“A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.”
Last time he saw the swamp, the cliffs, the vineyard, the sparkling city, it had been snowing. Michael had gone to the coast for the winter, as he is often pulled to do, pulled along by the chains of nostalgia that invariably sends him right back to the sea again and again. Michael suspects he is not alone in this. There is not a world he imagines where old men don't stare out at the waves capped in foam and the blue-gray of the ocean and feel bitter, almost acidic longing.
And, more than that, last time he attended a festival it was exactly a year ago, in the streets and then the woods of his own city. He vaguely remembers it as the first time he looked at Isra and felt fear creeping in at the edges like radio static.
The far more salient memory is following a sad girl into a corn maze with a stranger-- he remembers the twist in his heart (jealousy?) and a bottomless need to see her smile, to see her live, and laugh, and---
To see her; that's all Michael wants. That's all he ever wants, he thinks.
And he does-- see her, I mean. Looks up from the thin road that snakes its way from the city toward the orchard to find her: bright as the changing leaves, and sometimes as brittle as one, too.
"Another festival," he says, conversationally, though he's already picking up baskets for each of them and holding the larger one out for her to take. "Please come pick apples with me. I'll tell you a secret if you do."
Michael smiles, like all warm autumn things: leaves that crunch underfoot, apple cider, yellow straw, will blankets and a fire crackling in the hearth.
take this burden away from me and bury it before it buries me
What they all forgot to tell Elena when she had been small was not to go looking for monsters, because unlike the stories, monsters do not die. They mark you, they hunt you, haunt, live between every rib and grow and burn with every breath you take. They slip into your blood and it is not such an easy thing to cleanse. She carries them with her now, and it is only in the quiet that she can hear the murmurs of their whispers that they were not so easy to destroy. Elena was no conquerer, and she had never vanquished her monsters, she just learned to live with them. They destroy her on the inside, but her smile and those bright blue eyes always suggest otherwise. It is only when others smile back at her, the they must not see how destroyed she is with the battle that rages beneath her skin, that Elena believes that she must still be winning. Though she will never claim to be victorious.
The quiet bothers her today, so she leaves home behind. The shadows continue to beckon her; remind her of him and she half expects his eyes to appear out of the dark, his flesh to materialize in darkness and smoke. Her blue gaze tears away and she goes.
To Dawn.
She could have stayed in Windskeep, with her grandmother, Roland, Brielle, their daughter, with Melody, and Zephyra, Rishiri. But she left. Winter came and the ground turned white. She had stayed for months, living among ghosts that haunted her dreams. She had left because it had been hard, not because it had been easy. This, the road to Dawn, Elena finds it as natural as her oceanside home. The gold of her coat soaks in the waning sunlight that cuts across the land. A slight smile quirks her lips as she slips through the towering trees and that blue gaze sets herself towards the meadow.
What she does not expect is the crowd of others gathering around and the high emotions hit her like a wall. Her eyes tears up at someone who is experiencing their first festival without their mother. And then her heart races like a joyful child at all the new sights upon their own first festival of another type. Her chest swells with love like the newlyweds who are eager to enjoy the lights with one another. There are too many emotions and the empath quickly becomes overwhelmed and she isn't sure where they are coming from. Her breathing grows rapid and the setting sun still causes her to grow warm in the early autumn season. Over to the edge of the meadow where only a few faces stand, Elena gathers herself, blue eyes directed forwards as emotions that are not her own ease.
It is only then that Elena tries to remember what she had been feeling in the quiet of Terrastella that had drawn her to Delumine. But with a mixture of a smile on her face, a rapid heart, and confusion in her head, Elena cannot remember what emotions were her own to her begin with. So she lets the lights of the festival that would soon begin settle into her bones. And she forgets.
so take away this apathy bury it before it buries me
O had been surprised to find the owl waiting for her. Novus, of late, was surprisingly calm, and anyway she did not usually have a barrage of callers nor held a position that invited such correspondence. When it swooped down to find her, she had flinched, thinking: this must be meant for someone else.
