Novus
Hello, Guest! Register
Elchanan
Night Court Scholar
Send Message

Age:

7 [Year 497 Spring]

Gender:

Male

Pronouns:

He/Him/His

Orientation:

Bisexual

Breed:

Arabian X

Height:

15 hh

Health:

13

Attack:

7

Experience:

13
Offline

Last Visit:

10-27-2019, 07:10 PM

Joined:

03-17-2019
Signos: 60 (Donate)
Total Posts: 18 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 6 (Find All Threads)

ARCHPRIEST

Tall and sylphlike, Elchanan does not gleam with physical power; the only notable muscles are those which carry and manipulate his wings, stretched tight over the rise of his narrow shoulders. His legs are long and nimble, and under his thin skin knees, ankles and other knobs of bone are particularly notable, almost haunting. Otherwise he is painfully slender, slim-hipped to the point of girlishness, and the only thing that might make you think he is anything less than virginal is the somber dark of his eyes and the secret nature of his smile.

His coat is the beige-white called “cosmic latte”, fittingly the average color of the universe. His mane and tail, both surprisingly sparse, match the near-cream of his coat. Self-conscious about the thin hair, Elchanan tends to keep his mane wound into a series of regularly-spaced tight buns and braids, in an attempt to make the fineness less obvious - whether it works remains to be seen. If it were not for the sickness, that would be all there is to him, minus the dusty taupe-brown of his elfin hooves and the matching fluffy insides of his ears; but in this universe, ragged patches of icy bluish-white mar his left shoulder, spine and stomach. It is as incriminating as a scar or a missing chunk of flesh. The sickness even reaches to cover the back of his bluebird wings, turning sky feathers to cloud.

Elchanan’s lips and muzzle are painted a soft, bright pink. Set deep in his skull his eyes are an unassuming brown, though up close they seem almost to be flecked with silver; if there is something particularly beautiful about Elchanan it is his eyes and the thick, dark, softly curled lashes that line them. His face is delicate, fine bones hewn together as if from marble. The brow bone is prominent, the bridge of the nose concave, the shape of the head narrow, built only from curves. And ah, there, across the beautiful lines of his face, you see the worst thing the moon has done to him: two purely white concentric circles with drawn-out edges, connected in perfectly straight lines to his forelock and upper lip. In his homeland it is as good as a death sentence by stoning, by fire. It marks him as forever sickly. Yet magic, too -

<3
credits

ARCHPRIEST

In everything he does, Elchanan is terrifyingly enthusiastic. For him there is no middle ground, nothing between black and white: something or someone holds his attention entirely or not at all. (More often it is not at all, and that might be a blessing or a curse for you). Elchanan has never learned how to love or hate something half-heartedly, and it seems he never will. He is frighteningly devoted to the Priesthood of the Månen, and nothing takes precedence over that fanaticism - not friendship, not romance, not even mortal injury. He would rather die than give up his lunar patriotism and all it has blessed him with.

But he is no warrior, no mercenary. Where others have brought about revolutions with the sharp edge of a sword or a spear, Elchanan relies on his charm, wit, and dashing smile. Even without his magic, the boy is undeniably charismatic; he has an easy, bright sense of humor, a pleasantly devious grin, and experience talking himself out of tight spots, which lends itself well to his traveling-missionary business. Were it not for the blood-thirst and dogmatism roiling just underneath that agreeable mask, Elchanan might be nothing more than a pleasant (if overly-loud friend) or one night stand; he is uncannily friendly and finds it easy to make friends. (If they can be called that.) His honest religious and social zeal supplies him with boundless energy, and Elchanan is rarely caught tired or apathetic, except in the rare cases that the sickness tightens its grip on him.

