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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.


Character of the Season

Member of the Season

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


Pending Approval

The Character


Gender: Female
Pronouns: Her, she
Orientation: Pansexual
Breed: Akhal Teke
Height:13.3 hh
Signos: 200 (Donate)

Joined: 02-10-2019
Last Visit: 04-15-2019, 09:38 PM
Total Posts: 0 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 0 (Find All Threads)

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Stalwart, and seemingly poised in gossamer, she stands at a diminutive fourteen hands high, the artisan curves of her roving length sleekened with earthy tones of dark, pale lavender and rich fire-tinged ochre. Her prance is that of a deer, her thin nimble legs and delicate hooves honed for endless hills and infinite mountain peaks. Tender licks, the color of dried blood paint a lean, ostensibly frail bodice in flexuous tides, the soily auburn stripes following each peregrine rhythm of rolling shoulder, cinched waist, and muscular dorsum.

Embedded therein a gaze ever so cold and frigid despite the heated rose of its hue are her fiery eyes, dangerously incisive, and obsessively adroit in what immaculacy they reap from observance. For many she is a supple feast for one's vision, and yet for others she is grotesque. Atop shapely and sculpted hinds sits a modest bustle of plum and shadowed lilac plumage, framing callipygian form in demure wreath of savage, and eerily well kempt feathers. Atop her crown is the double scythed crescent horn framed by thinner, narrowing cornets. A beautiful plague – and a beautiful sickness.
If I asked to peel away your skin in order to look inside of you, to see what makes you function...would you? Would you trust me enough? Would you allow yourself to place the very fabric of your existence in my hands, ergo leaving your menial yet precious life to fate's list of casualties?

Every piece of frayed flesh, each perfected stitch, the exquisite bruising whilst the laceration heals; she is a surgeon above all else, her power that of both invasion and rebirth. With acute precision comes decay of the mind, the forever sought-after ne plus ultra narrowly elluding a grasp both persistant and harrowing. What tender rose with petals afray; she is soft to the eyes, ears, nose, and touch. Even her saliva has been said to taste faintly of unnamed ambrosia. She will never instigate the initial slight. She will never lose composure. She is a frighteningly still millpond midst a thousand burning bushes and it requires great lengths to coax unto her the beast laying ever restful beneath beauteous, covetous facet.

Her youth tainted with cynicism; it is nihility which comforts her, the pull of nothingness through thought and sensation that calms the vicious urges barely quelled therewithin. A sadist; a masochist, pain fascinates her and for this she is ashamed. Death creates lust in her, the eroticism of darkness and decay withall painting unto her senses the concept of completion, of walking into the arms of eternal sleep without flight or fight. Somehow, beneath the folds of stoicism and waning philosophies she seeks pure, unadulterated catharsis.
My people were frail. They were simply...weak. They knew nothing beyond their fear, nothing beyond their decrepit-minded, and feeble clingings. At first I pitied them. Looking back, I could be taught to love at a time. I once had affections for another being other than myself, and even in that respect I could not, and cannot say, that I revere myself anymore than before. But at least I had the gall to look past my own security, past my own perception that was warped by such a blind way of existing. My kin did heinous things to stay alive, even more to further their power. They did irreperable things to dominate in war, triumph over their enemies. They spread disease. They were unclean, and immoral. I, too, did heinous things. While they forever cleansed themselves of sin each day I wallowed in mine, and embraced it more than I should have. I could not bear to live a lie; if I was a truly monstrosity, I wished to be able to be monstrous.

She was the best surgeon in their clan; the quiet mistress of the invisible scalpel was highly sought-after, so much that eventually she became a commodity in healing those who could afford her skillful work. Her youth was filled with the letting of blood, the splitting and setting of bone, the sutchering of flaying skin. She could never remember their faces, only the intricate details of their bodies; how their blood vessels aligned, how quickly their heart would pulse. She would observe for years, midst her kin, the savage ways of her upbringing masquerading as a divine craft.

Obsessed with destiny, with fate, her people were so far gone, that eventually she fled. And they hunted her. She would ellude them frequently, before escaping so far out of their boundaries that they decided to let nature devour her. Beyond their comprehension was the land upon which she found herself stranded, after swimming tirelessly across the channel, all the while hoping she would lose energy and drown, praying her destiny would unfurl unto her resting therein the ocean. And yet perhaps she was not destined to die, for when land graced her sobbing, exhausted form, she lived. And looming in her midst, the core of what stole her from death's ensnarement.
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