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


Spotlight

Character of the Season
Seraphina

Member of the Season
E-cho

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


DISCORD

August
Night Court Entertainer


The Character


Offline

Age:4 [Year 499 Fall]
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him/His
Orientation: Bisexual
Breed: Very Mixed
Height:15.3 hh
Health: 8
Attack: 12
Experience: 10
Signos: 235 (Donate)

Joined: 04-03-2019
Last Visit: 04-17-2019, 10:55 PM
Total Posts: 2 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 1 (Find All Threads)

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August is every bit as brilliant as his name, rolled around in your mouth full and golden as an apple at the end of summer.

There is no clear breed contributing to his build; he is a well-proportioned inheritor of a tangle of lineages. What matters is that he stands tall and well-muscled, his skull finally shaped, his limbs clean. He is not the bright burnished gold of temples under the sun but a cooler tone, as though dipped in moonlight and dappled by the same.

That moonlight must have caught and pooled in his eyes, silver-colored and ceaselessly watching, even when his lashes flutter demurely over them. He wears a ring in his nose the same color as his eyes, but rarely any other ornamentation - save, of course, for the scarab tattooed on his left shoulder.

So much of his success is based on his looks, and he takes care of them just as he would his swords. It is not out of vanity - or at least, it did not begin that way - but necessity. But now Minya teases him that he takes longer to get ready than she, and (though it is difficult for him to concede) she might not be wrong.

Who is August?- other than whoever he must be.

The patrons of the Scarab would say Oh, he is charming - dazzling of looks and words, attentive to every story, every glance, every want. What manners he has, how disarming his boyishness!

Minya would say he is a pest - though a pretty one. Stimulating enough, when there was no one else to make the time go by.

And Ahgavni would say he is too serious when teaching her swordsmanship and not half serious enough the rest of the time.

As for August he would say he is all of them. All and a dozen more besides: cunning and wary, bold and composed, irreverent and fierce. He is whatever he needs to be to do what he must do, which is serve the Scarab and protect Aghavni. That came in a multitude of ways - all of which (or at least very near) he fortunately enjoys.

He is happy, in his life here with them, and it shows.

But August is someone else, sometimes, when nobody is watching. Is it not so with all children of war? When he is alone in his rooms (a rare enough thing) he does not smile and he does not feel golden; he feels like a frail shadow staring out to sea. He feels like an ifrit in the wastes of the Mors, a caterwaul of starving flame. He wants to swallow the world - he wants to save it.

And sometimes he wonders what the others think of, when they find themselves alone.

Year 499, Fall.

Children know nothing of war. Although the horizons were darkening across Novus, although strife was rumbling like a storm in the belly of the desert, the boy’s days were a summer afternoon, slow full and golden.

His mother worked in the castle as a lady’s maid; his father was a privateer, the captain of the Prometheus. (Only recently was his ship’s designation changed from pirate - but while he had always sought to rob the undeserving and help the needy, now he could interrupt Solterran trade routes with the Denoctian kingship’s blessing).

So August grew into boyhood, fed on love and stories - so many stories! His favorite were his father’s tales of swashbuckling adventure on the high seas, of foreign beaches and foreign cities. But he loved his mother’s, too, the secret tales of romances at court, the way a too-long look or a sealed note could change the course of a country. From a young age, his father and his crewmates (the few times they were ashore) taught him swordsmanship and, when his mother wasn’t looking gambling, and his mother taught him courtly graces and how to speak to nobility. Under their love and teaching he grew up like a sapling tree, quick and strong and sure.

Year 500, Fall.

The news came on a bright autumn day two weeks before Zolin was killed.

He had heard his mother’s voice in their garden, but the words of the men she was talking to were too low to make out. Still, his heart knew what they were saying - knew it even before he heard the soft cry of his mother like a broken bird. Nothing could stop him then from going to her, from staring at the men with defiance in his eyes as if to contest whatever it was they said; but there was nothing but solemn grief in their own, and it stole the anger from him. A storm, they said. A rocky coast, a ruptured hull - and the Prometheus was given over to the sea. They said there were no survivors.

Year 501, Summer.

He had thought the worst was over.

Zolin was dead, and so too his father; now life might return to a broken kind of normal. His mother had at last gone back to work in the castle, and the madness in Solterra was settling (so they said) like the last embers of a house-fire drifting down to earth.

So nobody was expecting the raid.