But it had not even given her a chance to protest, only dropped the scroll at her feet and soared away into the hot blue sky. When she picked it up, the letter unfurled to reveal ink scrawled across a paper imprinted with flower petals and bits of herbs, the writing an eager, sophisticated slant; it smelled the way she remembered Dusk court smelling, like saltwater and rose perfume. For a moment, even knowing that she was standing in the desert and blinking the grit out of her eyes, O had been transported to that night in the hallway of flickering lights stuck between two green-eyed girls, and knew whose signature would be on the bottom of the scroll even before she read it. Anandi.
And she had said, too—yours. O’s stomach had turned, a loose knot of rock shifting just between her hips in a way that made her feel dizzy even without moving, and the heat of her skin became overwhelming even as the sun went down, down, down.
At dusk. Near the sea.
It’s so her that O can’t help grinning. What else could she expect of Andi but to do what she does best—to orchestrate this meeting like it’s an inside joke, just like that first one on the island, saltwater pulling at their feet, hair ruffled by the breeze and made golden-red by the setting sun?
She passes through the row of bonfires without comment, watching with a squint as sheafs of paper turn to charcoal, then rise up to meet the clouds in puffs of dark smoke. The crowds are pressed in like children vying for a look at some obscure bug. Today the wind off the ocean is cold; O, dressed down as always in nothing of an outfit except her dark hair twisted back in braids, has to suppress a shiver as she descends. The sky is still mostly blue, just beginning to find its sunset color in pale swatches of orange and purple, and when her hooves meet the gray sand it is cold, cold, cold.
She steps onto the beach and lets the fires burn away behind her like so many bad omens.
There is something different about the streets of Solterra. Despite the uncertainty of the newly revealed catacombs, there appears to be a fragile hope blooming in the hearts of the citizens. For the first time in many years foreigners have entered the city to trade and offer goods; a travelling caravan has brought art, music, and most importantly... life to the city.
Solterran's have not forgotten their inherit roots. The Colosseum waits for the blood of contestants, and the gates of the citadel open to the
AUTUMN FEST
Autumn brings celebration to Solterra; the heat abates and is replaced by a cool coastal breeze. This change of weather brings with it not only foreign traders but caravans of vagabonds from the desert. The capitol easily receives both and hosts, for the first time in many years, the Autumn Fest.
In part, Solterrans are eager to celebrate the end of the harshest season in the desert. But more importantly, they are eager to celebrate a changing of fortunes. The citadel itself has opened its gates not only to the people, but tradesmen and caravans from beyond. Each night, almost magically, the palace doorways open to invite the people of the city in. Strange commodities are available for purchase and music overflows the typically empty corridors, replacing them with life. Most importantly, the vagabonds of Yuka have arrived with their stocks of beer, ale, fine wine, and delectable liquors.
So come inside, Solterra, and drink. The elaborate parties last from night to the break of dawn, and will for an entire week. Traders deal in fine silks, jewellery, and even armour. The lights do not go out and the beer and ale most importantly, are on Solterra’s treasury.
Please mark threads with [Autumn Fest] for participation. All completed threads award 50 signos to both participants.
THE TOURNAMENT
For a number of months, the abandoned colosseum has been the fixation of bustling, hurried activity. Workers have laboured to repair the tiered seating, to polish and replace the rusted, unused armor and weaponry. At last a red, silk banner has been unfurled across the entrance with three sun sigils, Solis’s own.
The d’Oru, so long neglected, have emerged from the desert. They busily occupy themselves about the Colosseum, almost awkward after so long an absence. They can be found bustling among the fighter’s quarters, where old gladiator cages have been polished and returned to their former glory. There are rumours, even, of ferocious calls from deep within the Colosseum, the echoes of either long-dead beasts or new ones.
The d’Oru busy themselves by outfitting the medical post, organising supplies, and even venturing above to the Colosseum's tiered seating. They watch with gem-bright gold eyes and venture close to the incoming spectators. At times, they doze in the sun, or sprawl out on the edge of the Colosseum in anticipation for the battles below. At their busiest, they arrange the brilliant new weaponry and armour, awaiting the fighters with barely concealed impatience.
Then, the invitations are sent out: one is sent to the medics of Terrastella and the other to all of Solterra. Parchment fliers are placed outside of taverns, about the market, and in every established business. A herald calls the opening of the Colosseum from Solterra’s center, and another from the outskirts, until the entire city knows.
The invitation is simple:
Come, and fight.
