Posted by: Erasmus - 06-21-2020, 10:50 AM - Forum: Archives
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Bernard had done as he was asked.
The Elysium stood idle, a vacant tavern whose insides writhed with dust and pallid moonlight, squandering its wash over glistening bottles and the smooth wood arches of the ceiling. The fireplace, quite cleanly, sat undisturbed in the corner, talentless in the shadows that filled the alcove. The bar was swept and polished beneath a veneer of the sifting white particles that drifted in the pouring light. Sleeves of tobacco sat contained in bright boxes leering from a corner, smothered out of where day could possibly reach. All had been in order, even the sign that marked the place closed for renovations. Had Bernard obeyed all the requests made for him, even the entrance to the catacombs had been boarded and patched into nonexistence, and a sizable quantity of wealth removed from its bowels.
As the Night Markets bustled to life and lanterns cast their glow upon the streets, the Elysium remained dark and quiet as it had for months. For a year.
Its reflections, dark and hollowed with facades of the neighboring venues, shifted with each drift of wafting moonlight that filtered through the western windows. A galaxy revealed in its depths, as particles of dust, paled lunar specks, flecked the inner pane and pricked like countless stars in a canvas of night. It is subtle brilliance, each clever star captured in a net of shadow, in which all things beyond swam aimless and fleeting. At its heart rested a black hole, burnished with hunger and dying suns, filtered with wrath and mortal contempt – silhouetted in the broad, silvery pane, inward peered the thing with burning bright moons for eyes.
Erasmus – or what very much resembled – stood quietly on the walk, motionless and musing. It was a hard road here for the thing that stared on into the depths of the only thing it knew of this place; for there was more encountered than dark stars and fading suns, for shallow ocean crypts of glassy blooms and rocks, monumental titans of graphite, which sang off pitch of the end of the end of ends. There was not the whim of planetary storms and the ageless cadence to ruin, or the marvel of celestial things who, to the unsuspecting eye, devoured one another like crashing heavenly bodies. There was only pain and labor here, in a world much more carnal and uninviting; the air was hostile, oxidizing, loathing of each inhabitant. It had been a struggle to remember to step, to walk, to fly, and even worse had been the pursuit of more tangible things. Hunger.
It burned in him now like festering warmth that raked itself up and down the bounds of his belly and struck the rind of his ribs. This thing, this thing, that was too much like sparking comets and rivulets of molten sunlight and not enough like Erasmus, like a boy who did not know how to be a boy, knew the worst of it all was such a pang. In fact, a spattering of ichor had matted the softness of his hair which he could see now, filtering sanguine in the bask of lunar glow, and he – almost hesitantly, or begrudgingly, or even unsuredly, like a foal learning its own feet – took tentative care to untangle the tendrils of gold and black stained with carmine, seemingly casual to brush out the metallic ore were it another film of soot.
To those who had known Erasmus well enough, this thing, or the shadow of it, appeared much disheveled in comparison. His mane of thick dark hair caught its waves out of line, some fore threads wrapped haphazardly over a horn, the rest dull with road dust and sea salt. His coat was diminished of its sheen by a glaze of dust and the brilliance of his gold veins dampened even in the beaming glow. But it could see this now, beheld to the memory of what an Erasmus should resemble were he suspended in the reflection of an Elysium window – feral but composed, smooth curves and sharpened angles that gave much to the unique handsomeness that consumed him. It corrected itself accordingly; straightening the spine and roughing the edges, untangling the few fibers from his spiraled horn.
That had done it, almost.
It sought deeper, like taloned fingers clawing through a library of thoughts, feelings, and memories, singling each portion of what was with fervency. There were smaller details that needed attended to. The way he did not often let his tail droop at such an angle, or how his mane, though never cut, fell in a line against the right side of his nape, or the subconscious manner in which he tended to show the left side of his face more than the right when speaking to others. There was much to be done yet – and the line of its lips settled into an empty response, not entirely knowing the expression of disappointment.
he maid with the lake-blue eyes lifts my sleeping robe from my shoulders and I try not to think about the magnitude of what I am attempting as she moves around me, dressing me, washing me, executing perfectly the dance she has done for a hundred mornings.
