Fight Type: Battle Prize: 50 signos per character from Official Day Court Account upon completion of the thread Contact Made: Yes
Character #1: @Jask Bonded: None Magic: None Armor: None Weapons: None Current Health: 8 Current Attack: 12 Current Experience: 11
Character #2: @Helios Bonded: None Magic: Wing summoning (passive) Armor: None Weapons: 10ft ironwood and gold-plated steel spear Current Health: 8 Current Attack: 12 Current Experience: 11
the harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved
The Circle does not preach temperance; it does not preach honor, or strength, or pride.
The Circle sings hymns only to fear, to blood, to the end of all things. The Circle preaches only their deep-set hatred, their unquestioning obedience to the church, their blind and bitter pain.
It is with this thought in his head that Jask stares at the gray-brown stone of the floor as he waits. The room is dark, its walls lit only by torches and the small, square windows that peek into the arena. Through them Jask can hear battle, the clang of sword on shield and the telltale clatter of hoof and horn and tooth. Further still is the swelling crowd, trickling in for the festival from Denocte, from Delumine, from Terrastella, though the majority of it is Solterran, a people returned to their roots after years wandering in the proverbial desert of tyranny.
When the notice went up, when Jask heard that the doors would be open, that the sand would be cleared and the fights would be held-- it was one of the few times that his curiosity was louder than his sanctimony.
--but, as he had been thinking, the Church does not care about Colosseums. It does not care about blood sport the roar of the crowd and the bleak heat of the desert. Jask does. It is possibly one of the only things Jask loves on his own. It is perhaps the only thing that makes him yearn.
The call goes out. The crank turns. The doors open. With a cloud of dust and a rush of hot air, the arena unfolds before him and Jask steps into its center like it is such a natural thing to do. The crowd does not scream like it had for the tournament matches, but it does cheer-- loud, joyous, a glorious return to form for a warrior kingdom. It is loud enough that they don't hear Jask, as he walks:
"Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."
--which is just as well, because it is not to their gods that he prays. It is not to Solis that Jask turns when he lifts his eyes to the sun. If he had it in him to be proud, he might. Instead Jask turns to his opponent, first the red eyes, then the milky white one. It stares at Helios, unblinking and cold and dull.
Jask smiles like it is practiced. Jack bows low both out of respect and to drag the blood-red spear of his horn through the sand, drawing a jagged line through the carefully raked sand. Helios is a soldier, he hears, at least two hands taller than Jask, with skin like clay and eyes like a predator's eyes.
Jask tilts his head again, points his horn at the man's chest. It is a threat, more than a promise. The crowd makes a scandalized sound at his back--and Jask, as always, is unmoved.
jask
Summary: Jask enters the arena and walks to its center, praying as he does. Jask then draws a line in the sand in front of him, then points the tip of his horn at Helios' chest as a vague threat.
Dawn swept over Delumine, the rays of early morning sunlight crashed into the towering spires. She whispers her morning lullaby meant to stir the souls of the Dawn Court to life. Aeranas sighs with the sunrise as it begins to rise in the sky. The air is cool, and the city is quiet. The ghost haunts one of the highest points along the wall available for the citizens of Delumine to reach. It is the place he ascends each morning to bask in the rays of early morning light. It is often the only time he allows himself to quietly contemplate all that he has encountered in his life. Each journey he has taken, each step he has made with his former companion. Morning is for mourning to him. The gentle glow from his scarf pulses the most in the morning, it is like the sea. The tides of the pulsing sway with his emotions, it flickers most when he feels the sadness in his core. It attempts to brighten the abyss that has devoured him. The abyss that has forced him to be but a memory, a whisper, a ghost among those that still feel alive.
Aerie allows his tears to fall until the morning dew is dried by the rising sun. Dawn too stains his cheeks with the reminders of his sorrow, until he returns to his dwelling and submerges his face in a basin of water before going out to face the day. It is the ritual he performs each day, so that he may continue on as the storyteller he wants the world to see. He does not want them to see the book of sorrows that has replaced his heart. The burden that he carries in the shape of her memory. Aerie does not want to be known for his sadness, but for the entertainment and joy, he brings to others. It is the only gift he can offer the world for all that it has shown him. As he turns to start his day, he nearly collides with somebody he was not aware of. He did not hear them ascend the same familiar stone stairway, nor did he hear their hooves upon the uneven ground. He pulls his head upward abruptly, as he attempts to avoid harming the stranger with his antlers.