Rules:
The Colosseum is open during all seasons, but for Autumn 505 are three entrance options:
A matched fight chosen by members and judged by staff, with a completed thread worth 50 signos for each participant.
These fights require at least one Solterra, although members of other Courts are invited to participate.
A tiered system, randomized, where characters compete against one another and have the chance of winning signos for thread completion (50 per participant) and an ultimate prize for the overall winner. Each fight is judged by staff, with single elimination from the tournament. The tournament is a bracketed system, and Solterran participation is highly encouraged! However, all characters from all Courts are welcomed to participate.
Day Court members may also request a “mystery fight” which, again, will be judged by staff. 50 signos will be awarded to characters who complete the fight, although this is capped at THREE members.
Characters from all Courts are invited to participate in the Tournament, as well as the matched battles. Only Solterrans can participate in the mystery fights.
A special invitation is in place for Terrastellan medics to participate. Specifically, if a Terrastellan medic completes a thread with an injured Solterra combatant, 50 signos will be awarded to each participant. This amount os signos is matched by the lovely RB, for a total of 100 signos per participant in a thread containing a Solterra combatant and Dusk medic!
Important Note: In order to enter either option 2. (the tiered system) or option 3, please DM the Official Day Account. The deadline for entering is June 3rd, at which point the tournament and mystery fights will be closed to entrance. At that point, members will be paired randomly with other members and must complete their fight threads within the season. The winner of each match will move on to compete against the winner of the other match, and so on, until there are only two combatants left. At that point, the two contestants compete for an unknown, mysterious prize.
Helios stood out like a sore hoof among the citizens of Denocte. Not for his rich russet coat or sun-burnt eyes. Not even for the sun-engraved spear clasped to his shoulder. No, it was the collar, silver and plain as it surrounded his neck. An ever present reminder of what he was and what he’d been through and as a clear label that he belonged to the Day Court- if not now then at least at one point.
Though there was peace between the two courts these days, the scars of Zolin’s reign and more recent troubles ran deep. The fox furred stallion could feel the eyes burning into the back of his neck, watching, watching, watching, wherever he went. It did not matter that he had come in peace, to simply meet with an informant and former friend. In the eyes of everyone he was still a symbol of worldwide destruction and the cruelty of a child king.
While Solterra thrived in the day beneath the omnipotent gaze of Solis, the Night Court truly came alive when darkness fell and the shadows chased away every whisper of light. Flames danced their dwindling dance, a plea to the wax to keep them alive just a little longer. And all around him equines wandered- in groups, on their own, chatting, shopping, simply enjoying the moonlight. Like a beacon in the sky it glowered silver, as watchful as the sun. Yet Helios had always found it a cold light, a half-light that allowed the shadows of darkness to spread beneath its gaze. Nevertheless, at the edge of the city where the grassy fields beyond bordered the hoof-worn paths, Helios found himself looking to the sky and stars, wondering what was really up there. Some days he would let his wings emerge and take to the skies, see how high he could fly before the air turned thin and his head began to spin. Perhaps he would try it at night, see what truly watched from the darkened heavens.
rage is not beautiful.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
Andras is a creature of little rituals, the sort of religious dedication to a routine-- every thing and every action in their proper places. He is the sort that clings to these rituals with like, sharp claws and teeth like folded steel because it is the single warm and calm thing in his life.
Andras spreads raspberry jam on his toast from left to right. Andras eats the corners first. Andras closes his eyes and tries to breathe and pretends that the backs of his eyelids do not look like monsters and mangled flesh and a friend's face that is not a friend's face but the face of-- something altogether different.
Andras does not stop to think that he is not alone in this. Andras does not stop to think at all, just eats his toast and walks out the door and sinks into the comfortable crackle of his anger as it crawls in wide branches of light from his back to his knees.
Fall has come. The equinox looms closer by the day. Andras goes to the city to see for himself that the gripping fear has died down, that the woods are just woods and not the ribs of some old, rotten skeleton. Andras crackles his way toward the garden, wrapped in thick creeping vine just starting to grow dull for the oncoming winter. It comes as no surprise that he picks up a slab of gray stone, a small hammer, and a chisel. It comes as no surprise that when he carries them off to the corner and sits down to work, there are eyes on his back.