“Do you wish to eat, prince?”
“I think... it wise,” I say, my smile thin, yet it is enough to please her. A boy from the kitchens steps through the door bearing a plate of figs sliced with surgical precision; with effort I bring one to my lips, chew, swallow, do not taste, do not savour. I think I used to like figs. I think that is why she fetched them for me. She had been one of Miriam’s in the time before my illness. She had known me before.
That is important.
Mechanically, I eat. In this way, the plate lightens. In this way, I will not risk hunger when I step into the mouth of the catacombs. I have gained enough awareness of my condition, by now, to know how to map my weaknesses like an astrologist charts constellations.
Outside the caravan is waiting, its roof of buttery silk snapping in the updrafts of dawn. The footman dozes lightly by the door. As I cross the tiles he snaps to attention, guilt clouding his face before he realises that it is only me, fallen Adonai, that I have called his caravan as a palanquin to take me from the courtyard flanking my room to our sprawling, labyrinthine gardens, like I have done so for a hundred mornings.
“Greetings, prince! D'you know, the camellias bloomed. Passed them as I came.” Silent, almost reproachful (when had I cared about camellias? when had flowers become currency for conversation?) I look towards the girl, the maid, my hesitation belying my uncertainty. I had not been sure last night and I know now that I will never be sure; nursed awake, nursed asleep, surety slips from the mind neat on the heels of agency.
My lake-eyed maid bends towards the flower footman’s ear and his watery eyes blink slowly, once, twice, into a bewildered nod. Today is not one of my hundred mornings. I catch the trailing end of her murmur: “... catacombs.” And I am quelled.
As I step up into the caravan I am stopped by a quiet “Adonai.” I turn. Her cheeks pale instead of pink; she is bold, but not out of line. We are familiar enough with each other now, in our hundred mornings, that she reaches out to smooth back a lock of my hair and pushes a dark cloak into my chest. At the centre slept a dagger snagged hot off the racks of the armoury. I would know this later. It is a testament to the degree of my decay that I had not thought of it myself.
Her eyes flick up to mine. “All will be as you wish, prince.”
All will be as you wish. I laugh to drown out my desperation. “And if my brother asks, tell him—” Reasons ranging from the pedestrian to the withering dance in circles across my tongue. I am in no mood for either. Dawn spills red across my cheeks and my smile yearns to be full. “—That he ought not to miss me too much.”
She smiles, shy, like I am sharing with her a secret, and I know she will tell Pilate nothing.
—
I have a naturally pious stare, and I have always known how to use it.
Only come looking if I haven't emerged by sunset, I had said to the footman, meeting his incredulous smile evenly until he took from my eyes what he wanted. It was a madman's jaunt and he knew it, and he knew I knew it too. Yet from my steady gaze he had seen—or thought he had seen—a faith bordering on the naive, on the zealous: I would find what I wanted, and I would emerge by sunset. All he had to do was wait.
Cheerily he tipped his cap in acknowledgement. I'll be right here, right here waiting. You come on back now. Camellias were waiting for me. At least he could not be faulted. All he had done was believe.
When I look back he has driven the caravan under a jutting rocky appendage that, miraculously, casts a strong, cooling shadow. The sun is enthroned in high noon. Pure rays of sun, cosmic beams, shine down and strike upon the gaping, sand-melted-into-glass crust of the hole that descends into catacomb. Light fractures in a thousand directions. It is breathlessly bright, at the entrance to hell. The cloak that laces like a noose around my neck slips and slides with my sweat. Breathlessly bright, and breathlessly hot.
All will be as you wish.
My footing betrays me as I edge towards the mouth; quickly—as quickly as I am able—I throw my weight to another hoof. I am already shaking. Limited mobility, limited ability, a madman's jaunt, I tell myself, and my smile stumbles towards fullness.