Aerie pulls his gaze upwards to find out who has discovered him this morning. It will be the first time anyone has ever found him up here.
"Speech"Thoughts
@Ipomoea | I hope this is alright. I haven't written Aerie in a long time.
It raced forward. It stopped for no monolith raised in its honor nor any creature that was subjected to its cruel ways. Even the gods were subject to time, though they did not wither in the same ways the mortals did. Their servants without direction. Silasthein was familiar with time, and he could feel it catching up to him. Gone were his days as an archmage in Muramir, now he was but an individual without the flow of arcana in his veins. Silas had rotted months in Terrastella under the care of the healers who boasted their mastery across all of Novus. He had learned about the world he now found himself in, little by little. It fascinated him. Silas had dived deep into his thoughts as he traveled slowly across vast plains and wind-swept dunes. It had taken him two weeks to travel from Terrastella to Solterra. It was the place he had decided to visit next, as he had pulled from memory the companion who had quite literally saved his life. Locke resided in Solterra. Silas owed him, and he wasn't about to let a debt go unpaid. Especially not when it had such a steep price.
The mauve ex-mage winced as he felt a twinge in his shoulder he had landed on months ago. The heavens yawned and spit him out in Novus. That was what he got for tampering with dangerous magic. He smiled to himself as he passed through the gates of Solterra, adorned with statues of the deity he came to know as Solis. The god he came to understand as prideful. What he had gathered in his recovery was some of the court cultures. Silas enjoyed Terrastella, and had decided to make that his home. He was an adventurer, and could not be held down in one place for too long though. He had developed a fondness for Vespera and the traits she valued most. Silas did not reflect those traits, at least not many. He sighed as he came to a halt in the shade, welcoming the reprieve from the sun that beat down upon his back. Silas was exhausted from his travels, but he had adhered to the advice of the healers who had prevented him from perishing. It didn't help that he could feel his body aging once more. It had been so long since he had felt old. Silas leaned against the cool stone wall that surrounded the city of Solterra. It was cool only because it was coated in thick shadows.
Silas decided he would stand at the wall and rest awhile before moving further into the Day Court. He would have all the time in the world to find Locke and learn the customs of the harsh desert stronghold.
Notes: Ahh first post since my hiatus ;__; | Tags: @Orias
i'd like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly
it's hard to say that i'd rather stay awake when i'm asleep
'cause everything is never as it seems
❖
I'm far from home. So far, that I think my momma, Morr, is setting the entirety of Novus on fire just looking for me. I can't help it though. Sometimes the desire to explore is just so great that I can't ignore it. Maybe I get it from my other momma, Zahra? She always seems to have more fun outside of Denocte's gates, so I wanted to see how much fun I could have too. Plus momma Morr can be so smothering sometimes. I loved my home, but there is so much more to the world.
I followed her out here and found myself in some kind of enchanted garden. I think they called it Dullmeen? Delymean? I can't remember, but I am surrounded by life here. There is the chirping of birds, little creatures shuffling around in the grass and there is the distant roar of a river in the distance. This land seems so much more lush than Denocte's prairie, mountains and seashore. Of course, I was one of the weird ones that liked the smell of low tide, but this is different. This is somewhere new and much more rich. I can smell the crispness in the air, damp earth and fresh cut grass. The world is more alive here.
I find myself amazed by the lights strung in the trees and the sight of lanterns flickering in the distant forest. There is something else out there that almost sounds like voices, but it's so far and only seems to be for a moment that I think I just imagined it.
Then there is a man, his coat dappled like the patterns of the sun shining down into water. His eyes are like liquid gold and I am captivated by him. He leads me through this place and tells me things. Apparently I was not imagining it, but hearing the voices of the lost. Why are they here? What did they lose? There are so many questions in my mind, but I just keep listening to this tall man speak instead of asking.
At the mention of this place being haunted, I find my heart catching a little in my throat. I'm not sure how I feel about ghosts, but perhaps if they're lost, I can find a way to help them? A small orb of light similar to a sun appears and seems to have a mind of its own. I'm tempted to catch it and keep it as my friend, but something tells me it's more wild than that. It floats out further and further as if it wants me to follow.