The warden sets the slab in the dirt, turning is so that it sits straight. He takes a deep breath. The comfortable crackle of his magic is quiet, like it, too, is asking him why? But it knows, just as he knows, that Andras is a creature of habit, one that follows an unspoken law, sometimes to his detriment - so, they are also not surprised when the high pitched ting of chisel and stone is comforting, almost safe.
Almost.
Everything is almost safe. Maybe all of it is entirely safe. He wonders when he will get rid of his ghosts, when he will close his eyes and see something other than snakes or kings or monsters. He wonders when his life will be more than toast and walking and reading. He wonders why he is not satisfied with safety, why the thing in him still growls and bellows in his sleep, why he's chipping and chipping and chipping and it does not help him relax.
Andras wonders what it is to relax. He wonders what it is to be calm, to be peaceful, to be anything but an animal, full of gunpowder and lightning, feral in his bones, in his blood, in his rotten little heart. He wonders--
--The slab cracks in half. Andras stares for a moment, sets his jaw, and huffs. He picks up one half and holds it out to the next body that passes. "Here." he says, like he means it, like it matters. Maybe it does.
@anyone, you are welcome to bother or befriend him as you please!
here is magic in the darkness, building a ribbon of light which intrigues Mephsito as she soars high above the river. It glows with an otherworldly manner, piquing her curiosity as she dips lower – low enough to hear the voices which reach to the heavens in song. Murmuring quietly with intrigue, she follows the light and sound, mirroring the river’s path with each sweep of her wings, until at last she finds a quiet glade where she can investigate the glow on her own. Her eyes are bright with wonder, lips parted with a whisper as she speculates on the source. What are you? Her voice is low and quiet, even as a single firefly leaves the others to land upon her cheek, as she closes her eyes with a purr of satisfaction.
Humming quietly, the warg loses her sense of guardedness, letting nature’s magical moment wash over her. All around her, there is light and marvel, and Mephsito allows herself full immersion into the experience.
Her voice is husky and dark, soothing as a summer rain on a hot and sticky day. She sings of an old country, where lovers pine for one another and grief draw them back from being lost again. It is a song she’s known forever – a song from her homeland, a place she’d given very little thought as she’d grown up and away from it. But on nights like tonight where the moon is full and bright, where fireflies dance along her skin, she allows herself to be a young girl once more – lively and filled with hope.
“Aren’t you a lovely thing?” She murmurs to the firefly who fluttered at her cheek, turning into the pulsing wings with a wispy smile. “My grandmother used to tell me stories as a girl – that those who wished on a firefly’s light were sure to find their way.” Her voice grows quieter still, barely audible against the night. “I’ve done my share of searching – I could really use a wish right now…”
She turns then, voices vying in her mind – the eyes of night creatures who spy on intrusions, informing her that one grew closer. With a glance, Mephisto can see him hidden in the shadows, and an explanation hurries across her lips. “Don’t tell them you saw me wishing – I’m far too old for such follies.”
She welcomes the stranger’s presence, sighing whimsically as she stares at the midnight moon. “Still, it seems a night for magic… perhaps a night where wishes might come true.”
A dreamer’s sentiment from a pragmatist – it was a magical night, indeed.
Once long ago, there was a bedtime story parents told their children...
There’s a river below our home, and the roots of our garden, and below the streets running through our city. The river flows not with water and it does not race across a bed of rocks and rough metals. And this river does not run towards the sea like a river ought too.
This river below our hooves runs towards the mountains, and the sky, and the seconds woven together to make up our clouds..
Of course there is always more to the story, but somewhere between the light and the mountains all the children fell asleep. Each generation remembers the ‘more’ to the story differently. Some children dream of fish in the current, and their children dream of seaweed that whispers, and their children’s children dream of whales and sharks schooling together like a flock of morning doves in the bright river.
No one has ever discovered where the story began, or if it's a tale or truth, or if the river really is silver bright enough to be god-blood instead of water. And soon as the generations passed like seasons, and the world shifted into something more political than magical, the story was forgotten (buried beneath the layers and layers of forest loam and storm deposits left behind on the shoreline).
But perhaps they might start to remember and wonder when the first horse discovers the tree.