I do not remember how I make it to the bottom, only that I do, and that as my pupils gape and gape in the blackness, as I fumble to light my torch, that there is a shape at the end of the dark. Pale and gaunt. Like me.
Perhaps it is me. Perhaps I have already found what I came here to find. All I know is, as I step warily towards the shape, my unlit torch clattering to the ground: I don't remember a time I have ever felt more alive.
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down -
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
A tiny shaft of light pierced the darkness, a razor thin streak slicing through the endless inky black. It had been both life line and constant tormentor, the only reminder that there was life beyond the iron bars of her cell. Where once silence had been her companion, a blessed escape from the chaos of her Kingdom, it was now as painful as the tools that bit into her flesh. Death filled the air, the acrid scent of blood and stifling odour of waste and decay were suffocating. This was a place that time had not touched, where a minute felt like a lifetime and the days were measured only by that thin line of light. Yet the endless hours of hunger and thirst, of silence interrupted only the scream and moans of other prisoners had been but a sweet caress compared to the pain that awaited her beyond the enchanted iron bars.
In the darkness the iron had not moved, the silence was not broken and yet there, now, stood the Tyrant King and his Executioner, their faces masked in shadow but leering at her nonetheless. She knew what would come next, she could already feel her heart beat quicken, her breath escape her lips in panicked gasps. They loomed closer from the black, their hooves silent upon the stained cobblestones, like phantoms of pain designed for her. She can see the knife, feel the cold kiss of the metal table beneath her, the bite of shackles at her ankles. She knows where it goes, watches it with wide eyes. And then it’s not the Tyrant King plunging that knife up, up, up. It’s not his executioner either. No it’s Skender, his throat open and gushing red just like the day he died. “Please,” she whispers, her voice broken and empty and so, so unlike her. She would accept death as his hands, accept anything at his hands. But his face is twisted into that same sneer that marred Adrian’s the night he took away her Mate. Icy cold claws at her skin before the pain blooms, red spilling out across the shadowed stones as she screams in silence.
Castalla awakens suddenly, a scream on her lips and the taste of blood in her mouth. The shadows press in tight, shielding her surroundings despite her enhanced sight. For a moment the nightmare seems real and she trashes amidst the shackling sheets, pure terror scrawled across her face. Chest heaving, heart pounding an unsteady rhythm she staggered from the bed to the window, throwing open the curtains and bathing in the pale like of the crescent moon. She breathed deeply as the pain and panic slowly subsided. ”He is dead, you got out. He is dead, you got out.” She repeated it under her breath several times before the silence of her room became too much to bear. At least on the outskirts of the city there was no one to hear her scream, no one to wonder why she spent so many sleepless nights running or training her in her little garden. But the loneliness could be suffocating sometimes.
The tavern was a bad idea, drinking was a bad idea. Yet Castalla found herself there nonetheless. But she needed the noise and the crowds. Anything was better than the silence and darkness of her townhouse which, on nights like these, reminded her too much of a dungeon cell. The crowds partied on, unaware of the demons within the Wolf’s heart as she sat at the bar with an empty gaze, considering whether or not to buy that drink.
DARK
Rated mature for mentions of blood, torture and possibly alcohol. Open to any!
aziel had visited the colosseum twice as a boy. And at first, he thinks of those gladiatorial memoirs as sharp.
It is not a haze but a map. Every cheer, every song, every surge of blood-drunk victory is etched into parchment only he can see. The wine ran red and smooth. His mother had worn her finest jewels, her finest lupine smile. The sun shone viciously under the weight of Solis' eye, as he watched his children die against his name. What a wonderful day! It's all there.
Or is it?
