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Sirius
Night Court Soldier
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Age:

4 [Year 500 Winter]

Gender:

Male

Pronouns:

he/him/his

Orientation:

discovering

Breed:

connemara

Height:

14.2 hh

Health:

5

Attack:

15

Experience:

18
Offline

Last Visit:

02-14-2020, 02:00 PM

Joined:

03-19-2019
Signos: 20 (Donate)
Total Posts: 25 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 3 (Find All Threads)

He’s made out of stardust, disguised as a horse, built to fly amongst the heavens.

Colored like the day that’s fading into night, a clash of dusky violets and reds that seem to fight for dominance across his coat. White purer than snow sucks the color from the tip of his nose and one foot. Speckled across his hide is the occasional star, bright white spots that always seem to glisten.

But if those are stars, then his eyes are suns: shining brightly in the universe and capturing countless planets within its gravity.

And his wings seem to be made for flight, able to both float and carve through the air. Like a hawk, they’re built for agility and maneuverability, for bursts of speed and short glides. His tail is flexible all the way down its length, with extra vertebrae like a unicorn’s. He uses it for steering, and most often keeps it braided for ease. Likewise, the long hair on his fetlocks is similarly groomed.

Hanging from each foreleg is a strip of worn, braided leather, remnants of the jesses his captors used to tether him with. Look closely, and you’ll find his identification number stamped on the inside of one. These are not the only memoirs from his life as a trained bird, however; a small bell, who’s clear ring sounds exactly like hope, hangs at his throat and sings sweetly with every step he takes.

”You are Sirius,” the heavens named him, that night he flew to his freedom, ”like the star caught in the Great Dog’s mouth.”



He was given a collar instead of a name at birth, and the rest of his early life would be spent in similar form. They were falconers, and he was their falcon, a novelty trained for their own enjoyment. Until that fateful night, he had never known freedom, nor realized what he was missing.

Because of this, he’s still learning how to be free - the simplest of things confuse and amaze him. Sunlight illuminating the edges of a leaf, the shiny round pebbles at the bottom of a stream, dewdrop shining on a spiderweb in the early morning light. Books fascinate him, but only for the illustrations decorating their pages; he was never taught to read, after all.

Nor did he learn social skills in his youth. Although he is turning 3, he has yet to understand how to develop a normal relationship, platonic or otherwise. After a life filled with control and routine, he finds it hard to make his own decisions or decide what to do with his time. But he has learned to appreciate life, and his newly found freedom; he knows better than most how to stop and smell the roses, to humor his own curiosity. Because he was deprived of basic education, his imagination knows few limits and he is creatively self-indulgent.

Sirius could spend hours laying in a sunny meadow and listening to the sounds around him - but more often than not he will be spotted at night, silver eyes turned towards the heavens, drinking in the light of the stars.

He does not remember most of his childhood, and perhaps for that he should be thankful.

His destiny was arranged prior to his birth, coming from a poor mother who barely scraped by. A child was unthinkable - the expenses, the stress, the commitment. With a whisper and an exchanged coin, the deal was made: she would live the rest of her life in peace, and she would never have to see the child she carried. So long as he had wings. So she concealed her pregnancy and carried the secret with her, trying to ignore the signs of life that grew and kicked inside of her womb.

No one would need to know.

She held her breath on the night of his birth, hardly daring to look when he finally made his entrance into the world. But it was a sigh of relief that she let out, when she looked upon the dark child and saw the fluttering wings upon his shoulders. He had fulfilled her end of the deal; she could breathe easy now, knowing all would be well.

That was the first and the last time she looked at her son, for they came quickly when they heard. She was given her payment, and they were given their prize. As he struggled to stand for the first time on wobbly legs, metal rings were clipped about his ankles, binding them together, and a dark hood was pulled over his head.

For several days, the world was dark. He didn’t know any better; he had never known any different. Those first few hours of his life, the only freedom he would ever know, were quickly forgotten.






