORD

Ianthe
Night Court Citizen


The Character


Offline

Age:2 [Year 501 Spring]
Gender: Female
Pronouns: She/Her/Hers
Orientation:
Breed: Criollo Pegasus
Height:14.1 hh
Health: 8
Attack: 12
Experience: 10
Signos: 255 (Donate)

Joined: 02-04-2019
Last Visit: 04-19-2019, 04:41 PM
Total Posts: 6 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 1 (Find All Threads)

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Ianthe was born for the sky. Her wings are swept-back and long, her full wingspan being more than twice the length of her body, and from below they resemble a gentle crescent. She also has feathers that fall just to her hocks overlaying her tail, which she uses for in-flight steering. Like the common swift she takes after, her body has adapted to life on the wing, and she can fly for months without landing for food, water, or rest – these all being things she can snatch in the air. For generations, she and her people have been nigh identical. A proud example of what her breeding has made of her, Ianthe is strong and broad and sturdy; short legged and hard of hoof. Like her parents before her she is built for distance and frugality, to last through deserts and grasslands alike no matter what food and water the land has to give them. Her mane and tail are thick and long and nearly black. Her legs are dark with barred striping, her back has a dorsal stripe, her shoulders shadows, and her face is masked. Alongside the bay of her coat she makes a classic dun.
+ self-confident, self-sufficient, devoted, dutiful, energetic, magnanimous - arrogant, self-reliant, prejudiced, narrow-minded, misguided, ignorant
To be perfectly honest, Ianthe is a piece of work. She’s reliably a bit of a prick when it comes to anyone not of her “social class,” and nine times out of ten she’s a confrontational ass to anyone she doesn’t think could beat the shit out of her even then. Add on the fact she’s self-confident to the point of arrogance. Ianthe knows that she’s all that and then some and has never had cause to doubt herself or her actions. On one hand, this can be a good thing, the world is her oyster and she’ll never hesitate when an opportunity is presented to her. On the other hand, she looks down on almost everyone else, makes stupid decisions left, right, and center, and scoffs at the idea of consequences. To make matters worse, she’s magnanimous. Really, it should be a good thing, and it is usually, but combined with her arrogance one might get the idea that she’s just humouring them. Not only that, but Ianthe is pretty sure she doesn’t even need people all that much. Sure, she can work with others well enough in order to get a job done, and a herd certainly does make things easier, but she’s been leaving people behind all her life. Why bother getting attached? She can manage just fine on her own. Not to mention she doesn’t know how to ask for help and accepting offers of assistance kind of feels like a trap. Still, she is devoted to her people and their teachings, and dutiful in her tasks to ensure the survival of the whole. Individualism isn’t quite a concept to her, so despite her independent nature Ianthe has never thought of going it alone. One for all as it were, and well, sometimes there’s sacrifices – it’s for the good of the herd. All well and good, only, her herds teachings aren’t that great. Ianthe is misguided and ignorant. Her world view is very narrow and anything that strays outside it is obviously wrong. Prejudiced against “heretics” – anyone who looks different from her, worships different gods, doesn’t worship gods at all, etc. – it’s a toss up whether her immediate reaction will be to try to fight it out or flee. Hopefully she’ll grow out of it.
Born into a herd of Swifts, Ianthe spent the first two months of her life earth-bound while her flight feathers grew in. She and several other foals were left largely to their own devices on a grassy plateau, though their mothers swept in often enough to let them nurse, and their fathers gathered them close to tell them their histories. She grew wild, mannerless and lawless, quick to laugh and kick up her heels and run in thundering groups with her peers. “It’s difficult,” the father of one of her playmates told them, “to take flight from the ground, though not impossible.” And from then on they flared their wings wide and beat them hard – against the air, against the earth, against each other. They’d never been taught to be gentle, and so they jostled and pushed and bit in a never-ending game of one-upmanship. Then came the day that no one landed, that their parents circled high above them in a screaming frenzy of strangers. “Off the ledge now!” Cried a yearling they’d never so much as seen before, swooping low over their heads. Another dashed after, laughing, “Best take a bit of a run at it!” She jeered, even as a third landed just in front of them. “Follow me!” And this one never slowed from landing, didn’t stop her reckless charge, faced the sheer drop without a hint of fear and threw herself off. Ianthe saw a flash of feather and for a breathless second the yearling was gone, and then, with a beat of her wings she rose back into sight. Ianthe laughed, shoved the foal nearest her, threw her head in challenge even as the others did the same; all of them just a mass of bodies who didn’t know any better. They were all grown wild, grown reckless, grown not knowing the bite of fear. Was it so surprising then, that they raced to the