Wasn't that a different world? When the air felt heavy with an aurelian righteousness, when blood and gold were indistinguishable. When Solterra stood tall on the broken shoulders of a generation of slaves. If he thinks hard enough, if he looks in the right corners of his mind, he can see them now, where before they were merely essences in the fabric of a broader memory. Their faces evade him still, their eyes might have been any shade of blue, black, green, but their shadows remain -- as do the remnants of all blistering things. A body scorched by fire will leave a charcoal stain; oh he has seen it, smelt it. There were too many to count. Rats in cages, swarming in the flesh-eating noon-heat, flinching when the gates swung open and death knocked a little too keenly.
Why, then, were they a revision? How could he have failed so gravely to carve them into his memory in the same detail he had given nigh-on everything else?
Foolish questions. Naive and sour. Of course he knew.
Back then, their merit met not even the dirt on his hound's feet. They were an abstraction, a nothingness in the frame of his grand measureless existence. They were not living breathing souls but pieces of recycled plastic to be toyed with and discarded; they were not even worth the armour on their overdrawn bones, if they were so lucky to be awarded such.
How many lifetimes hide under his skin?
He stands now in the shade of Solterra's greatest arena, listening to the crowds as they begin to gather once more, smiling grimly to himself at the ludicrousness of it all. Time is a flat circle and this desert kingdom is more cyclical than most. The warriors might be different -- they might have their own names, their own freedoms, but the sentiment was still the same. They would die like small black beetles on the floor of that theatre and in years to come nobody would remember their faces, either.
Raziel does not wonder if his opinion of slavery, of the lowrun life that hums in the capitol's gutter, has changed.
An optimist, ever hopeful in their quest for such rare faith, would say yes. How could it not?
Had he been given the option, he would have remained unmoored, adrift, for the remainder of eternity. A black star amid the lightly kissed sheet of night, untethered from his perpetuity upon solid ground; a soul set free by the rending jaws of an Outland woman. Even among the moons, even bedded between galaxies, he could feel how her fangs scissored his throat, sheathing the pliant ebony of his neck in red, red, red.
A death knell, their cries. Her, one of betrayal and wrath as his horn drove home—his, a snarling cackle of inevitable defeat as he dragged his body from her corpse, crawling towards a patch of moonlight upon the ruined, ashen plain of Edana. There was nothing merciful beneath the hoary gaze of his midnight queen: seated upon her throne, coiffed to her crescent perfection as she passed her judgment upon his heaving breath.
One after another, each was too many—and he choked upon her lawlessness, his scarred lips twisted with morose satisfaction at the lull of their final intimacy; his last, precious moment beneath the stars.
He had died before the passing of dawn, his head limp among the soot and the cinder as the sun crested its horizon. And she had taken him to her breast, her embrace as amorous as a lover, and cradled him covetously close.
☾
But even death, it would seem, could not be permanent for the Shadeling.
How long ago his eyes had drawn open, his chest heaving breath, he could not say for certain. He lay upon his side, amid the grasses that fringed the still Denoctian waters. It was only fitting that he had returned to the living come nightfall, just another shadow upon the land; a spread of silken ebony, pooled and tattered upon Vitreus’ lake. As weak as he was revitalized; a incensed as he was placid. His veins coiled through his body with tepid, virile dissatisfaction—a man plundered and driven from his lover’s bed too soon; as though living was no longer enough.
And beyond the Shadeling’s discontent lay a deeper, darker misery. An inescapable loneliness that pierced his chest with knives, with fangs, with claws—he had bled many a time for his moon, for his midnight, and yet—
She had left him with nothing. He could feel the age within his bones, the vacancy within his marrow, where power ought to have lain. The shadows did not heed his muttered song, and all he could speak of his dismay was a throaty, battered laugh.
Enamored as ever with her games, the moon-white of his eyes tilted heavenward, slotting their gaze together with vindication—with reverence.
He was a wanton pawn of the nighttime fate, and he gathered himself slowly to all fours, the world teetering, as he heeded the gentle whistle of wind that caused the lake’s waters to ripple. Like the tide, like the mirror sheen of great waters, he heeded the allure of the moon with only mild bitterness upon his tongue.
Mingled with coppery blood, from where his teeth had ground together before his waking hours.
