Novus
Hello, Guest! Register
Anatoly
Day Court Outcast
Send Message

Age:

10 [Year 494 Summer]

Gender:

Male

Pronouns:

He/Him/His

Orientation:

Heterosexual

Breed:

Unicorn Akhal-Teke x

Height:

15.3 hh

Health:

7

Attack:

13

Experience:

10
Offline

Last Visit:

06-28-2019, 08:23 AM

Joined:

03-03-2019
Signos: 165 (Donate)
Total Posts: 10 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 2 (Find All Threads)

It was clear from the start that Anatoly was different from the majority of the Davke, thanks to his outsider mother. His curved horn, lion-tail, and cloven hooves marked him well apart from the rest, and he always felt that distance keenly. His coat is a dark bay only interrupted on his face (by a blaze and white chin) and legs (a coronet on his front right, and stockings on both his hind legs). His hair, typical of his coat, is black. He wears two golden collars around his neck, one much slimmer than the other, and similar golden bands around his upper legs. Under all the gold you will find deep, ugly scars, over which hair has failed to return. Thankfully the scars don’t affect his movement or breathing, but they tend to ache with dramatic shifts in weather. More frivolously, Anatoly has a few more pieces of jewellery, which he claims to wear to disarm and distract (and, to be fair, it’s kept a fair few lower courts from recognizing his nature as Davke). He hangs red tassels from his ears and the larger of his collars. He also has five garnets on strings, one dangling from his horn, the others tied near the base of his tail.

+ affectionate, astute, cunning, meticulous, playful, vigilant - callous, captious, deceitful, implacable, provocative, violent
A dragon of the desert, his Mama called him, but well, aren’t all Davke? Anatoly is a creature of violence, and when caught off guard that will always be his first reaction. Emotions are difficult things for him to handle, and so he tends to just… not. That said, he holds himself and those around him to exacting standards and is prone to nitpicking the slightest of faults in the pettiest of ways. He learned well under his tutors that to pity others was a waste, and to pity oneself was to court death, and so holds no true sympathy. His disregard for another’s well-being is a cold thing, full of raised eyebrows and disdain or a turned shoulder and distance. In his early years he fostered a love for reactions, for good or ill, and now finds it both humorous and rewarding to cause outbursts of emotion in others. After his Mama got a hold of him, he didn’t so much change as adapt. He was already watchful and wily, already a well of determination and obstinacy, had already bloodied his hands. No, he was already many things, but Mama taught him there was a certain kind of honour to working a Court, to charming a Lord, to knives in the dark and allies in strange places. He learned another outlet for his disregard, this one a mask of gentility and a helping hand covered in poison or debts or both. His Mama taught him there is no shame in survival, no matter what must be done to accomplish it. By the time his Mama left, he learned that a snake in the sand sometimes did much better.