The first year was almost-normal, and the closest thing to freedom he would experience. He was a captive; but having known nothing else, he never questioned his predicament, nor fought against it. It was all as they had planned: they were falconers, and he was their new falcon.

Every morning, the hood and hobbles were removed. He was allowed to run and stretch his legs within a confined yard, with a glass dome that stretched overhead. His world was a small one, controlled and restricted; he never knew what he was missing.

The grass was his greatest joy, even before he could digest it. He would work his jaw along it, enjoying the sweet taste on his tongue. When he was allowed, his favorite thing was to lay in the field on a sunny day, watching the birds fly just outside the aviary. His own wings would come to life, fluttering clumsily. Not yet, the wind would whisper, but soon.

His time spent outside was short, and rarely still; his legs needed to develop, so he was pushed to run, to play, to work; there were other foals there, as young and confused as him. They quickly learned not to waste their time spent in this field, for when their captors showed back up, they always brought the hoods and the hobbles with them.



Once, he tried to run, foolish enough to believe it a game, that if he ran fast enough he would earn more time in the sun.

But the lash of a whip and a circle of rope tightening about his neck brought him back, and the punishment of their teeth raking across his skin taught him otherwise. He never ran from them again.

For six months, this was his routine: three times a day was he allowed out to run with the other foals. The rest of his time was spent in darkness.




It was in this darkness that his Sight became clearer. He didn’t understand it at first; even when he could not see with his eyes, even when he was indoors, he could See the stars. They shone in his mind like a million fairy lights, shining their light inside of him. They whispered secrets to him, the stories of their constellations, the stories of their beginning, and of his.

But he was young, and he didn’t understand.

Once, he was foolish enough to mention it while he was being led to the field. But he was laughed at and mocked: ”This one has gone crazy,” they said to each other. ”His mind is rotten.”

It became a joke amongst his captors and the other foals; he was already smaller than the others, and he was teased and chased and called names because he was different. Eventually, he learned to not mention it at all; only to run from their bites and their words. Some times, when he lay alone in the corner of the field, away from the others, they left him alone.

And now, when they took him in and hobbled and hooded him, the darkness didn’t seem quite so lonely; he had the stars to keep him company.




One morning not long after his weaning, the hood was left on. He was led out to the field, where he could feel the sun on his back, but he couldn’t see it. He heard a whip crack in the air; but he didn’t move, he couldn’t. The whip cracked again, louder, closer. Still he didn’t move, aside from the tremble that overtook his body.

The next time they cracked the whip, he felt its bite, leather striking against his flesh. He lurched forward in surprise and fear, falling to his nears; another crack had him rising unsteadily, stumbling away from the pain.

The field was foreign to him without his vision; he fell into holes that once he would otherwise have avoided, banged his knees against rocks that he would have jumped over. Whenever he walked into another colt, he was met with bared teeth; and so too, he learned to nip and kick at any who bumped into him.

When he reached the end of the field, the glass of the aviary kissed him unkindly. He would learn in time how many steps it took to get from the gate to the wall, or from one end of the field to the other, or how long it took to circle his enclosure. He would grow more sure of himself, even blind; could recognize the presence of another horse by the change in the air. He could recognize his fellow captives from his captors by the sound of their footsteps, and the jingle of a chain that always came before he was hobbled once more.

He learned many things during this time, but perhaps the most important rule he was taught was this: never, ever, try to remove the hood.






For several months, he and the other foals were taught to accept the hood and the darkness that came with it. The hood was unpredictable; sometimes it was on for days, sometimes for only an hour. They never knew when it would be put on, but they quickly learned not to fight when it was.

The days spent sunbathing and frolicking in the field became a thing of the past; now, when they were brought to the field, it was for exercise only. They were trained in how to put their bodies through their paces, how to speed up and slow down at a command, how to turn on a dime. Each of them were fitted with a bridle, with a long lead that connected them to their captor. Every tug on that rein caused the steel bit in their mouths to turn sharp; they learned to give in to the bit, to let it direct them. Some learned faster than others.

