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 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


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Posted by: only - Today, 12:53 AM - Forum: Pending - No Replies

**I'm having serious troubles logging into my ooc account (Snell) and I've been clearing my cookies and cache properly, so please forgive me for posting with my Only thread.  I do, however, have my OOC account linked to Only's profile.  P.S.  Are the Incentives separate from the New Member Restricted Item incentive?  

Character Application

Player: Snell
Characters: This is my first one
Are all characters active? NA
When was your last character approved? NA
Have you filled out the "OOC Account ID" Field? Yes

Name: Only
Age: 7
Birth season: Fall
Court: Night
Rank: Whatever an Entertainer would be.  

Health: 13
Attack: 7

Items: Incentive(s) for Night Entertainer  1. Weapon (A knife! Cold Steel Tanto knife) 2. Enchantment;  We were hoping he could carry this knife in disguise as a Horn on his head when not in use.
Proof: PLEASE LINK TO YOUR REDEMPTION POST(S)!!  ???  Joining page?
Incentives: An enchanted knife that can disguise itself as a horn on his head.
Other: Let me know if I messed up, cause it's my specialty! I've never gotten incentives from joining before.  D:


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  a winding weaving fate
Posted by: Jahin - Yesterday, 06:06 PM - Forum: Mors Desert - No Replies

It's midday. There is a trepid breeze tugging at his flame-like hair but otherwise the vast expanse of the desert seems relatively calm, albeit warm. Too warm. Mirages dance on the horizon and heat waves shimmer like rainbows on the glittering sand. Despite the relative "normalcy" something makes Jahin feel deeply ill at ease. Nostrils flared, he searches for something that might justify the unnerving itch he feels on his spine. He sees nothing out of the ordinary.

The breeze is stronger and more insistent than before and transforms into a stunning gust that nearly knocks him off his hooves. His years living in this endless abyss of sand and sun warns him not to ignore his gut feeling and so he continues cautiously but with a sense of desperate urgency. I need to find shelter

He does not fancy being caught in a sandstorm. Jahin has seen entire dunes moved in one day. He has seen dunes rise where there was none before. He has seen all the cards of the desert at some point in his life and he is not a gambling man. Whether there may be such a storm brewing in this eery strangeness or not, he doesn't intend to stay and find out. His trot picks up into a mile eating lope. He has focused on personal training during the past weeks since returning to his people and he is suddenly immensely grateful that he didn't delay working on his physical fitness any longer. He is going to need all of his speed and stamina to outrun whatever may be pursuing him.

The breeze is no longer a breeze, but wind. Savage and hungry, the invisible force ravages the land and the sand stings his eyes, his skin, and fills his lungs in the place of air. His hooves pound the earth but it is like running through honey--the sand slips and slides out from underneath him and he feels his energy reserves burning low. There is no shelter in sight. Only dust and sand rising from the earth; the desert has taken his sight. Only his internal compass guides him now. I have been gone too long, he thinks. The desert has outsmarted me.

He stretches out, cloven hooves clawing, reaching, grasping--he is a red flame flickering in the vastness that is the Mors desert. Something black and boiling follows in his wake. 

He doesn't see the little auburn unicorn until it is too late. He utters a half-cry of alarm and tries to stop but the sand carries him forth like a wave from the sea and he collides into her. He's not sure how but they both manage to stay on their hooves but there's no time for an apology. "We've got to go. Now." 

Before he can take another step to flee the pursuing sandstorm, a creature rises from the depths (surely from hell) right before them and emits a terrible, keening screech that drowns out even the howling wind. Something in his stomach drops like a stone into water. He realizes he was wrong before; this is a card that the desert has never dealt him before--a sandwyrm.


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  from the mouth of the dead
Posted by: Seraphina - 03-20-2019, 10:58 PM - Forum: Elatus Canyon - Replies (1)

☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼

you are the blood in my song
see me spill over when it's sung

This day shouldn’t be so pleasant.

It is hot, but not suffocating, a relative rarity in Solterra; the warmth is pleasant, like stepping into a steaming bath, and it is disturbed only by a faint breeze that is soothing rather than offensive. The market bustles restlessly, and citizens wander about their business in the alleyways. Chatter hangs heavy in the air, and the rhythm of city life – hooves on cobbled stone, the clink of metal and rustle of fabric, the whisk of the wind through the streets. It is almost a pleasant, beautiful day, and, if you squint and keep your eyes turned away from the shadows, you might be able to lie to yourself and believe that it is.

