Anyone from any court is welcome to come participate in Terrastella’s festivities, which take place on the day of the autumnal equinox and celebrate the idea of equilibrium in all things, as equal as the day and the night are at this point in the year. To encourage posts, there are a few different incentives Rae, Syn and I have to offer you all!
ACTIVITY CONTEST:
For those who post in any of the festival’s events, there’s an
opportunity for signos rewards! At the end of the season, we’ll ask that you tally up the number of posts, post them in this thread, and I will use the sovereign stipend to double the number of signos you would normally receive (i.e. 10 signos per festival post rather than five). On top of that, the three members with the top number of festival posts will receive a special prize at the end of the season ?
SOLTERRAN MEDIC INITIATIVE:
The lovely Syn has pledged 50 signos to those who complete a thread for the Solterran seasonal event (a battle tournament in the colosseum). For healers/medics who travel to Solterra to patch up participants and are able to conclude a full thread, I’ll match her pledge and make it an even 100 signos per completed thread with a Solterran warrior!
RANDOM EVENTS:
Each festival thread has a chance of receiving a random encounter (unless you specify that you don’t want one, which is fine too—just note it in your thread!). Rae and I will roll a 10 sided die in Discord to determine whether a random event occurs; numbers 1-5 will receive a personalized thread prompt, a small signos reward, or other random event. If you have requests or suggestions for an occurrence, feel free to let us know!
PROMPT:
"AN HONEST PRAYER"
From the dusty basement of the citadel, a statue is retrieved.
Vespera stands there in full height, a carefully polished body made of gleaming purple, pink and red opal. Her idol is anointed with sacred, scented, oil and positioned with care in the very center of the town square, where Terrastellans are encouraged to pray at her feet, seek solace in her gemstone eyes, or leave gifts of seasonal fruits, flowers, homemade trinkets or other favors. Everyone, even those visiting from other courts, are encouraged to come pay their respects. But still—Terrastella’s trust in its visitors is not blind. Two sentinels stand watchfully from the corners of the square. Woe to those who dare to come with anything but good intentions.
Dusk’s exports are most commonly “Mediterranean”—stewed fruit, olive oil, hard cheeses—but the autumnal equinox celebration observes the creation of a less popular Terrastellan good. Citizens are encouraged to come participate in crafting Terrastellan sweet wine in the vineyard between the city and the cliffs, where winemakers have set out tubs of yeast-blanketed grapes for participants to crush.
The mood here is livelier than perhaps any other of the Court’s celebrations. Music plays loudly from the dining hall. Candlelight floods the rows of vines and bottles of alcohol are happily passed around. For those looking to really let loose, this is the place to be.
The coastline of Praistigia Cliffs is lit with the warm glow of bonfire after bonfire, a bright yellow blush of flames against the dark blue sky followed by plumes of gray smoke. A mile-long stretch on the edge of the cliffs is dotted with evenly spaced pyres, towering well above the horizon; and everywhere you look, there is someone waiting their turn to step up.
One at a time, the citizens of Dusk are encouraged to throw their worries into the fire. These might be relationship problems, anxieties about the future, the weight of losing a loved one, or any other personal griefs, most often written down on slips of paper or as full-blown letters and tossed on the pyre to burn away.
But often even heavier things must be dealt with. Sometimes, it’s said, when the truly guilt-ridden step up for their turn, ghosts of the past will take form in the smoke—especially those spirits with unfinished business.
The last and perhaps the calmest of the festivities takes place in the orchards that border the swamp. Here, long rows of decades-old apple trees hang heavy with fruits painted in vibrant shades of red, yellow, and pink, waiting to be picked. Wicker baskets are stacked at the entrance of the grove, free to use for easier collection, and everyone may take as many as they can carry. In the spirit of the equinox—focused on give and take, the equilibrium of an evenly split night and day—for every apple someone takes or eats, they are encouraged to plant a seed in its place, to ensure the continued growth and expansion of the orchard for decades to come.
A letter arrives!
There is a large white owl that awaits Apolonia as she returns from the dunes. It sits patiently on the gates of Day Court, carefully above all the sand and dust. As the young mare passes below, the owl swoops low and drops the small scroll at her feet.
The writing is neat, the words simple. The paper itself is almost homely; bits of rose petals and thyme pressed into the pulp. The emissary picked it up from the marketplace when she had, oddly enough, been struck with pity by the sight of an old blind woman selling all manner of simply made things.
I would like for you to be my guest of honor at the Second Harvest festival in Terrastella.
The festivities begin on the day of the equinox. Find me at dusk near the sea.