They learned how to move their wings. Although not allowed to take flight, not yet, they would be perched upon narrow, precarious planks. To keep their balance, they would have to flap their wings. Eventually, when they became stronger, they would be forcibly pushed off balance, so staying upright became more of a challenge. Falling was not an option, for it would be met with the sharp kiss of a whip across their backs.




Learning to fly was hard. They fell often, and bloody knees was not an uncommon sight amongst them as they struggled to lift their weight into the sky. The sooty colt remembered the birds that flew just outside the aviary, how effortless their flight had seemed. But try as he might, it was hard to emulate. All the yearlings struggled, but he was one of the first to catch the hang of it.

The feeling when he left the ground for the first time was indescribable; it was only for a few seconds, and the ground was hard when he fell, but it encouraged him to try harder. It wasn’t long before he and the others were spending more time in the air than on the ground, maneuvering on shaky wings, clumsily bumping into each other and into the glass walls that caged them.

One time, while learning to brake and turn, he found himself crashing into the glass. He was lucky though; although it hurt when he fell, he protected the fragile bones in his wings, and broke nothing.

But as he lay there in a daze, staring out past the glass, a bird landed beside him.

Several inches of glass separated the pegasus from the black bird, but they watched each other with fascination. When finally the bird flew away, he found himself watching it go longingly. There was no glass caging it in; he watched disappear far, far into the sky, and for the first time wished that he, too, could fly so far he disappeared from sight.

Soon, the stars whispered to him that night when the darkness came.


Now understanding the basics of flight, their training began in earnest.

They had to learn when to fly and when not to fly, and to always return back to their perches. Leads were attached to their bridles, and they were flown one at a time in loops around the aviary, learning to turn themselves into the bit during flight. Eventually the leads were removed; but the rules were not.

Then came the races.

They were pitted against each other, in pairs, in teams, in groups. The winners were rewarded with sweet treats, and quiet time in the pasture; the losers were punished with the biting sting of the whip. The sooty colt was small, the smallest of the group - but he was faster than he looked, able to maneuver his smaller body in tight turns that the other, bigger colts couldn’t make. He was lucky in this respect: he rarely felt the whip across his back now.

And then, when they were strong enough, they were taught to hunt.

It started with a torn strip of cloth; they had to fly to it, retrieve it, and bring it back. Sometimes they merely had to tear it from a pole with their teeth; sometimes they had to catch it out of the air. Sometimes it was hidden, and they had to fly overhead in circles before they saw it. But the end goal was always the same: bring it back, and don’t take too long.

But the strip of cloth was not alive, and in time it lost its challenge. They had to move on to real prey.

They had to move on to catching birds.

He remembers the disgust the first time he caught one, its wing breaking as it struggled to free itself from his grasp. He had dropped it in surprise, thus failing; the whip had never hurt more than it had that day, for they had to beat this weakness out of him.

The second time was better: he brought the bird back, but slowly; he wouldn’t look his captor in the eye. And he cried when its bones snapped in their grip, when its wings stopped beating forever. Again, he was punished.

In time he learned to hide his emotions, to do his job; he was meant to retrieve the prey and bring it back without saying a word or shedding a tear. Questions were forbidden; disobeying was punished. This was the time when their numbers dwindled, for those who couldn’t learn had no use to their captors, and they were removed.




The final stage of their training was to be conducted outside the aviary.

He was suspicious when they were first taken outside; the world seemed too big to him, without glass walls telling him when to stop. They left the leashes on at first, and the pull of the reins, the guidance of the bit was comforting.

When the reins were finally removed, and they were given some semblance of freedom, they were afraid to fly too far away. Fear kept them tethered to their masters, just as they had planned.

Then, came the hunt.

They practiced with birds, but they had outgrown those the way they had outgrown the strips of cloth. Now they were ready for their real prey, the prey they would make their living off of, the sole purpose of their training.