It started with four seeds, each blessed and watered on the way from the mountain to the plain. The tree does not start as a sapling or a small tangle of newborn roots. This tree blooms suddenly as the summer turns to fall and all the grasses start to turn brittle as the nights cool. No one remembers how it happened and no one saw the tree rise from the ground like a slumbering giant.
They might guess at it though, when the rumors of the tree start to race through Novus faster than the wind. And like that forgotten bedtime story the features of the tree change with each telling, and each court, and each glass of wine.
In reality the tree is just as magical as the stories suggest. But perhaps they have unstated the wonder of the stained glass trunk and the way that no matter the hour the glass bark shifts and shimmers like a cloudy twilight sky.
Perhaps they have left out the way the grass around the tree is sand-golden, or the way it seems to shift and blow in the wind like Solterra’s dunes that never stay in quite the same place as the day before.
Or perhaps the tale has changed so much in the telling that it’s forgotten how the flowers bloom red as
Delumine’s poppies that never fold their petals into slumber.
And perhaps the last teller of the story forgot to mention that the leaves do not seem like leaves at all, but like stars that dance in the breeze instead of the cosmos.
Does it matter in the end, when you discover the tree for yourself?
A tree has appeared so suddenly in the Plains that no one remembers a moment between when it was there and when it was not. The tree is surrounded by golden grass that from a distance might look like desert Dunes. The leaves are silver and seem to be stars hanging off the branches until one gets close enough to see that the ‘stars’ do look a tiny bit like leaves. The tree truck is not made of wood but glass that shifts and shimmers between every color the dusk sky has ever known. The flowers blooming from the leaves are dawn-red and they open towards both the moon and the sun.
No one knows how the tree came to be (besides suddenly) or no one knows why the tree has chosen the plains to tower over like a god. But everyone might wonder, especially when the ‘once’ forgotten tales start to circulate again.
How to Participate
Happy Three Year Anniversary Novus!
This is a single IC event post to celebrate the event. Your character may discover the tree up close, come with others or alone, or perhaps they only see the tree at a distance and do not brave coming closer. How you respond to this prompt is totally up to you.
You can reply to this thread with each character if you'd like, and each character will be awarded a +1EXP bonus. On top of that, each player will receive 100 signos for participating. Please do not claim either of these in the update threads, we will be awarding them directly from this thread and will post a note on the bottom of your reply once completed.
Her restless heart had once more cast her to the roads, back to the fundamental wanderings of a lost soul. Her curiosity had taken her here; to Delumine, Dawn Court, in the same way a moth is drawn effortlessly, dangerously, to a flame. There was not a better time to be there, the Black Doe would come to find, for the Autumnal Soltice was alive and tantalizing, tempting and pleasing. It was unlike anything she'd seen before, except for perhaps the Night Markets back... 'Home'. She still doesn't know the meaning of that word. She doesn't know if she ever will.
Slipping in like a shadow to the forest, making to the festivities was hardly a task. There's many things - too many things - to focus on, overwhelming and all-encompassing. Lighting the trees and enlivening the expanse of Viride with life, pulsing and awing. It's easy to find but difficult to regain her bearings, and before long she is reeling away from the activity, further and further away. Then the sounds are morphing into voices; soothing, calling, pulling voices that take her from the noise until it is only a murmur, din in the background. Instead, a slightly more defined voice replaces it and begins to whisper and kiss at her soft ears. Illuminated by the lantern's orange-glow, she turns to the side, then to another direction, the sinking feeling of longing aching so much in her chest she can hardly handle it. She can't even remember what that voice said to her, but oh how she wants to know; they have settled a heavy stone in the pit of her gut, a pining in her ribcage that seems exemplified by the fact that this always had been a constant, dull ache - but now, somehow, she wants for so much more.
Do you hear them?
Her entire body tenses as a shadow emerges from the undergrowth. It was the first time she'd ever seen someone captivate the same energy as she; even as the glow of a sun casts toward her, his brilliant orange eyes having the very same effect. Dark gray eyes meet his own with similar intensity, though her surprise is still worn on the way she holds herself. No matter how much his own glowing warmth felt welcoming (not so unlike the lanterns lit around them), it takes more than usual time for her to relax to the idea that this stranger had just peeled from the undergrowth, as though he had been here this entire time; as though he was simply waiting for a reason to make his presence known.