Hraefn pulled upon the tenebrous whims of the world once more, demanding the shadows heed his call.
They did not.
His smile was slow; sardonic. It was starved, voracious, as he looked towards the skies with a languid, drawling breath.
take this burden away from me and bury it before it buries me
It was a summer evening.
No.
It was an autumn afternoon.
She had been raised to be a sweet girl, polite, to forgive when she was slighted and to always find joy when all felt lost. She wonders sometimes if she will forever live the shadows of those greater than her. (No one in Novus can see those shadows, but Elena can, and they loom over her, watching to see if she becomes anything more than just the foolish girl they all think she is.) She is a legacy child, and that means she looks to the greats, as she is expected to be something herself. Her father had given himself, his life, for her, and Elena sometimes wonders if he could, if he were here, if he would ever regret that decision. She knows he would never say something like that, know that her father so wholly loved her, but maybe he just thought something more would come from the sacrifice.
Sleep has been alluding her, (she awakes and thinks: there was a boy, she awakes and thinks: there was no boy) so maybe this is why she goes back to the festivities. She could try to nap in the warm afternoon in autumn, but she would sit there and turn and toss and plead with whatever gods and spirits there are to just let her close her eyes one time and drift off for a moment. It is useless, her thoughts have been tangled like smoke around trees. Elena had not had this much trouble finding sleep since she had been a little girl and the nightmares of ice and snow had chased her down every evening.
She could go you know, to Denocte, and tell them everything, but she had not forgotten the promise she had made to him. Elena’s heart is not cruel. Selfish, confused, broken, but never cruel.
She can trace the branching lines of her past in the arches of the trees of the swamp. Even when she has gone so far away from it all (from the mountain valleys to the sea) Elena still finds pieces of her old life wherever she wanders. There is this rough cut beauty to her, there among the trees of vibrant color. She almost blends in with a coat of gold and she thinks maybe she can fall behind the backdrop.
That is until she spots the commander up ahead. Elena smiles, a familiar face, and one that was welcomed. Elena finds two baskets and is suddenly beside Marisol, a ready smile, and eyes that are always warm with summer skies. “Surprise seeing you here,” she says handing a basket to the woman. “Since you are, care to join me for some apple picking?” She asks brightly. Elena quietly hopes that she is able to manage the time. Something burns in her chest, and she wanted to share it with Marisol. “There is something I wanted to discuss with you, if you have the time,” she asks patiently, before look up ahead where rows and rows of apples wait.
It was an autumn afternoon.
so take away this apathy bury it before it buries me
Fight Type: BATTLE Prize: 50 signos from the festival for participating Contact Made: Yes
Character #1: @El Rey Bonded: N/A Magic: N/A Armor: N/A Weapons: N/A Current Health: 8 Current Attack: 12 Current Experience: 10
Character #2: @Noam Bonded: n/a Magic: n/a Armor: Yes, not entering with Weapons: Yes, not entering with Current Health: 8 Current Attack: 12 Current Experience: 10
a king walks among us
He has come to die.
It could happen at any moment - he walks the streets like any other citizen, unnoticed, never hunted. Though he is cloaked, he is not safe, for he remains iconic in many a Solterran heart. The towering, dark figure of Raum’s executioner is nearly as synonymous with the regime as Raum himself. El Rey was, after all, a tool in the hand of the devil.
He pulls his cloak tighter as he follows crowds through the canyon, and as he breaks away to follow his own path. He marvels as the guards let him through - were they so young? Recent immigrants, even? The black stallion passes down the single corridor, slipping between fighters like a shadow, though he is anything but. A puddle of orange light oozes into the cavern’s mouth. The colosseum is ahead.
Rey pauses, thinking that perhaps this is a mistake. He is not wondering if he ought to live, no, he is wondering if there are better ways to die, and if, perhaps, he should turn himself in. He remembers how Orestes had called out to him all those moons ago, without fear or hatred. Anyone else would execute him, and the people might demand it, but would their sovereign? His mind wanders finally to Juniper, and the possibility of escape, of life. He wonders if she has come all this way for blood, but knows she has not. He is certain she is at home, dancing and reveling with her sisters, not knowing where he is.