But - but! - if your eyes stray just an inch from this illusion, this lovely façade, you will see tension wound tight as a notched bow, curled up in the brow of most every citizen you might pass on the street. You will see darting eyes, and, within them, the disturbing twitch that comes with fear, fear, fear - fear everywhere, because you don’t know who you can trust, and will your neighbors turn you in? And there are guards on the streets, flying banners that still seem like they are the wrong color. In time, perhaps the old ones will be forgotten, but, for now – the absence of the old is like fresh blood, and it spills out into every nook and cranny in the sandstone city, every little crack in the walls-

The letter slithers its way through the passerby like a serpent, its bobbing and weaving simple enough to be mistaken for the flow of the wind, on first glance; however, if one stares at it for any particular amount of time, it becomes somewhat apparent that someone is tugging it along. But who? In such a crowded square, with so many telepaths about, it is rather impossible to discern the sender.

It hovers, for a moment, in front of Bexley Briar, giving her just enough time to snatch it out of thin air. It is folded neatly, but the paper is crumpled, and, an examination of the letters makes it evident that the message has been whited out and erased several times before settling on the final draft, though the handwriting is neat and deliberate and perhaps very familiar to Bexley. It is simple, but the blank spaces – and the remnants of past scrawling on the paper – speak volumes of words left unstated.


I need to speak with you. The city isn’t safe – meet me at the entrance to the canyons.



If Bexley goes, she will find her there – waiting like revenant and reaper, the thick gold of her scarf billowing like a trail of smoke in the wind, and perhaps the ghost will turn her head to watch her approach with gemstone-bright eyes so full of something dark and devastating and the words I’m sorry that they seem on the verge of overflowing.


tags | @Bexley
notes | letter thread for you <3 <3 <3


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  what discontents the queenly ghost?
Posted by: anatoly - 03-19-2019, 11:16 PM - Forum: Elatus Canyon - No Replies

Anatoly knows the sweet heat of the Solterran sun, grew with it draping across his back like fine silk soaked and sticking. Anatoly knows the heat of the Solterran breeze, scorching his lungs for taking it, breathing into him the fire of his people and the life of the desert. Dust to dust as it were, or sand to sand, Anatoly will die in this land as he was born for it, and it will be a privilege for the Mors to swallow him whole.

And for all that, he has spent far too long outside it’s borders, has grown lazy on plots and poison and predictions. He may have been born for this land, but he was not born in it; may have grown amongst his people, but he did not age into the finest of his parts within Solterra’s bindings. Stepping back into this place, feeling the drape of the sun and the burn of the breeze, is not a balm as once he might have imagined.

No, stepping outwards was a balm; teasing and tricking and taking, all that was a balm. Out there the ground does not shift beneath his feet, does not sweep airborne like a startled bird, stays steadfast. Out there the air sits like moon dew in his chest, sweet and tranquil. Out there is languid, easy, never wondering, never tasting blood in your teeth, never bearing a carcass’s weight.

The fresh wash of heat is like being born anew, blood boiling in his veins and air scraping at his throat until he feels he might cry with it. Aged like fine wine he might be, but here he at last distills; all the impurities, the softness he’d allowed to gather close to his breast, slowly evaporating into the clear afternoon sky. He feels weak from it, new in his skin, like the babe he was Before, but this, this cleansing by fire, reignites the ember in his chest and he is renewed.

No more. Years has he waited, learning patience at Mama’s knee and falling prey to inaction even after she had gone. No more. Anatoly is what his mother made of him, a snake in the sand, and too long has he been mollified by easy prey. No more. Anatoly is Davke, is a dragon, is of the desert he had been torn from by boy kings and blood and pretty words. No more.

Dripping with the finery that hides his nature so much more cleverly than a cloak, all of Solterra is open to him. There are none alive to recognize him now, certainly not looking so soft, so frivolous in his warm gold and gleaming jewels, scars neatly hidden away as many a Davke are too proud to do. All of Solterra, and only one destination.