The man speaks of treasures to be found if I follow the path, but to not stray far from the trail. As pretty as it all is, I don't really know this place and I already am not sure where momma Zahra is. I definitely want to stay on this path so I can find my way back, but first…
The sun orb keeps going out further and as I take my first step forward, I realize that the tall man is gone. I'm still not alone though. When I turn fully around, I see someone else- a girl. She's older than me, but not super old. I wonder if she knows much about this place and what the sun orb wants.
"Hey! Do you want to explore with me?" I ask while bounding over to her. She's very pretty, especially with how long her hair is and the way she has it done. I wonder if I could get my mane braided the same some day.
"This old guy told me to follow the path and I think this little sun orb wants me to. Do you think it's safe?" I am feeling the excitement of adventure again, but there is a little bit of fear in there. I don't know this place or this girl or what this could all mean. But what was the harm in a little treasure hunt in the woods?
I can hear the voices calling for us again. I take another step forward, but not too far, just in case this girl might not be coming just yet. I hope she does.
She has lived, always, on the outside of Solterra.
In fact, Zarqa is hardly “from Solterra” at all. No, the old mare exists—even “living” seems a stretch—beyond the city walls, in the desert. When asked by travellers passing through (which is rarely) she tells them, “I am from the desert.” Not, “I am from Solterra." Zarqa rarely visits town or leaves the ramshackle adobe cottage she calls home, with her plants hanging to dry and a garden in the back bereft of water. Nothing much grows there.
Everyone, then, is surprised when she enters the competition. She arrives at the tournament in a long black robe. It seems like a poor clothing choice, considering the overbearing midday sun. But any who glance at it will find it captivating. It shines, glimmers, twists. One might even discover if they look hard enough it seems to reflect the light and colour back at them, a microcosm of all that it sees and all that you might see. Your eyes, your face, twisted up into the dark fabric that moves in a way reminiscent of quicksilver. Sleek, metallic, but liquid. Malleable.
Zarqa is paired with Aghavni, for a matched fight. She enters the Colosseum to a quiet crowd. In fact, almost no one is there. The day is waning; already the sun begins to dip below the far horizon and Caligo’s moon is up, shining silver-dollar sleek and silver-dollar bright.
She waits patiently for Aghavni to enter the other gate. Perhaps later, after the fight has begun, they will say it was not so random after all. But not yet. Not in the quiet almost-night with a setting sun. See, so few things in the desert are accidental. No, the desert waits a hundred years, patiently, a serpent biding its time. So it is with Zarqa for no reason other than distantly, as if through many clouds, she sees a vision of a girl that no longer exists. For her, the history of Solterra has always been laid out so simply, like a story told from childhood.
There is no one left alive to tell her it is her eyes, a nearly transparent, pure-ice type of blue. There is no one left alive to tell her it is the robe, and the many lives that have been woven into its fabric. It’s made of the ashes, children whisper. The ashes of funeral pyres, and she weaves into it all the knowledge and all the history of Solterra—she weaves it into the robe from the ashes of the dead.
So what dead have spoken to her, Aghavni? What have they said?
When Aghavni enters, it is not difficult for Zarqa the Immortal, Zarqa the sorceress, to take her magic and produce an illusion: Zarqa’s outward appearance, a plain buckskin besides the eyes and robe, begins to change. The colour of her mane goes darker, deeper, into a black with no penetrable light. It begins to twist into exquisitely beautiful curls. Next are the eyes. From ice-blue to dove-grey, and a change to the tilt of them, too. Then the broad features of her heritage become sharper, elvin. A crystalline, jagged horn sprouts from her brow and glows with a type of inner bioluminescence, a light that spills out over and into those dove-grey eyes, lighting them like embers. The buckskins colour, too, changes; it becomes splashed with white, socks, an irregular blaze across the face and one ear.
Aghavni would be staring at a perfect image of the girl she might have become, if the ways of Solterra were not so cruel, and her father so bold. Zarqa wraps the cloak tightly around her shoulders and steps forward into the sands. “Aghavni,” she coos, and her voice drops to a quiet whisper. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” The black, silken robe billows out around her shoulders; from beneath it swirl strange, opaque clouds, the colour of pearls. Zarqa is not cruel.
1. This will not be a judged fight. Instead, this counts as a "feud." However, it will follow the same guidelines AS IF it were a judged fight/challenge. This format is quoted below:
1. Form/Entrance: Character #1 enters (and posts the fight form).
Character #2 has 1 week to respond.