Elchanan is as faulty as he is irresistible - perhaps even more so. He is utterly intolerant of those who have the gall to argue against him or his beliefs, even if evidence might be on their side; his passion often expresses itself as complete and utter foolishness in the face of opposition, a nauseating mix of arrogance and stubbornness. Worst of all is his self-righteousness. Elchanan is, and has always been, an advertiser and proprietor of his own strengths. So strongly does he believe in himself and his own correctness that he is willing to sacrifice anything to prove a point - his self-respect, an deeply-rooted relationship, someone else's life and wellbeing.

<3
credits

ARCHPRIEST

Where Elchanan was born, in a place that had (and still has) no name, the moon was hostile.

It goes like this. There was a girl, once, somewhere, who was all teeth and blood and bone. She was unknown. She was unwanted. She carried the moon on her back like the branch of a tree carries a bird. It was a pet to her, this shining silver thing with too much power for a body. And so when her rampage started - when she tore through the homeland spilling guts and breaking bones and slicing enemy throats with a razor-sharp blade - the ones who escaped, who watched from caves, from rivers, from underneath the earth in hiding, said, it must be that foul moon.

When she died it fled from her body and into the sky. And hung there, for eons and eons, always becoming visible just as soon as his world’s two suns dipped below the horizon at dusk. So the legend went like this: if you are ever foolish enough to let the moonlight touch you, it makes you sick - so terribly, erroneously sick - that you will never be human again.

No one knew better than to argue with it.

Like almost everyone There, Prior was born drowning in sun in the middle of spring. As a child he was perfectly near-gold, spindly and narrow with dark eyes and dark hooves and dark-tipped ears; the mares of the herd fawned over him, as though he were a blessing and not a child like their own. He might have been. Who was to say otherwise when he looked so much like a clear summer's day? And if anyone was wary of the pale blue of his wings, they were smart and superstitious enough to compare the color to a cloudless sky rather than the reflection of the moon on water.

His childhood was (and is) not particularly notable, at least not until the summer solstice that followed years later.

The solstice was always a celebration as much as it was a mourning. After that day the suns would smile upon them less and less, and the moon would gain more and more power, but for that one night everyone in Elchanan's homeland celebrated until they fainted from sunstroke or dehydration or the simple pleasure of too much alcohol. Circled around a bonfire as the day began to wane, Elchanan and some other young members of the herd dared each other on increasingly foolish errands: setting magic fire to a patch of grass, races down the river, seeing who could touch the sun.

It was during one of these dares, the race up the treetops, that Elchanan made the first mistake of his young life.

The yearlings told him the suns were going down, that they were already pushing it hard playing like this in the very last bits of light. Already the sky was turning from blue to pink, stained with the new blood of the oncoming sunset. Most of them had never stayed out even this late. But Elchanan had never been careful, and especially never been afraid of a challenge, and so even as the rest of his friends turned around, swan-diving one by one back toward the dusky ground with their hearts full of fear, he rose higher and higher and faster and faster.

By the time he crashed though the uppermost foliage, it was night.

He had never seen it before, and for the split second between emergence and poisoning was in total and complete awe of the sky. Dark and velvet, freckled with stars, ruffled by a cool breeze, and sliced into a mouth by the curve of the bright moon. Almost he could see the stunning craters on its surface, like beauty marks. Clouds twisted and curled and then dissipated, so that he could see every last inch of the now-black sky. (Who could have ever imagine that the sky could be black like that?) The vast cosmic ocean which had been both hidden and demonized to Elchanan for so long had finally unfolded. Oh, it was beautiful -

Then the light hit him, and he fell back down.

By the time he jolted awake, it had already infected him. Every bone, every muscle ached, even his tongue in his mouth felt too heavy to carry. His blood was running cold. Bright, burnt patches sliced the gold of his coat. The feathers on the back of his wings had paled to ivory; even worse was the thin, concentric circles of white stacked against his forehead, slicing straight up and down. Some part of him, watching his reflection in the river, wanted to die. Another part bubbled with excitement.

Of course his friends had fled. It was dawn, almost, and to be seen with him in the light of day with those white rings would be as good as opening yourself to the sickness too.