Not to the Mors does he go, though he longs for desert sands and the remainder of his people, but the Canyon. Here, the whispers say, has there been strange movement. Thrill seekers, they say, getting lost amongst the twists and turns. Ghosts, they murmur, a Queen dead and haunting the only remnants of her Kingdom she can reach from her final resting place on the Peak. Refugees, they scoff, hiding from the King. The rebellion, he thinks, gathering what strength they may at the very edge of the Kingdom.

The Canyon is a twisting thing, full of stops and starts and dangerous drops. It was not a place often frequented by himself when he haunted the Mors, too busy tempting travellers into the dunes and spilling blood into the sands as he was. But his time with the Davke well equipped him for finding cleverly hidden patrol routes, taught him how to get around them to dive into the heart of a camp, but he has no interest in getting around them now.

Let them find him. He will walk, bold and brazen into their refuge if he must, but he will be sorely disappointed should he make it there. A poor showing that would be, a travesty foretelling failure. No, he will follow the carefully concealed routes, and head for their camp, but he will not hide in doing so. Let them find him.

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Posted by: kaons - 03-19-2019, 09:45 PM - Forum: Chill Zone - Replies (1)


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Posted by: kaons - 03-19-2019, 09:44 PM - Forum: Chill Zone - No Replies


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  stranger in a strange land
Posted by: Morrighan - 03-19-2019, 06:59 PM - Forum: Arma Mountains - Replies (1)

The sun was setting and, while most might be settling in for the night, Morrighan was just rising.

She didn't used to be a night owl, but ever since arriving in this land, sleep didn't seem to agree with her. To make matters worse, with her returning mortality, the lack of sleep made her body feel weak. It was all a mess and the annoyance would be clear on her face. Although, it was not all too different from her usual expression. Hating the world and everyone within it was something Morrighan did best.

The mare was wandering again, this time towards the mountains. The need to explore tugged at her, but at the same time she felt a need to step away from it. This land was still new even if she had been living in it for a few months. There was no telling what exactly was out there and there was already talk of some monster attacking another court. Until she had her weapon again, it wouldn't be very wise for her to stray too far.

So for now, she would stay closer to the Night Court's borders until she had a better idea of what to expect out there. At least with the mountains, there was still a decent gap between the Night Court and the others. Plus, she couldn't deny that the view was breathtaking.

Standing before her was a temple unlike one she had ever seen. Of course, any buildings in this land were new to her. She was not used to such structures looming above her as her old land was much more primitive. For some reason, it made her feel more vulnerable rather than safer, but it certainly sparked her curiosity.

Morrighan continued forward, keeping an eye on her surroundings just in case. Once she was within the temple, she couldn't help but look around in awe. There are designs etched into the stone walls, ones she was not completely familiar with. There is ivy curling around the pillars with purple flowers peeking through. At this point, the sun was just about set and the lack of light seemed to make the temple even more spectacular.

Where did such a thing come from?

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  you play the part of savior;
Posted by: Lysander - 03-19-2019, 03:04 PM - Forum: The Night Markets - No Replies



He knows Isra is not in the city. 

Lysander knows it and yet he walks its crooked pathways, scented as they are with bonfire smoke and the dry-dust smell of dead leaves. Everywhere he casts his gaze there is a sign of her, a stretch of gold where there should be only dirt, a trail of flowers more delicate than any living thing. Her city carries its queen’s touch like a brand or a beacon and the stallion hunts each lingering sign like a bloodhound. 

Of course it does not lead him to a storyteller-queen, nor to a Ghost with a starving knife. Yet when he falls in step behind a mare who leaks light like blood, whose skin is the red of firelight off burnished copper, his body goes tense as a wolf's.

Another beast of Ravos, loose on Denocte’s streets. 

But Eshek is no Calliope. Lysander has not forgotten what stories he has heard of the goddess of fire, of chaos and light and ash. He had not shared her appetites there and to see her here (but more than that, to see her now, when the world is crumbling anew) makes something black turn over inside him, makes his skin shiver as beneath the feet of a fly. 

It does not keep him from calling after her, from raising his head like a buck in its prime, from leaning into the wind that tousles the dark curls of his hair and tries to remind him, with its near-winter bite, what it felt like to hold all of life in the palm of his hand.