El Rey steps into the light. The murmur of unrest falls, slowly, to silence. There are whispers, he knows, but he cannot hear them. His cloak parts from him like a second shadow. Someone, somewhere, screams. There are shouts, cries of outrage, demands for his capture. He imagines the crowd surging forward, over the walls, and swallowing him, but it does not happen. In the light, he shines a little golden. A magic-blessed announcer stutters and calls, “E-El Rey, the…the Executioner!”
Boos erupt from the masses, and thought they leap from their seats, they do not come for him. No one does. He steps into the center, lit up by the evening glow, and stares down his opponent. Ah, he thinks, Father had little good to say about Pegasi.
He will make it a good death, though he be undeserving.
”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“
I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
Summary: El Rey travels to the arena and thinks about how everyone should be trying to kill him. He takes his cloak off. He thinks Noam is a silly bird man, and stands in the arena center, facing Noam.
The sun had all but disappeared by the time Raziel and Gahenna arrived home from the hunting trip they had embarked upon at noon.
Deep, red-blue shadows groaned in the corners of Saudager's entrance hall as they swept briskly on -- left, right and left again along endless corridors haunted by portraits of imposing faces and cold, disparaging eyes. It did not matter that he failed to meet their gaze; bitter experience had taught him he would feel their scorn regardless.
The polite clatter of fine china stung the hollows of his ears and even from the safety of his private quarters, far across the pseudo-palace, he could hear the voices of his family -- a moniker he used reluctantly. A furtive glance at the grandfather clock beside his fireplace told him that 10 o'clock was still too early. A grunt, a sigh, "I told you we should have stayed out later".
Gahenna, engrossed in her exacting custom of cleaning her great, crow-black paws after hunting, pretended not to listen. She found that these days it was often the only response he'd bear.
Raziel released the days bounty, along with the stained arrows he had carefully retrieved, from the satchel strapped abound his withers, watching the frail white-tailed bodies as they unfolded like bruised slippers to sprawl upon the coverlet he always used for their kills. Blood was a bastard to get out of mahogany wood and he wasn't about to prove the fact again.
Solterran rabbits were a measly prize for the toil of a sudoric afternoon shoot but in truth, his mind had been elsewhere. It was maddening: this recently-born habit of losing track of time and purpose. He could blame it on the weather or the family or Gahenna but he didn't like to lie, at least not to himself.
What was it about this year? Why was this year different to the other six he'd endured before? The time (the nineteenth day of the eight month) would pass in a flash of aged-whiskey and wanton guilt and memories of his brother's rough garnet eyes. He knew this. So why could he not quell the feeling that this year would be different?
Fifteen minutes passed before Raziel realised he had not moved; it was only Gahenna's low whine that jerked him from that strange sullied reverie. The room, wide and high as it was, dressed in priceless silks and treasured heirlooms, edged in a little closer toward the gold-mottled man as though it were hoping glutinously for a sliver of the contused decay beneath his skin.
He might have bared his teeth had his father not beaten such wickedness out of him. And withal the night had a mouth that gaped wider than his ever could; its single lupine tooth casting moonlight down like beckoning mercy against the vacuum of darkness.
And that, he supposed as he slid out the door he had kept secret for seven years, would have to do.
This list of NPCs is for the use of anyone looking to add a little more substance to their posts, or who are interested in getting to know some of the "background" or lore characters of our Court! If interest for more or different types of NPCs come up, this list might expand so feel free to check back, and we hope you enjoy!