And though Elchanan realized he could never return, some part of him was glad for it: with the sickness came beauty, and confidence, and a spine of steel. Suddenly he was fanatic. It all made sense. They could not touch the moon because it was a God - they avoided it because it held utmost power - like this, ill, he was also magic, making a golden staff from moonlight and speaking things into existence with an ease that should have been reserved only for deities.

He wandered, then, with the moon guiding him. His magic became as powerful as it was obsessive, dragging him from fairytale to fairytale to repeat the stories like the same song replayed over an over again, trying to make them all see it:

The moon, the night; the night, the moon.

<3
credits

Active & Parvus Magic

ARCHPRIEST

DISCIPULI: You think it might just be the sly curve of his smile, or his natural, boyish charm. You've always been susceptible to that subtle sort of flattery. Oh, he’s convincing when he talks like that - full of casual enthusiasm about the magic of the moon and all its enchantment - the longer he goes on, the more you find yourself agreeing with him, continuously becoming more pliable to his suggestions. Yes. The moon, the night, the night, the moon. Nothing could be more beautiful. He's right.

But as soon as he stops speaking it wears off, and the real world sets in like a headache. You remember the thread of the conversation and what it was about, but not why you were listening, or why he is suddenly looking at you with a strange sort of hunger -

VEXILLUM: Now there is no mistaking it. When he starts talking in that eery, low voice, smiling, showing the sharp parts of her teeth, the rest of the world fades away. There is only him, and the things he says to you, and the things he might make you do. Your heartbeat slows; suddenly you cannot tear your eyes away from him, and the rings on his forehead seem to pulse and shift like an optical illusion, bright as starlight. During pauses or short silences the intensity of his voice wanes, so that you might briefly become aware of the fact that you are suddenly in the dark part of the forest with no recollection of the short walk that brought you there - but as long as he is quick about it, and focused, it is hard to realize what exactly he is doing to you.

PERITI: It only takes a few words, now: Come. Quiet. Don’t be scared. As long as he is speaking, as long as he can make you pay attention, you are more wont than not to do what he says. Is it fear or desire? Does it make a difference? Even the people around you are starting to be drawn in. When they hear him speaking, even from a distance, something in their chests tugs them toward the pair of you, as if they suddenly care to listen, too. His requests get larger and larger, but so does your strange, innate need to fulfill them. It is only after an hour or two that the intelligent part of you starts to swim to the surface and wonder about just what has happened to you, and why your bones ache like that -

DOMINUS: There is no escaping - unless he lets you. It flicks on like a switch. One moment you are meeting a handsome stranger in the middle of a crowded city; the next he’s convinced you to follow him to a back alley, though you would never remember why. It doesn't matter, you would do it anyway, you would do anything he asked, isn't that right? When he stops speaking it hurts like a needle to the heart. Oh, keep talking, please keep talking! Elchanan’s voice is multifaceted like an opal, as addictive as an intravenous drug. It tells you what to do and how to feel and oh, isn’t it so nice to not have to think for yourself, once in a while?

Only the animal inside you - the animal you have locked away to make room for his magic - could convince anyone otherwise.

<3
credits




Passive Magic





Bonded





Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

ARCHPRIEST

Elchanan's prized possession is the pure gold staff he uses as both weapon and cane. The thing is taller than he is, an almost ridiculous-seeming six feet. It might look bizarre wielded by someone with any less experience. The end comes to rest not on a flat base, but a sharply-shaved point that may or may not be stained with the remnants of a bloody wound. At the top, the staff splits in two, curves in opposite directions, and rejoins to form a perfect circle, supported by a cross in the center. Three small branches sprout from the circle at regular intervals, ordained with smaller crosses and round, knobby endpoints. Its size makes it impossible for Elchanan to keep it completely out of sight, but he tends to keep it hidden underneath his wings until a reveal is called for.

<3
credits



Agora Items & Awards



(View All Items)




Miscellaneous



Played by:

RB (PM Player)

DeviantArt:

beccazw    //   

Discord:

none