Mothers made the man, and Anatoly was born to a bargain. “Let’s make something of an outsider’s son,” the man sent to retrieve him said upon their return, staring down at where he stood on shaking legs like he was so much as a gnat. This man might be his father, as might the man who laughed and bet the man beside him on how long Anatoly would last, who is yet another who might also be his father. No one tells tales about his mother. No one says that she was a well-dressed whore who traded her life for a night, some secrets, and a child with the matriarch’s taciturn permission. No one steps forth as his father – there are too many amongst their number to even guess at which one it might be. So he is raised collectively, nursed by any mare willing to bear with him, tutored by any of the stallions who might have been his father. For a time he runs with his age group, but at a year old he catches his first glimpse of another boy like him – horned and lion-tailed – and makes the mistake of asking. From then on he is pushed further, past and away from his age-mates, and all it takes is a seconds too long pause for him to be given a new task. He quickly learns to fall asleep in moments or at least fake it lest his tutors find him something too taxing to handle when he’s already nearly on his knees. Sometimes he longs for the warmth of approval, looks for the flash of pride he catches in others’ parents’ eyes, but soon he learns to take surprise in its stead, learns to take disbelief and anger at outperforming a prized daughter as his due, learns that sometimes fear is better than care. He snatches their reactions out of the steadily developing twitch of his tutors’ eyes, the curl of a lip, a swat of a tail. He learns and fights and laughs and sneers and eventually, against their odds, he turns two. He is given no spear for his trial, no crude knife blade. They send him on his way empty handed, placing bets on how he is finally going to go out, and tell him not to bother coming back without spoils to prove his triumph. It’s this, the assurance of his failure, that drives him beyond the petty death of the single man assigned to him. So what, that killing this man will be hard enough as is? So what, that the guards who travel after him for his treasures will be well trained enough to cause a small band difficulties? Anatoly lives to far exceed his tutors’ underestimations and relishes the faces they pull after they have yet again failed to predict him. He lures away the guard on night shift, draws him out and away from the camp, lets them circle, lets the guard think they’re still close, and then promptly gets the man lost in the dunes. He snatches the guard’s cloak from his back, leads him on a merry chase, and then loses him. Sweeping the cloak over his shoulders he returns to the camp. Two guards awaken at his emergence, squinting through the dark, and he urges them closer. “Someone’s trying to lure me off. One of you stay here, the other, with me.” He rasps, taking on the parched voice of someone not well prepared for the desert. The two look at each other, but one steps forward with the mere statement that he will follow. It’s easy enough to get this one lost too, with a cry of, “There!” once they’re far enough beyond the camp, and in the dark his cloak lets him peel away and leave the other to thunder out into the desert. He turns back, dashes at the camp full speed and stumbles in as though he’s been savaged, tumbling to his knees and bowing his head to the floor so they can’t look too closely at his face in the light of the newly stoked campfire. “Davke!” He gasps, and three of them panic and flee at the word. “A smaller caravan, North. There’s children.” Another five gather arms and bravely – stupidly – rush in the direction he’s bid them go. Of a camp of 12 guards and the man he’s been sent to kill – the man who still sleeps in his wagon amongst his riches – there are a mere two guards left. Childs’ play. One approaches him, carrying medical supplies. “Where are-” The words are cut off with a gurgle as Anatoly launches up, driving the point of his horn into the underside of the guard’s throat and through. He bucks, all at once ducking and twisting his head free and double barrelling the remaining, rushing guard in the face. Two bodies hit the ground. “Guards?” A voice calls from within the wagon. “At ease, sir. We’ve heard some rumours of bandits is all. We’re moving camp. Continue your rest.” The man huffs and mutters, but all sound from within subsides, and he takes the time to see how they’ve managed to get a wagon here, of all things in all places. Magic (of course): there’s some sort of enchantment woven into the wood. When he hooks himself into the single harness the wagon lifts itself off the ground, weightless and following him like a trained hound. He huffs his laughter and approval and whispers a thanks to Solis for this unforeseen boon. Then he draws the wagon straight back to the Davke, calls his mark out, and slaughters him in front of an audience. The matriarch watches, impassive, but he thinks she might be a little amused when he gifts his plunder to her newest daughter, Avdotya. The next morning, while the herd is still gossiping and he is firmly in their good graces, he hunts down the horned yearling. Jahin. Anatoly’s first (only) friend is named Jahin. They’re so similar, both half blood bastards, only Jahin is the man his mother made of him, only Jahin’s mother is Davke. Anatoly doesn’t bring it up, is just glad for the companionship, for the spars, for someone to show him that the oasis is not just for drinking. After a while, he is content to spend time