2. Entrance/Attack: Character #2 enters and has the option to make the first attack.
Character #1 has 3 days to respond.
3. (Block)/Attack: Character #1 has the option to block, and makes their first attack.
Character #2 has 3 days to respond.
4. (Block)/Attack: Character #2 has the option to block, and makes their next attack.
Character #1 has 3 days to respond.
5. (Block)/Attack: Character #1 can block (if not used), and makes their next attack.
Character #2 has 3 days to respond.
6. (Block)/Exit: Character #2 can block (if not used), and ends the fight.
No response needed, but Character #1 can post an exit (no attacks or blocks).
2. No serious harm will befall your character unless you would like it to. Please DM @syndicate on discord if you would like to further discuss this!
3. Characters are allowed to use what is in their surroundings to combat their mystery opponent. For example, perhaps Character Z enters the arena with a sword given to them to borrow before entering the arena. This weapon or armour cannot be used OUTSIDE of this thread. But I encourage you to be creative!
4. Have fun!
Perhaps it is the noise in the Colosseum that attracts the beast. Perhaps it is the smell of blood.
Either way, a monster comes knocking. A monster comes out of the darkness of a moonless night, just hours from daybreak. The far edge of the world seems sanguine; the wine-red light of a tentative, peeking sun spills out across the desert but is not yet bold enough to stretch beyond the Colosseum’s abandoned walls. Not like this creature, drawn in as if searching for carrion.
He drops down into the abandoned sands of the arena. He inhales the scent of blood already going stale, and sweat that has gone staler. There are no strong scents, no pull to suggest bodies and this distresses the beast. In the old days, when he had fought, there had always been bodies—
Now, in the arena, the memories flood him. Yes. There used to be food, always. And now there is nothing. The beast laments it, scuffling forward through the sand, dropping his three heads to search. Perhaps a scrap of flesh…
He jerks up his three heads at a distant clang. It comes from within the iron gates, where they had… they had once kept him, stuffed into a cage, drawn out bloodied to fight, and fight, and fight.
Yet the old beast’s lips draw back into a trio of grisly smiles. He had… had he not been made for the purpose? And besides, the noise means—flesh.
He enters the tunnels past the arena through the gate left ajar.
The manticore blinks away the torch-light that illuminates them, and his shape. It glints off his body; that of a lion, but impossibly larger. He has a stallion’s head yet it bursts, over-full, with canine teeth and split, cracked lips. The manticore’s tongue lolls out as he snuffs around another corner, twitching his scorpion’s tail.
He begins to follow the freshest scent; it sweats, still, Solterra’s endless heat. Good. Good. The manticore does not know why a man visits his old haunts; there is more clanging.
By now, Rufio might realise something is amiss. The crickets are silent. Although the blacksmith had been hired to come in during the early mornings to repair and sharpen weapons, he had yet to be disturbed in this task. The manticore comes around another corner of the elaborate tunnel-and-cage system, one designed for imprisoned slaves and beasts. Oh, he remembers it well, in the belly of the Colosseum. Yes, he had fought here, had lived here, during Zolin’s reign.
“C-come out, aziz-am. You must be so alone—come out, come out, wherever you are—“ The manticore's voice is thick, and wet, and muffled by so many teeth. But it booms through the abandoned, fire-lit tunnels. He shambles deeper along, searching, seeking, nostrils flared and wide eyes glancing.
1. This will not be a judged fight. Instead, this counts as a "feud." However, it will follow the same guidelines AS IF it were a judged fight/challenge. This format is quoted below:
1. Form/Entrance: Character #1 enters (and posts the fight form).
Character #2 has 1 week to respond.
2. Entrance/Attack: Character #2 enters and has the option to make the first attack.
Character #1 has 3 days to respond.
3. (Block)/Attack: Character #1 has the option to block, and makes their first attack.
Character #2 has 3 days to respond.
4. (Block)/Attack: Character #2 has the option to block, and makes their next attack.
Character #1 has 3 days to respond.
5. (Block)/Attack: Character #1 can block (if not used), and makes their next attack.
Character #2 has 3 days to respond.
6. (Block)/Exit: Character #2 can block (if not used), and ends the fight.
No response needed, but Character #1 can post an exit (no attacks or blocks).