— ☾ —
Court NPCs
Sullivan - Sullivan is the head steward of Denocte’s citadel. He manages all the castle’s employees, looks after the property, and supervises all on-locale events. Sullivan is stern, calm but friendly and takes his duties seriously. Having seen the come and go of more than one sovereign, Sullivan is often more concerned for the state of the Night Court’s affairs than he lets on, and is incredibly loyal to his kingdom, and more than willing to give advice to those who are seeking it. He is an older male 10 years of age, a blue roan with violet eyes and a voice like distant thunder.
Aubin - One of many young pages of the Night Court, Aubin is easily awed, eager to please others, and prove himself to those in charge. His main duties are to deliver messages locally within the court and to call upon anyone who the Regime seeks to speak with at the castle. He’s often seen squeezing through the crowds with a look of determination in his morning blue-green eyes, but is easily overlooked despite his vigor. Aubin is a cremello, roughly 1 year of age.
Isla - Isla is delicate and beautiful, but bright and full of life. Too good to be working as a servant, many might say when they first lay eyes upon her and speak to her. What those many don’t know, however, is that Isla chose to become a kitchen maid, secretly hoping to apprentice under the castle’s cook. She has a true love for food and sharing it with everyone that she cares about. A young 3 years of age, pale strawberry roan sabino pegasus with light golden eyes and a smile for every occasion.
Rhys - With a heart as big as his appetite, Rhys can be quite the unapologetic flirt and is very good at expressing himself through his cooking. Respectfully (and affectionately) called simply “Chef” by those who work closely with him, he is the head of a well-run but close-knit kitchen, who treat food not just like a necessity but like an art form. In his down time, Rhys is often experimenting with new dishes and flavor profiles to add to his menu. A bold mahogany bay draft with gunmetal grey eyes, he has quite the hearty sense of humor to go with his size.
Market NPCs
Halwyn - Homemade by Halwyn is a humble but often bustling shop located within Denocte’s market. The shop has an ordering window which opens directly onto the street, making it easy for passersby to get whatever they want on the go. Halwyn, the shop’s namesake, is a talented baker who offers a number of goods always made fresh. Though his specialty is breads—rye, grain, seeded and more—the signature item of his shop are his rolls. A simple white bread with a little touch of sweetness, and the personal favorite of the Sovereign. Halwyn is a baroque sooty bay with a bald face and crystalline blue eyes, 8 years of age.
Anisette - Even though Anisette might be one of the youngest merchants selling at the market, it’s no secret that her pastries, pies and other desserts are some of the best. Her stall is rarely seen without patrons drooling over her offerings, or buying more than their fair share of sugary goodies. When asked, she tells everyone the same. Every recipe is a family one, passed down for generations as long as she can remember. She says she hasn’t changed a thing, except maybe added a little extra TLC to each one. 4 years old, Anisette is a sunny gold champagne welsh pony with verdant green eyes.
Velia - Velia boasts a wide array of goods that, upon first glance, might seem neither cohesive nor all that special. In fact, unless you are specifically looking for Velia’s stand in the market, it’s incredibly easy to walk on by. If you are, however, and you happen to glance at that statuette that would look good on your mantle or that pin in your hair, that’s when Velia will lean in a little closer and whisper to you. They’re all weapons. She’ll tell you there’s a knife in the handle of the comb you just put down, and even pull it apart just to show you. Velia, unicorn pale as the moon with eyes innocent as freshly bloomed lavender, selling all those secrets.
Docks NPCs
Ramiel & Aella- Twin hippocampus divers and activists, these two can almost always be found roaming Denocte’s port or shores. Keeping the beaches and oceans clean is their ultimate goal, and you just might find them trading anything they’ve come across that isn’t garbage. Together they make for a determined and hard-working pair, though they manage to have a lot of fun along the way. Ramiel is the first-born twin, a stone grey dapple with seaweed green eyes and a mischievous smirk. Aella is a few shades lighter than her brother, eyes like a stormy sea, eyes that are always seeing. Both of the twins have beautiful, elegant looking fins, in and out of the water, though they lose their hippocampus tails in the transformation.