simply pressed shoulder to shoulder, no needling or blood-letting required, so long as no one is staring, so long as he doesn’t have to prove a point. Anatoly is there when Jahin returns from his trial, is there when Jahin develops a crush on the matriarch’s newest, youngest daughter. He jibes and jabs but subsides enough to listen, to assist in training and hunts and bloody war. Jahin grows respected. So does Anatoly. He claws his successes from cold bodies, praise from once curled lips. No one makes bets against him anymore, now it’s always a number game: how many he’ll kill this time, how much loot he’ll bring back, how long it’ll take. All the while, Anatoly watches the favoured child Avdotya grow with a face shut like a steel trap. Of course the filly is doing well, she has all of the support and admiration the Davke can offer her. One day true pressure will lean on her shoulders and she will falter, of that he is sure. Of that, he thinks, he is proven correct. The princess does not return from her trial and the matriarch loses her mind. He seethes at it, hates how a failure will be welcomed back because her mother is The Davke and demands it. He is loyal, but this is lunacy, and he swears to himself that should she dare return it will be he who puts a knife in her back, for the good of them all. A bloodbath comes and he lunges into it at Jahin’s side. He falls in it, to a swipe across his legs that brings him down and another across his throat that keeps him there. He chokes on his own blood, claws against the spots crowding his vision, and succumbs. He wakes elsewhere. Nearly bled out and weak with it, he has no choice but to listen to the woman who pulled him from the battlefield before the boy king could call for his corpse. She is horned and lion-tailed, her coat pitch black and her hair sun bleached red. Gold glints around her ankles, adorns her shoulders, drips from her horn. She tells him to call her Mama and calls him Ana while his tongue’s too thick and his mind’s too muddled to protest. “They’ve made a dragon out of you lovey, but we Unicorns have always made for better snakes.” She tells him at one point. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, we’ll get you sorted.” Another time, when he’s gathered some strength and nearly catches her throat between his teeth before the ground rushes up at him, she laughs. “So like your father you are!” And then mutters, “Whichever one he was.” Later, when he’s got some reason back in his head, has learned of and accepted their relation, he asks her how she convinced the matriarch to let her live. “I didn’t,” she shrugs, “I’m not sure she even knew I existed.” The reality that the taciturn approval over his existence may have been ignorance is unsettling. He wonders if the first she heard of him was when he killed a man at her feet. He wonders how much worse his introduction might have gone, had she decided to raise the issue. Under his watchful eyes his mother closes gold around his neck and legs, hiding the fresh scars. She pierces his ears to dangle tassels and clips one onto his collar, dangles garnets from string at his horn and tail. Then she takes him out, goes from court to court to court, but never lets him set foot in Solterra – “Don’t be foolish. I won’t loose you into the desert until you’ve been taught.” “This is my son, Ana. Isn’t he a delight?” She chirps, and he performs to her standards until she hustles him out of the throne room. “The advisor has a terrible crush, isn’t it charming?” She titters, mocking, “It’s really too bad the Lord is such a terrible homophobe.” “Yes.” He answers dutifully. “And the Lady is having an affair with her bodyguard. Very cliché. It’s just as well that the Duchess is planning their assassination, I’m sure the drama would have been very gauche once it spilled out.” She grins at him, all teeth and pride, and grooms his mane in approval. “And the serving boy?” “The Lord’s illegitimate son. I suppose you want me to cozy up to his puppet master before she becomes the power behind the throne?” “Very good!” And so it goes. He learns how to make himself useful, how to make deals, how to climb a social ladder with nothing to his name but a pretty face and smooth tongue. He learns patience, how to squash the urge to end an irritant’s life. It takes years before the whispers start, before the name Davke starts being used in present tense again, before he hears the name Avdotya again. At the first whispers his mother nuzzles into his forelock and is gone with the morning light. Still he does not return. He longs for the hot sun on his back and sand beneath his hooves, but he had one friend amongst the Davke, and Jahin surely perished in the battle. Besides, the way they bandy the failures name about, like she’s their saviour, is enough to make his temper strain against his otherwise impressive mask. So he keeps away, waiting for the day she will once again burn herself out. A Queen dies. A King rises. Anatoly doesn't much care, for this new king is strong, and the strong eat the weak, but he would be a fool not to hear the whispers. The people don’t much care for the new King – in fact they demonize him, revile him. He anticipates a rebellion, anticipates the hatred that will come for any who attach their name to the King’s. Had this not been the case perhaps he would have returned, would have bargained his services for his blockades destruction, but as it is... He sighs and prepares himself to continue suffering his exile, when the news comes. Avdotya seeks to sign the Davke name to the King’s cause. Avdotya has ruined them all. Anatoly is loyal. He will not see that happen.