2. No serious harm will befall your character unless you would like it to. Please DM @syndicate on discord if you would like to further discuss this!
3. Characters are allowed to use what is in their surroundings to combat their mystery opponent. For example, perhaps Character Z enters the arena with a sword given to them to borrow before entering the arena. This weapon or armour cannot be used OUTSIDE of this thread. But I encourage you to be creative!
4. Have fun!
Of all the creatures that emerge from the catacombs, the sphinx is by far the strangest.
She speaks in no known language, but seems to squawk and babble like a bird. When she first appeared, she walked straight through the city of Solterra like a living mirage; the crowd parted for her, with shouts of terror. Although she had the head of a beautiful mare her body was that of a Sun Lion, and glowed with the feverish light of a far off, dying star. Her wings were great, broad, and terrible, like that of a desert vulture. To make matters worse, she must have been at least 20 hands. Her eyes, red as blood, stood out in a glowing gold face. They did not know if she came alive from mythology, or was simply the result of a terrible accident.
At first, everyone believes she had walked straight into the desert. After the catacombs opened, the sphinx disappears. They might have been right, if only she had continued to walk. Instead, she found herself inside the Colosseum. There the sphinx wandered for a number of days, squawking bird-like at anyone who dared stop her. The soldiers, of course, wanted to kill her. But when they tried, she proved much more canny than initially anticipated. The strange creature led the finest warriors in Solterra on quite a merry chase within the Colosseum tunnels and promptly disappeared. There, we are rid of her.
If only it were so simple. They would be glad to be rid of her, if not for her ghastly appearance than because of her rather dimwitted behaviour. Neither horse nor Sun Lion, the woman—if one were to call her that—seemed to have the mind of a bird. Enough time had passed between her initial appearance and subsequent disappearance that any who had seen her believed her dead. It seemed a simple thing for the warped creature to disappear in the Mors and die. This is not the case.
The aura of the arena is celebratory. The crowd cheers excitedly for the battle, as one of the first of the tournament. Thomas, a well-known and well-liked soldier, is matched against a citizen named Jask.
It is Jask who is called to enter first, by the announcer. The gates open before him and he steps into the sands of the arena. The announcer never manages to get to Thomas, however.
The Sphinx rises from the sand at the opposite end of the arena. The sudden surge sends a storm of sand billowing across the Colosseum pit; when it settles, she is glowing brilliantly. Her mane billows about her as if with some internal wind. It does not take the Sphinx long to turn her too-red, pupil-less eyes on Jask. She strides forward, so that the space between them is no longer so distant. The sphinx lays down before him and asks, in perfectly eligible tongue, “There are two sisters: one gives birth to the other and she, in turn, gives birth to the first. Who are the two sisters?”
1. This will not be a judged fight. Instead, this counts as a "feud." However, it will follow the same guidelines AS IF it were a judged fight/challenge. This format is quoted below:
Quote:1. Form/Entrance: Character #1 enters (and posts the fight form).
Character #2 has 1 week to respond.
2. Entrance/Attack: Character #2 enters and has the option to make the first attack.
Character #1 has 3 days to respond.
3. (Block)/Attack: Character #1 has the option to block, and makes their first attack.
Character #2 has 3 days to respond.
4. (Block)/Attack: Character #2 has the option to block, and makes their next attack.
Character #1 has 3 days to respond.
5. (Block)/Attack: Character #1 can block (if not used), and makes their next attack.
Character #2 has 3 days to respond.
6. (Block)/Exit: Character #2 can block (if not used), and ends the fight.
No response needed, but Character #1 can post an exit (no attacks or blocks).
2. No serious harm will befall your character unless you would like it to. Please DM @syndicate on discord if you would like to further discuss this!
3. Characters are allowed to use what is in their surroundings to combat their mystery opponent. For example, perhaps Character Z enters the arena with a sword given to them to borrow before entering the arena. This weapon or armour cannot be used OUTSIDE of this thread. But I encourage you to be creative!
