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

 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


Day Court Citizen

The Character


Age: 2 [Year 500 Winter]
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him/His
Orientation: Heterosexual?
Breed: Warmblood mutt
Height: 14.3 hh
Health: 8
Attack: 12
Experience: 10
Signos: 265 (Donate)

Joined: 02-19-2019
Last Visit: 03-20-2019, 11:08 AM
Total Posts: 12 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 2 (Find All Threads)

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Abel has never been anything special.

Chronically underfed for most of his life, he will only reach fifteen hands once fully grown. Though he has a broad frame his weight hangs off him like a canvas too small for its mounting. If there is anything kind to be said for him it is that he’s a survivor; like a desert scrub brush, he is stubborn and scrappy, determined to live regardless of the conditions.

The boy possesses no eye-catching coat, no wings or horns with which to attack or defend, no previous jewelry or disguising cloak. He is merely a seal bay with a few unusual rabicano markings, white that bars his legs and shoulders and the top of his tail. On his forehead is a small star. Abel’s eyes are silver, and where once they might have been bright and keen as the edge of a blade now they are dull, an empty well, a dead star.

Yet he is no dead man walking. He can slink between shadows with silence and grace, he can hold his own in any back-alley brawl. When he is on an errand for Raum he is ceaseless, intent - a copy of the ghost he reveres.

It is useless to wonder what kind of man - what kind of boy - Abel might have been.

This is what he is: hungry. Watchful. Remote. Untrusting. And fearless (not courageous; there is a difference), in the way of those who dread nothing, for all the worst that could happen has already come to pass.

Instead of a youth, days filled with adventure and learning and figuring out where the compass of his heart points, Abel has been an empty shell. It is Raum who has filled the blank space where his dreams might have sparked, Raum who makes him see the world as a thing for the taking.

When Abel goes to sleep at night he says no prayers. This is not unsurprising, either, given how mute he is in general - but it is not only silence that keeps his tongue from praise, or even from blame. He knows Caligo has walked the cobblestone streets of Denocte; he has seen her, there beneath the crackle of a dozen firebird’s wings, there to name a unicorn who was all but a stranger their queen.

He knows the gods are real, and so he knows that they must hate him. It is the only explanation fitting both the proof of their existence and the fact of his suffering. Likewise the sovereigns set up in her name have only brought him sorrow, only worn down his country to ash and rubble or lovely glitz with nothing real behind it. Abel knows there is nothing true in leaves of gold and gemstone streets. Magic does not feed the hungry, and neither do stories.

His brief, bitter life in the Night Court has taught him to distrust oh, so many things. His nightmares are full of a dozen fears - of fire, of dragons, of the hungry wanting sea. Of rulers, of gods. All of them might hurt him, and none of them have any use for him.

But Raum - he whispers purpose. It is this more than food, more than shelter, more than anything else he offers that makes Abel faithful.

And beneath all the blood and all the woe Abel is still a good boy. He never asks questions. He always obeys.

His life began inconspicuously enough. Abel was born beneath a waning moon, on an unseasonably cool night beneath quiet boughs at the edge of the wide and sweeping plain. His mother was an apprentice herbalist; his father gathered up odd items from the beach, shells and shipwreck coins and anything the tide swept in that someone might buy at market. Each week he helped his parents set up a stall in the marketplace, ducking back into the shadows whenever someone came to look. Abel was shy, then, and not just silent.

When things shifted it did not happen gradually.

They were too poor, his little family, to pay any attention to who sat the throne or what drama went on between the high courts, but Abel well remembers the first day a dragon’s swept above the streets of the city. Oh, how he had marveled at first! With the other dock-children he had chased its shadow, and they all revered the beast, a sure sign of Denocte’s strength.

And then, one day, there rose a haze of smoke from the mountains. When the news finally reached the city - with wailing, with fear - that the pass had been burned, that the gate had been closed, panic had gripped the young colt’s heart, seizing him as it seized everyone. His mother had left before dawn that morning to gather nasturtium along the flanks of the mountain, there along the pass.

She never came home. And, much later, when there was no one to keep him from looking, he searched the cool ash and never found so much as a bone.

Of course there was fear, after that. With the dragon (once a wonder, now a terror) guarding the gates, with the threat of war like a dank cloud across the city, with trade stopped up and fear in each citizen’s eye, his father grew more desperate and they both grew more hungry. There were no travelers to buy shells and pretty bits of seaglass, and anyway his father was distraught after the loss of his mate. For stretches longer and longer he walked the tidepools and seaweed-tangled stretches of beach, and for longer and longer the six-month-old Abel was left hungry and alone.

That is when he took to running the streets. It was begging at first, then stealing, then bullying when he took up with a small gang of children fierce as starving rats. That is where he first heard talk of the Crows, though by then they had all flown.

But they did not all stay away.

Still, he might never have met Raum if it were not for the tidal wave. Oh! The gods had returned with a fearful tremble from their mountain, and their old king had fled and a new one been named, and everything shuddered on the brink of strange change. And still his father walked the shoreline, gathering his worthless treasures.

Abel was a year old when the tidal wave swept into the city, drowning far more than his father. Sometimes the boy wonders if he had smiled as he was swept under, and out to sea.

There was no home but the streets, after that, and all of those were chaos. The gangs had been scattered like pieces of shipwreck and not only the street children were starving, then. Alone, starving, desperate, fearful, Abel agreed to do anything that might buy him another day of bread.

That is when he met Raum.

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