She knows what he speaks of. A slow nod offers him her answer; she can hear them, as raw and real as a deep wound cuts into her skin. It felt like they were exposing her, bit by bit, moment by moment, unfurling the thin of her skin until she was bare.
But what could they possibly find? Even she doesn't know what lies beyond... But she wants to. She wants to know where everything she encompasses came from. Wants to know where her dark fur comes from, wants to know what all this longing and searching is for. She wants, needs, desires, longs to know. Could these voices give her this answer? Is she a fool to hope?
Doe looks around, through the trees, into the undergrowth as though searching for it. Looking for some type of direction, some way. The stranger's voice fills in the background again, and what comes is something that resonates with her so much more than she likes.
They're only the voices of the lost. Some say they only sing to those who are also lost.
Tears threaten to sting her eyes. She knows she is lost - that's never been a question in her life. But these voices... Could they somehow be connected to her? Could they actually, truly understand? Gods, if there was any way that she has found understanding in such an unlikely place-
I suppose you've come for the festival path? Whether or not you believe the stories, you can't walk these woods without feeling the presence of something ancient and beautiful dwelling in the roots. Of course, not everything beneath this canopy is beautiful.
Perhaps you will learn what else haunts this forest tonight.
"Show me." The words come out in a terribly desperate way. Soft, yearning, wanting. She quite nearly begs, and the words fall at their hooves. Pleading and soft, feather-light and paper-thin. "Show me. Please."
She doesn't care if he's 'crazy'. She doesn't care if this is all a farce. She doesn't care if all she'll find are those stupid, beautiful violets - she just knows she needs to find something here, even if it's nothing. She has been captivated completely and totally into this trail without even taking a single step into it yet. She has become a victim to the callings and they needed only to speak soft nothings to her for her to fall.
But she wants to follow those lost voices. She wants to know what answers they can give her. She wants to know if there is a purpose in her life.
If there is a meaning for all this hunger.
She takes a step after the golden, yellow light. And another. And another.
Until the forest wraps around her and she is drawn further away from the light and into the totality of the wild.
We hope these fun and interactive seasonal prompts will encourage everyone to include them in their threads and use them to make some IC memories! Prompts will change with the seasons, and will always be available unless the court hosts a larger scale event.
If you complete a thread within the season using a current prompt, you will receive a 100 signo bonus paid from the Night Court Account! Please tag all thread with the proper season (Fall, Winter, Spring, Summer) for ease of tracking. Enjoy!
— ☾ —
Costume Party @ The Night Markets
With the arrival of fall comes another tradition within the Night Court to celebrate the season. The markets have been decorated with corn stalks, lanterns, pumpkins, acorns and more. Apple cider, mead and pumpkin pies are being served by merchants as well. This autumn, an All Hallows Eve costume party is being held; unique and/or scary costumes are encouraged, but any participation is welcome. On one particular night when the veil between the living and the dead wears thin, it's said that ghosts may lurk the dark corners of the alleys looking to haunt the festival-goers. It could also just be some horses taking their spooky transformations to heart to cause some trouble… or at least, that's what you could keep telling yourself.
Comfort Cook-off @ Sideralis Prairie
If the thought of fall does not immediately bring to mind the sight and smells of all manner of freshly made food, fear not. With the markets occupied for the costume party, Sideralis Prairie has been transformed this season into the home base for a melting pot of the best self-proclaimed bakers and cooks from all over Novus. They have set up shop at booths and stands lined across the drying grasses, offering their number one dish to the masses. There is plenty to choose from, as autumn brings with it an endless number of comfort foods to warm the heart and fill the belly, from stews to pies. Which one do you think is the best?
Wishing Lanterns @ Vitreus Lake
Travel to Vitreus Lake after the sun has set and watch the lanterns light, one by one, like stars blinking into existence. It is a tranquil and magical sight to behold, especially at a distance, to see how the lake truly appears as though it has become one with the sky above. Unlit paper lanterns line the lakeside, each one unique in size, shape and color, waiting to be chosen. Pick a lantern, light the candle inside as you make your wish, and set it upon the surface of the lake to float. Some may even place a small trinket inside the lantern, as an offering. Perhaps that thing you've been aching for might just come true?