4. Have fun!
Fight Type: BATTLE Prize: Progression in tournament Contact Made: Yes
Character #1: @Jahin Bonded: Realistic Female King Cobra Magic: No Armor: No Weapons: Davke Spear Current Health: 7 Current Attack: 13 Current Experience: 23
Character #2: @Apolonia Bonded: No Magic: Illusion Armor: No Weapons: Hurlbat Current Health: 10 Current Attack: 10 Current Experience: 21
eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone
When Jahin paces through the dark tunnel towards the daylight streaming forth from the entrance to the arena, he is distinctly aware of the sound of his cloven hooves echoing and the clashing smell of sweet roses and metallic blood. Scarlet droplets of blood glitter upon the cobblestone like precious rubies, intermingled with crushed rose petals cast forth by cheering spectators. He wonders briefly whose blood it is and how much of his own he may spill on this day.
His Davke spear bears a wreath of snow white roses; gifted to him by a shy young maiden with hair the color of summer wheat. She had approached him at the last moment just before he had entered the tunnel, as if it was all she could do to muster the courage to present him with her token of admiration. A younger Jahin would have swelled with pride and bravado at the prospect of fighting and spilling blood to impress Makeda or any other number of eligible bachelorettes. Coming into his eighth year, however, Jahin can’t help but wonder if he is playing at a younger man’s game. He can only pray in earnest to Solis that he won't make a total fool of himself in the battle to come.
Jahin doesn’t entirely know what possessed him to scribble his mark (he can’t spell his name yet, despite the endless reading and writing lessons) on the entry scroll. He would like to say that his motivations are purely for supporting Solterra’s uplifting revival but that would be a lie. The moment the fighting tournament was announced to the public something had stirred in his heart, as if a sleeping ember had been stoked into spontaneous flame.
Sometimes Jahin yearns for the days of his youth, when he lived fast, hard, and unapologetically. Lesser complications and responsibilities; the thrill of living one day to the next without any concern for what the following day might bring. But the days of his passionate youth and his life among the Davke are like a rapidly fading mirage in the sweltering desert heat; a dream he can glimpse lingering temptingly on the shimmering horizon behind him. Jahin knows the only way is forward, towards the rising sun and the future he has pledged himself to in Solterra. He cannot return to a life that once was, no matter how real and promising the mirage may seem.
Jahin takes a steadying breath, adjusts his spear, and strides forward into the sandy arena as he hears his name announced. The roar of the crowd crashes upon him in surging waves--the energy of the colosseum is more electrifying than a midsummer desert thunderstorm. He blinks against the harsh midday sunlight; a drop of sweat trickles from his brow and falls to the sand. Rose petals shower down around the Davke warrior like rain, dappling his back and tangling in his flame-like hair. He stands in the grandness of the arena, plain and otherwise unremarkable but for the spear strapped across his back and his wild hair braided back in traditional Davke warring style.
Despite the disciplined calm and steadiness Jahin exudes, his heart pounds--boom, boom, boom to the drums that announce his entrance. His blood thrums faster, faster, and faster in his veins. Sahar twists and coils on his back, hissing excitedly as she takes in the view of the marble walls rising up proudly around them on all sides. He has been in the Colosseum before, he met Teiran here within these ancient walls, but nothing in all of his life could have possibly prepared him for the Colosseum in all of its true, intended glory. The crowd cries thunderously and he realizes they are chanting something.
Blood, blood, blood.
J A H I N look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
Summary: Jahin enters the arena, wondering if he's a little out of his league these days.
Attack Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK) Attack(s) Left: 2 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK) Block Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK) Block(s) Left: 1 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK) Item(s) Used: LIST ANY ITEMS USED, IF ANY
Fight Type: Battle Prize: 50 signos per character from Official Day Court Account upon completion of the thread Contact Made: Yes
Character #1: @Andras Bonded: None Magic: Arc flash, an electric explosion Armor: None Weapons: None Current Health: 10 Current Attack: 10 Current Experience: 13
Character #2: @Zayir Bonded: None Magic: None Armor: None Weapons: None Current Health: 10 Current Attack: 13 Current Experience: 10
Andras
The warden's had an itch for days, something below the skin, something hot and prickling and insistent. It only grows when he reads the posted bracket, when he sees his name drawn in thick black ink on the yellowed slip. In the shade of the Colosseum that itch becomes a mounting giddiness, which becomes a breathless sort of joy that he has to wrestle down before it swallows him whole.
Andras lifts his head to see the flat sand of the arena baked by the column of desert sun that peeks into the canyon. The festival crowd is impatient and wanting, a din even in the background, through the heavy road door. You're up, says the guard to its right, who waits for Andras to look then abandons her expression of cool disinterest for something closer to.... worry? Quiet laughter? It does not matter to him.