To prepare they were taught to play a game, a single game, of hide and seek. There was a forest near the aviary, dense with overgrowth. They were taken here and let loose with a single command: find as many others as you can. Whoever finds the most, wins. Ribbons were tied into the tails: to catch someone, you had to remove their ribbon and keep it as a trophy, as proof.

It might have been easy then for them to escape, had they not been conditioned otherwise. Their captors marked out the area in which they would play the game and stood guard, but it would be easy to navigate around them in such a wide open space.

Or so one girl, a filly nearly twice his own size and with bright red hair, thought.

But she was caught and taken away, and the game continued. They learned how to weave through the trees, how to conceal themselves in the foliage, how to breathe so quietly they made not a sound. Here is where the months spent in darkness aided them, for with the dark comes quiet, and they knew how to live within it. For once they were not punished at the end of the game; the one with the most captured ribbons was rewarded in the usual manner, but they had all reached the final stages of their training, and they all were fit to graduate.




To celebrate, they were given their real prey.

They hardly recognized the first victim, for he had been young when he had been taken out of training. His wings were clipped, so he could glide but not fly, and he was clearly malnourished. It was almost too easy for them to find him and deliver him to their captors.

But each new victim was a little more recognizable, and each game became a little harder. He knew it was no longer a game - the stars had told him so - but he wouldn’t speak up, couldn’t speak up. He could only hunt; it was what he was trained to do.

But every night now when the hood was pulled over his eyes and his ankles were hobbled together, the stars burned brightly in his mind. They whispered to him with a fervor, and they no longer stopped when the sun came up. It was a constant murmur in the back of his mind, telling him to wait, promising him that it’s almost time.

He could pretend he didn’t know what it was almost time for; because the stories the stars told him now scared him, and he wasn’t sure he was ready.

On the day of their last game, he didn’t need to look to know who they would be catching. It was the girl from their first day of freedom, the one who had tried to escape.

It started off as any other game, as they followed her into the shadows of the forest. She was given a head start, as all the rest had been; but she had all of their training, their cunning, their skills. This was the challenge they had been preparing for, the final test before they were deemed worthy.

He was determined to be the one to find her; he had to be the one to find her.

The game started early in the morning, but it slowly ate up the day and stretched into the evening. As the sun gave way to the moon, the sooty colt saw the stars - the real stars - overhead for the first time in his life. Their whispers grew louder, swallowing up the quiet of the hunt. Tonight.



As fate would have it, he was the first to come upon the filly, just as the stars had promised him. As the moon looked down on them in judgement and the stars wove together a new constellation, a story of the captive birds, he cut the jesses from her legs.

Together they rose like shadows into the sky, their bells chiming a song of freedom. They flew higher than they ever had, and again he thought of the birds outside the aviary, the way they had flown without stopping, without turning back to a master. That is you now, the stars sang, and he believed them.

The stars were so loud, he never heard when the third pair of wings came up behind them, nor the gasp of the chestnut filly as she was struck from the sky. She reached for him as she fell, and for a moment she was dragging him down with her.

But then her grasp loosened, and they broke apart.

For a moment he could only watch as she fell, as one of the others followed his prey back down to the ground. But he couldn’t wait, lest they come back for him, too.

One life for another, the stars whispered to him as he flew away on silent wings. And now you have your freedom.

Active & Parvus Magic

stardust and constellations.
from stardust he was made, and to stardust he will return. whenever sirius finds himself in need, all he must do is look to the stars. they comfort him, inspire him, guide him -

- and at times, defend him.


PARVUS.
When using his magic, Sirius’ eyes will grow brightly, the starry markings across his body glittering and writhing like shooting stars.


DISIPULI.
The magic is awakening in his veins, spreading its cosmic grasp throughout his body. The creativity of his mind fuels his magic, turning his imagination into constellations. At this level, Sirius can craft a cloud of stardust from the air around him, shaping a miniature, cloudy galaxy. He can hold his creations for mere minutes before they begin to disperse, and it is quite difficult to form constellations; his galaxies will appear a shapeless mass of tiny, twinkling stars, rarely pulling together into shapes.