“I didn’t think I’d see you in a mortal world again.” The words are pleasant enough, dark green off his tongue and heavy with rich soil, but the smile he wears glints like a half-buried spade. Once Lysander would have wondered if she remembered him; now he does not much care. His vanity has been buried away, though it was slower to fade than his ichor and immortality.

Still he walks like the god he once was when he draws near to her, all the grace of reeds bowing before a breeze, all the strength of choking vines winding around an old dead tree. And his eyes, when he looks at her, remember the secrets of a hundred centuries. Down and down in the roots of his heart does he bury the trembling question are you still a god? 

“Why have you come here, Eshek?”


you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night


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  in the end there will be dust;
Posted by: Elif - 03-19-2019, 12:20 PM - Forum: The Day Court - No Replies

little pilgrim
the Indian's axed your scalp.

They take her whip at the entrance, as if a girl with a strip of leather is anything like a threat to a Ghost. 

Elif has only worn it for a few days but already she feels bare without it, as though it were her alaja they had taken. How slight the weight had been at her hip, and how comforting. Even the wind is left behind at the door, the last breath of a breeze cool against her cheek before the throne room doors are pulled closed behind her. 

She does not look back. Instead, cat-wary and hawk-proud, she watches the silver king through eyes that spark green and bright, copper thrown on a fire. In this moment she looks less like a girl and more like a dragon, lean-shouldered and narrow-faced, her wings tucked tight against ribs stacked like barrel-slats. Elif is hungry, but she has been hungry before; she is thirsty, but that is nothing new to a Solterran daughter of sand and searing sun. 

More than anything she is angry, and while that is nothing new, either, it feels new to her. It feels like a rage that could eat up the city. 

But there is nowhere for it to go now, with guards on either side of her and a monstrous king before her. It only lives in her eyes instead, and the snap of her tail, and the wide flare of her nostrils as she stares. 

And oh, what there is to see! There is no part of him that could belong to the desert; his is a silver that could only belong to the moon, to cold starlight on a metal blade, to bones picked clean at the bottom of the sea. And his eyes, blue and cold enough to make her shiver where she stands, to make her hot blood steam and hiss in her veins. Elif does not see his monster but she fears it nonetheless, and her fear makes her hate a little stronger. 

She forgets what she had come to say, as she paces as near as the guards will let her. She forgets petitions to let citizens flee if they choose, or pleas to stop putting a chokehold on food and water and the very hours of the day. 

Instead she curls her lip, and arches her neck, and thinks of the way it feels to have the sun on her back, her wings spread wide, high enough and fast enough that nothing could hope to touch her. And when she speaks, it carries some small portion of the heat of that feeling. 

“If you’re only trying to kill us, then you should do it more quickly.” 

@Raum  ... yeah take that! xD

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  climbing every rib inside us;
Posted by: Asterion - 03-18-2019, 12:56 PM - Forum: The Dusk Court - No Replies


Asterion came to the training yards to remind Theodosia that she needed rest. 

He did not miss the way she pushed herself, the way she never answered no to a question despite the shadows like bruises beneath her eyes. The king has learned how sickness can be a black dog that always trails you, keeping to the shadows until it is hungry enough to hunt. He knows, too, how often it is she spars, the pale of her unmissable against the stark colors of autumn. 

He is not wrong. Clear across the courtyard is the shape of her, though he can’t tell if it is sweat or lightning she gleams with, here at the end of autumn. The bay is inconspicuous, languid as he leans his shoulder against a fencepost and observes. The day is bright but the air is growing brittle and cool, and for a moment he wonders what it feels like to her, to have her wings spread with the sun on her feathers. 

Absent-mindedly he runs the edge of his magic like fingers against the spears and swords and arrows in their wooden racks beside him, testing each tip and each smooth shaft, watching the Halycon train. 

He thinks of Isra, missing. He thinks of Seraphina, dead. He thinks of Vespera and the destruction she had led into the gates of the city, all those lives lost for a test they could not pass. He decides then that he cannot tell Theodosia to stop, cannot order her to be careful. What care is there for any of them? 

When Asterion steps into the training ring he is empty-handed, but there is a whirlpool beneath his skin and it wants something to drown. 

“Do you need a partner, Champion?” he says, and the smile slanting across his mouth then does not belong to a dreamer. 


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