edge? Ianthe was not the first off the ledge, but she was close, and her heart beat in her throat as she fell, as her wings snapped open and beat – once, twice, three times – before she flew. Wind beneath her she tested the angle of her feathers, the strength of her wings, circled ever higher. A couple foals were screaming, but she wasn’t really concerned until they stopped, and when she looked there was blood and bone on the rocks. Another foal looked, but banked too tight and spun, fought his wings and lost to panic and with a scream joined them. The frenzy swallowed the rest of them up and took them away. That was when Ianthe and the rest of them were named. Of the three dashed onto the rocks, Ianthe only heard mutters, and then only that the number of the dead was low, and a good omen. From then on they flew. They nursed in the air, slept in the air, played in the air. The herd shared their stories, taught their traditions, taught them not to challenge those older than them. A few more fell, learning how to do everything on the wing, learning that violence in the sky had greater consequence than violence on land did. Ianthe had a couple close calls herself – jerking awake halfway to the ground when she slept too deeply, getting her wings tangled up in her mother, taking a kick to the shoulder when it might have been her wing – but she survived where others were not so lucky. They left the dead and dying behind. She grew. Soon nursing became too much hassle, and her mother grew sick of her, so she plucked leaves and fruit from trees as the others did. She learned to skim low, legs tucked tight against her, over water and drink as she passed. She snapped up flying insects alongside the herd, all of them working together to press swarms into waiting mouths. They landed occasionally, never all together and never for very long, and she tore up clumps of grass whenever she had the chance. Breeding pairs broke off and came back. She landed in front of foals on a high plateau and dared them to follow. There was blood and bone on the rock, more than before, but none of them think of it and the herd moved ever onward. They met other herds infrequently. Some they avoided, no matter how they were called out to (if they were followed, they turned as one with flared wings and bared teeth), but other Swifts they mingled with. Ianthe split from her birth herd alongside a dozen others, and they exchanged herds with nary a whisper between them. She didn’t bother to say her goodbyes, and neither did anyone else. This new herd drew them close, exchanged names, as her old one had never bothered. Cadmus led the herd with his mate Daphne. Aeson and Danae were another mated pair, though both were only two and too young to bear foals. “We looked at each other and just knew.” Danae sighed, while Aeson hung close by and groomed her mane whenever he could manage. Arachne, greying around her eyes and muzzle, rolled her eyes and knocked Aeson off course with a sweep of her wings whenever she got into a temper. Amongst those who came with her were Ilus and Nester and Semele and Iphis. Iphis was her age mate, she was pretty sure, but only a year later and they all bled together without names to distinguish them. Semele was only just weened and half wild – Cadmus nearly knocked her out of the air. Ilus and Nester were brothers, twins, and though they were both six neither had the strength to lift off from flat ground. There were others, but even though a few colts tried she didn’t let them close unless it was to drive them further off. “Why do we stay away from the other pegasi?” She asked Daphne, after an encounter that had ended with bloody hooves and herd members left behind, “And why don’t they look like us?” Daphne snorted, tossed her head and curled her lip. “They’re heretics. They worship false gods or give our gods false names. We Swifts know better, and so we’ve never stopped looking like we ought.” That was why all of them were brown, dark legged, and bore a stripe down their back, why all their wings were shaped like they were, why they could last so long on the wing. The others, Ianthe was shocked to learn, couldn’t stay in the air half so long as they could. “It’s their punishment.” Daphne proclaimed with a grim sort of finality. Time moved on. Ianthe turned two. Herd members came and went – Semele left for another herd, Aeson and Danae with her. Iphis started swooning over some boy – Jason, she thinks his name was. The twins remained together, steadfast. Arachne landed one day and never took off again. They picked up a stallion that didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. They crossed oceans. The stallion pressed into her space, struck back when she tried to chase him away. She flared her wings wide and bared her teeth and he laughed. A sharp pain, crack! like a broken branch, and she was falling, heart in her throat (blood and bone on the rocks). Her wing tucked in and she spun out, and it was all she could do to stretch her wing out again in a feeble attempt to remain level. She tried to beat her wings exactly once and screamed with the pain of it. She trembled, eyed the earth rapidly coming to meet her, flared her wings wide and screamed behind gritted teeth. Landed, stumbled, barely managed to carry out her momentum without falling to her knees. Came to a stop trembling, one wing limp and brushing against the ground. The herd left her behind.
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