August should never have been with them. But though he was nearly two, now (nearly grown in his own eyes) his mother did not like to leave him alone, not when the world had teeth and an appetite for golden boys. One of the Denoctian nobles fancied the blackberries that grew amid the foothills of the Arma Mountains, and of course they turned it into an occasion, with a score of others going too. There would be a picnic, and drinking, and games in the long summer evening, for now the war was well and truly over -

Instead there was screaming, and blood, and death.

The Solterran soldiers had surrounded them on the road. August thought they had looked terribly haggard, their eyes gleaming less with ferocity than hunger and madness. But their raggedness had no affect on the sharpness of their swords, and they screamed to one another in their foreign tongue as they put the Denoctians to death. August had seized a sword, had lunged out into the meadow to fight; at first a soldier laughed at him, but his laughter died as soon as the boy slashed a gaping line across his shoulder. August might have died then, if not for his mother.

She screamed out his name and he whirled, quick as a bird in the summer sunlight. Oh, but not quick enough; two of them had her, caught fast between them with their eyes savage and empty as the desert. Drop your sword, they ordered, and he did - and watched as they killed his mother. He must have screamed, then, but all he could remember was the roaring in his ears and the way he seized his sword again, thrashing like a tiger, until one of the soldiers struck a blow on his temple and the world turned to merciful black.


He came to with the sun beating on him through a cage of bars, with his head a ringing drum and his body wrung out with thirst. He was in a wagon at the border of the desert and his mother was dead and his father was dead and he couldn’t understand anything being said in that sharp Solterran tongue. He was not watching to see a cloaked man approach; he only looked up when the wagon stopped, when the voices of the soldiers took a higher, panicked pitch, when the cloaked stranger drew a blade and set to killing.

August watched each death with savage, sick delight.

It was over much more quickly than the Denoctians’ slaughter; the man was proficient. August kept to his feet as he watched the man approach, watching through the bars like a little lion cub, his skin prickling with anxiety. He was not ready to die, no matter that he could see no reason to live now, with the memory of his mother dying so fresh in his mind.

The man came to a halt just on the other side and they measured one another, a silver gaze unsteady as mercury and a gaze as red as the dark heart of a fire. “Hello, boy,” he said at last, and August wanted to weep with relief at hearing a familiar tongue. “My name is Senna. Let’s get you out of there.”

At the time he had no choice but to do what his savior said, traveling with him through the desert and back into Denocte. his heart panged with grief and gratitude to see the city again, and all the things he knew and thought lost. Yet he was still numb; what was there to return to, with his life shredded to pain and memories? So it was easy to do whatever Senna bade him, and every night in his dark room at the place the man had taken him - a place called the White Scarab, where Senna was only to be referred to as the Proprietor - he told himself I am home, I am home, I am home.

Year 501, Winter.

While much of his early months at the White Scarab blurred into a time of growth and uncertainty, there was one day he would remember forever.

August had been in the kitchen of the White Scarab, sweeping the stones. The boy had not been there so long (so Senna had said) that he could be freed from such chores. But today he heard the back door ease open and paused. He looked up before Senna even finished saying his name; by now one year was always listening for it.

The Proprietor was not alone. And more than that, the expression he wore was one that August had never seen on his face: something caught between joy and grief.

He recalls looking from the man to the girl, searching their faces for features that matched. He was surprised not by their presence but by their lack; despite their familiarity, they did not resemble one another. Her eyes were a piercing green; his father’s crew might have called them god-touched. And her horn, delicate as spun gold. Their most notable similarity was the bruised exhaustion below their eyes.

But August knew what love looked like.

“Look at me, boy,” Senna ordered in his voice deep like smoke. “She is a princess. And you will protect her.”

And August had nodded, already obedient to this man who had saved his life, even when he thought not my princess. But already his heart was softening with pity to look at her, so delicate and wary.

For every day after he had done as Senna asked, protecting Aghavni with his body and his mind and even his guarded heart. As he would every day to come - until she didn’t need him anymore.

Now.

He thinks that day must be coming soon.

She doesn’t much require his protection - she is proficient with any blade, witty and sure of herself, and rules the Scarab with a firm hand. August is left to drift - not that it appears that way to even those who know him. He gambles, he flirts, he wins secrets his secrets and gives over gladly what he owes. But he wonders when his no-longer-a-child charge will claim her throne, and what might become of him when she does.

August loves the Scarab and the motley family it has given him, loves the city almost lost to him. But he has never forgotten his father’s stories of the sea, and often finds himself staring out at that heartbreak blue horizon between the water and the sky.

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Player Name: griffin (Profile)
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Other Accounts: griffin, Abel, Acton, Amaroq, Asterion, Egan, Elif, Lysander,
I'm griffin! I have too many characters but can never talk myself out of more.


  


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