Bastian - Bastian is a grizzled old sailor that has faced off many an angry sea in his time captaining ships. Take a moment to chat with him and he’ll tell you that in his younger days he was a rebellious stallion with a fearless streak, and briefly left Novus to become a Cabin Boy on a pirate ship, where he learned to become a skilled swordsman and talented mariner. After years on the ocean, he is now the captain of a successful trade ship. Bastian is a bold and bright chestnut overo with copper eyes and a scattering of scars—a particularly notable one stretches across his chest, as if from a fight.
Other NPCs
Aisling House - “Dream House”; An exclusive society and business often whispered about on the lips of seedier individuals, Aisling House is one of Denocte’s most lucrative black market organizations, and perhaps its best kept secret. “They sell tea,” says the questionable equine at the end of a darkened alley, and you might think to yourself, tea? Oh, but this is not just any tea. The concoction marketed by Aisling House is so much more than a normal tea, and so much more insidious. The teas you’ll buy from this establishment will put anyone who drinks one to sleep, and fill their sleep with fantastical dreams. However, it also leaves them in an almost hypnotic state. Open to suggestion, if you will. This begs the question, are the dreams just dreams, or are they a reflection of something else, something real?
Cu’Madóir - Commonly called The Composer by those who don't know them (which is most everyone), very few have ever even seen this mysterious equine. What little is known of them, this much has spread like the most invasive of plants: The Composer is responsible for making the unique blend that has come to simply be named Dream Tea. Many also claim that The Composer is a brilliant mage, skilled at Potioncraft, which is what gives the tea its incredible and inimical abilities. Whoever they are, they’re very good at disguising themselves among the rest of Denocte’s citizens while making a veritable fortune off of their product, to the right buyers.
Fleet - While it may not be his real name, Fleet is your most reliable source for anything related to Denocte’s blackmarket, for a little recompense of course. Looking for a place to sell that item you may not have gotten through the most honorable means? On the hunt for rare animals, plants or herbs with questionable uses, monarchical jewels and regalia? Fleet can tell you where you need to go and look the other way when you leave, as long as you leave a little coin with him. Fleet’s clearly middle aged, though he’s faster than he looks and smarter than he seems; a dark coated, sparse snowflake appaloosa with mahogany eyes.
Everytime Momma Morr and I visit the markets, I'm in awe over everything. Not just the sights, but the smells. Oh, I could smell all the yummy freshly baked treats and it made my mouth water. This season, which Momma taught me is called fall, has to be my favorite (although I guess I wouldn't really know any better since I haven't experienced the other seasons yet…). There's pumpkins, spices, apples- it's all great!
Even better, our Court is having some celebrations for fall. The markets are all decorated fancy, but what's exciting is that everyone is dressed up in some way. Momma said it was for something Eve, I wasn't really paying attention. Whatever she said though, I like it. It meant I could get dressed up too and, while the subject matter scared me a little, I'm slowly getting more comfortable with it.
Momma was the one to put my costume together. Draped over my body are silks that resemble fire colors. She braided ribbons into my tail that are a similar color and they're long enough to drag behind me on the ground. It actually makes me look like I have a long fiery tail when I run, which is why I can't be totally afraid of the outfit. It kind of makes me feel like I'm flying and I'm supposed to be a phoenix, so it works. I'm not really sure what Momma is supposed to be, she's just wearing a bunch of armor.
I found my stomach growling when we first came in, so I had asked Momma Morr if I could have some pumpkin pie. She said it would spoil my dinner, but she supposed she'd let it slide just this once. While she's paying for my slice of pie, I notice someone I know among the crowd.
"Auntie Antiope!" I exclaim as I bound over to her with the biggest smile on my face. She's the leader of the Court, but she's also my Aunt which I think is pretty cool.
As I'm looking at her, I'm trying to figure her costume out. "What are you supposed to be?" I ask, my eyes wide with curiosity. I wonder if she'll like my costume too.
![[Image: whiteliesartheader2.png]](https://i.ibb.co/H2bL9kY/whiteliesartheader2.png)