Active & Parvus Magic

PARVUS When operating under intense emotion or using his magic a strange susurrus of sound seems to hang around him. The sound is rarely from anywhere nearby, seeing as it's filtering through miniscule portals. ACTIVE Tier 1: Discipuli Anatoly has recently discovered his magic, of which he has approximately zero control. Portals pop up and snap out of being without a how-do-you-do, two feet in diameter and stationary, starting solely in the five feet around his person. The portal’s end point can be just about anywhere – within sight across the field, the next room over, the ocean floor, or in the middle of a forest fire continents away. He can minimize the number of portals by keeping his focus on his current location, but the slightest blip of inattention is enough to spawn several into being. The entire thing is draining at best, and when driven to the edge of exhaustion the portals open into a strange, gold, between. About the only thing he can accomplish with the portals at this point is closing them. Tier 2: Vexillum The random, exhausting appearance of portals beyond his control now follow Anatoly’s thought patterns, so at least he’s no longer constantly soaked or setting fire to his surroundings. With concentration, he can decide where a portal is going to start within five feet from him and maintain that portal within ten feet. The portal’s end point can be directed toward anywhere he has been before or focused on anyone he has given his attention to for longer than 10 minutes. Furthermore, he has been able to start experimenting with size to some success. Smaller portals only take consistent concentration, but, though he can stretch a portal just long enough for the average horse to fit zip through once a day, it only ever connects to that between. Creating portals within the between is far more taxing than without, and from within he must be fully rested before he can get out again, and he risks internal damage doing so. He can move existing small portals, but the larger portals seem incapable of movement at this level. He can only control one portal at a time. Tier 3: Periti Rejoice, for Anatoly is no longer a hazard to Novus’ ecology – at least, not without meaning to be. Portals appearing out of his control is a thing of the past, larger portals now move on command, and smaller portals take hardly a thought to open. The range at which he can hold the portals open has increased to fifty feet. The larger portals now open to actual destinations, and he can hold one open so that a single horse can get through three times without taxing himself, and five times before collapse – though the fifth one opens to the between without fail. Getting out of the between still requires a full day’s rest, but only risks minor illness. He can often connect portals based on geographical location relative to him, though he might need to adjust where the portal ends so he isn’t at the wrong elevation. Should he, for whatever reason, be unable to reach the destination he is aiming for he will reach the between instead of some random location. At his limit, he can control either three small portals, or one small portal and one large portal at a time. Tier 4: Dominus Being given a picture or vivid description is now enough for Anatoly to travel to a location without fail, and he needs only to watch a person for a minute before he can open a portal to them, wherever they may be. He can control either five small portals, three small portals and one large one, or three large portals at a time. Having finally mastered his magic also means he has gained mastery over the between, he can now enter deliberately, rather than by exhaustion or mistake. From within the between he can anchor portals he has created outside and carried with him into the between, giving him the ability to create a hub for either travel or information gathering without worrying about distance. He can create a single portal from within without strain, and a second if he’s willing to risk internal damage.




Passive Magic





Bonded





Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

He wears two gold collars around his upper neck, one much slimmer than the other, and two gold bands around his upper front legs. He has three red tassels: two hanging from his ears, one from his larger collar. He has five garnets strung on strings: one danging from the tip of his horn, the rest tied near the base of his tail.



Agora Items & Awards



(View All Items)




Miscellaneous



Played by:

eleven (PM Player)

DeviantArt:

none    //   

Discord:

none

Also Plays