No, all that matters to him is the slice of white light that grows as she cranks the door open one foot of a time and it all spills in on him at once: the hot sun, the white sand, the roar of a crowd that's gone too long without their joyous blood sport.
And it is joyous. And it will hurt. And it makes Andras spark like a firecracker as he steps into the wall of light and sound. 'Our next match,' says the announcer,'is the Warden of Delumine, Andras Demya, versus Zayir, of Solterra.' An old name. An ancient name. Perhaps one of the oldest. The crowd roars for Zayir, roars like their sovereign's lion or their fiery desert sun.
It makes Andras smile. A soldier from Solterra. The soldier from Solterra, just as white and gold as the desert he walks on. Andras chokes back a grin but can't hold it for long--and when it breaks over his face it does so in a crack of thunder. This should be fun.
The warden bows his head, unfolds his wings, and and takes a deep breath.
In-- he holds it-- and out.
Summary: Andras admires the occasion while he waits for his turn. When he's called, he enters the arena, gives Zayir a deep bow, and positions himself for the fight.
When the oil wells of Persia burned I did not weep
until I heard about the birds, the long-legged ones especially
which I imagined to be scarlet, with crests like egrets
and tails like peacocks, covered in tar
weighting the feathers they dragged through black shallows
at the rim of the marsh. But once
There were some memories Zayir revisited while entombed more than others. Some of them, once pleasant, took on the haunted qualities of an old man’s ghosts. What was it, he had wondered for so long, that made them so persistent? How long could something be remembered until the colour faded from it like an overused, over-worn photograph? Even the colours of his memories, in his mind’s eye, have become an oppressive sepia. Devoid of life; belonging, truly, to another man.
Perhaps it is because he has slept for years that sleeping no longer comes easily to him. Zayir wanders out across the stark desert alone. The sun is setting on the distant horizon and he flies from that, too, toward the setting darkness. His flight carries him, haphazard, along the hot updrafts from the desert below. The fading light catches on the metallic tips of his wings. The air seems so thin, so precarious. Or perhaps those are only his unexercised wings.
The warrior is aghast to discover his muscles fatigue before he has even covered half the distance of his journey; he descends to the desert sands with trembling muscles. His breath comes more quickly than he would like and to regain composure he tucks his wings tightly to his sides and begins to trot.
By the time he reaches the oasis, Zayir is lathered in unexpected sweat. He feels not only fatigued, but strangely frail. He has lost weight during all those years. The time loop, no matter how indefinite, has strained his body to its limits.
He tries not to dwell on it more than necessary as he approaches the water. The sound of the waterfall greets him well before he sees it, and the lush greenery surrounding the oasis is a welcome sight. Autumn flowers are in bloom, albeit briefly, and nearby are several fig trees. He comes forward until he is resting knee-deep in the water. Zayir had forgotten just how distasteful he finds the sand, the way it sifts between every hair to grate against the skin. He closes his eyes momentarily.
The oasis is not as he remembers it. There is something softer about it, something more fragrant. And he realises that is because he is there in the flesh instead of agonising over small, over-remembered details. The water is warm and languid against him, running with small currents from the fall where it spouts from the sandstone.
Zayir shakes out his wings. This is where his nanny had often taken him as a child. This is where they had played many of their games of hide and seek. And also where the Arete had run training regiments, sending young men and women flailing through the deep pool to emerge on the other side, sparring and ready for combatants. He remembers laughing as the sand became wet and almost muddy; the way they had flailed limb-over-limb and then as the training progressed became more, and more, and more competitive, turning the oasis pinkish with blood. Everything he remembers seems to be tinged with that small bit of bitterness.
He is not surprised when he realises he isn’t alone. Zayir clears his throat and opens his eyes, glancing at the nearby foliage. There is something hard in his breast, like pride, or anger. He doesn’t know which.
“I didn’t expect company.” The way he says it is noncommittal, but anyone who knows him would realise there is a lilting quality of his tone, something that almost imperceptibly suggests playfulness. Meanwhile, the waterfall runs, and runs, and runs. The sound of it in the background is nearly mystic and, for someone so accustomed to silence, loud.
I told this to a man who said I was inhuman, for giving animals my first lament. So now I guard my inhumanity like the jackal who appears behind the army base at dusk, come there for scraps with his head lowered in a posture that looks like appeasement, though it is not.