But when they do - it’s a wonder to behold. Sirius can create any existing constellation, allowing it to shine brightly in the air for a moment before it slowly burns away. In that moment, the stars burn as brightly as any in the night sky, phantom figures connecting each point to create a ghostly image of the constellation. His magic is stronger at night, beneath an open sky; during the day they appear faint and ghostly, hardly visible in direct light.

VEXILLUM.
Like a new galaxy beginning to form, his stars are beginning to take shape. They pull together in constellations when he summons them, and he can bring forth any existing constellation now. His clouds of stardust are bigger and clearer now, a backdrop for the story he paints. With concentration, Sirius can call forth multiple constellations at once, and persuade them to move... like a moving picture story, he calls the constellations to tell their story, bringing their lore to life before your very eyes. They dance through the air: Aquila spreading his wings, thunderbolts clutched between his talons; Orion raising his weapon against the charging Taurus. The constellations are wispy and ghostly still, but now recognizable. Any known constellation bends at his command, telling their tales in his clouds of stardust.

And now, he can warp their stories. He can turn Aries to charge at another horse, or raise Hercules’ shield in defense, or call Circinus to guide him home. Manipulating these stories is especially draining; he can hold them for fleeting moments, and often calls on them as a last resort due to the difficulty they pose.

When using a constellation in battle, the constellations are insubstantial and more illusion than weapon; Sirius can cause a constellation to charge or strike or block, but it will disintegrate upon making contact and is used primarily to disorient his opponent.

PERITI.
He can conjure miniature stars from dust, bending them at a whim to create constellations not yet named. He can charm someone by creating their likeness from stars, briefly immortalizing any image he desires. His constellations are stronger now, and undeniable: both existing and new, they take on a three dimensional appearance. He can create constellations as large as a horse now, filling the air around him with swirling galaxies that act like true space.

Now his stardust clouds act like true galaxies: look closely and you may catch glimpses of swirling vortexes and comets, of tiny planets orbiting miniature suns. His created cosmos create an extraterrestrial environment in the space they occupy, forming a vacuum of extremely low-pressure with an alarming absence of particles in the air. If someone were to say, find themselves caught up in one of his clouds of stardust (whether intentionally or not), they may find it difficult to breathe or move properly.

It is difficult for him to keep the clouds from dispersing upon contact with another equine, but not impossible; he can surround them momentarily in a cloud or strike them with a constellation, but he can only maintain it for a few moments before it begins to fail, and the effects disappear.

DOMINUS.
Galaxies form on a whim around him, and there is almost always a cloud of stardust hovering somewhere about him. There is no limit to the constellations he can create, nor to how he can manipulate them; Sirius can reenact the fables of the stars, or write new stories and put them proudly on display. Whenever he calls, his stars will answer him.

In battle, he can now use his stars to adequately defend himself and attack in kind. He can charge an equine with a constellation or call on one to stand before him as a shield; now, when they make contact with an equine and he maintains his hold, it takes a considerable amount of time before they dissipate. He can surround several horses at a time with his galaxies - but the more horses, and the farther from his body, the harder it becomes to maintain his control. Within these clouds, the air is considerably low-pressure and acts similar to a vacuum, as in space, making it difficult to breathe and properly move.




Passive Magic





Bonded





Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

JOINING ACCESSORIES.
- a pair of matching, braided leather jesses from his time as a trained hawk, dyed to a dark havanna color, are still tied to both forelegs. he hardly notices them now; they've become a part of them, and he has never considered cutting them off. on the inside of the left strip, his identification number is engraved into the leather.
- a strip of braided leather, dyed the same color as his jesses, is tied high up on his neck. hanging from it and nestled against his throat is a small silver bell. it sings softly with every step, and he's become accustomed to its sound and its weight.



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Played by:

sid (PM Player)

DeviantArt:

erasvita    //   

Discord:

sid#2293