For reasons unknown, the Dawn Court has always been particularly reverent of the fall. Perhaps it is the smell of change in the air; or the brilliance of the forest’s changing colors; or maybe it is the spirits said to walk the earth each night.
They say magic is stronger around the equinoxes, that the land itself comes alive when the earth comes into balance. According to legend, the tenuous threads separating our world from the spirit realm begin to fray around the autumn solstice, allowing the two to blend together. Sometimes, ghosts of loved ones can be seen wandering the meadows at night, said to be looking for family, friends, and the things they left behind. But just as the spirits are allowed to walk in the land of the living for the night, so too can the living become trapped in the spirit world if they are not careful… or so they say.
Regardless, the entire Court has been decorated for the festivities. Lights hang from every building, every tree, every fence, turning Delumine into a blaze of color and firelight. In Illuster Meadow the flowers seem to have been replaced with lights, and citizens and guests alike can come forward to weave together grass-lanterns and braid light-flowers in their manes. In the Gardens of the court they can carve all manners of statues and jack-o-lanterns. Along the Rapax, an odd game of firefly catching seems to have started, fueled by the music of a lute. And somewhere in Viride, a strange trail is waiting to be explored.
This event will be open the entire fall season, until July 31st! Participating in this event will allow you to claim IC Event Experience, as well as some event-specific prizes. There will be three prompts for you to participate in, as well as an interactive quest. Simply post a new thread in the corresponding board with [fall] in the title!
Illuster Meadow's Light Festival
There is almost no darkness to be found in the meadow tonight. Even the sky, with its layers of bruise-blue, seem faded above the brightness of the meadow.
Between the tall end-of-summer grasses there are no red flowers to be found. There is only brightness blooming, face up like moon-petals, as far as the eye can see. Each flower and each stalk of grass is frosted in star-dust. Each chimes out a bell-song as the horses gather to stroll between the not-stars. Where perhaps other courts revel in the darkness, and the constellation stories waiting to be told, Delumine revels in the brightness.
And as the night goes on it's almost easy to pretend the meadow is waiting to be explored beneath the dawn instead of the moonlight.
There are strange shapes cut out of the grass. Trails perhaps, or symbols of an arcane religion almost everyone has forgotten. Perhaps the wondering takes over, but there is not a single soul in the meadow who knows what the shapes mean. But perhaps it takes only stumbling across the first bowl of fruit surrounded by small lavender scented candles to decide to live only in the moment. Whatever the reason there is to all this--- well surely it must be something vital?
Somewhere there is singing. The notes rise up like bird-flocks. Crowds are dancing between the light flowers. Children are gathered off to the side, each braiding strings of light-flowers in another child's mane. Their laughter hums below the music like a pulse. Winter seems so very far away here in the meadow with the laughter and the poetry.
Maybe it'll never come.
Tonight is not the night for worry, but rather to dissolve into the strange air of celebration that hangs over the entire meadow like a thick, magic fog.
Carvings in the Garden
The garden is full of more than darkness, and sunshines, and hours, in the autumn. Between the foliage and flowers there are echoes. Some are made of bone. Others are made of driftwood, or squashes, or marble chiseled with tools sharp enough to carve words into the bones of their wielders. There are no names to grace the bases of the echoes, only leaves woven around the stone, and wood, and bone, and lights shining from their carved eyes.
At the start of the path, one twisting between the gardens scattered around the court proper, is a single statue of a horse. The horse is carved from marble with lines of blue and golden glitz running through it. His head is thrown back and his teeth flash in the sunlight and shimmer in the moonlight. Some say it looks like he’s screaming and others say he’s only bellowing a hallelujah. One child thought he looked like a singing angel.
What everyone can agree on though, is that the curl of his neck and the length of his lashes sparks a memory that they all seem to share.
Who is this mystery stallion?, the question turns the air in the court electric as the start of a late summer storm.
Perhaps the answer lies in discovering the pattern of other statues hidden in the garden. Perhaps the stallion is the end of the story rather than the beginning. Perhaps it’s the bear rearing up on his high legs with a fish caught between his teeth that should be the start of the story. Or maybe the story begins in the middle somewhere between the stag with the gemstone antlers and the bird with wings woven out of pearls.
Maybe there is no pattern at all. Maybe the story is in the suggestion of order in the way stone and wood rise from the flowers like creatures not yet named.
Whatever the story, it’s clear by the placement of the banquet table with bits of stone, wood, and bone scattered across it (under which lay baskets of tools), that each horse wandering through the path surely has something else to add to the weaving, wonderful tale.
A Mysterious Game Along the Rapax
At first it seems as if the river is stitched together with strands of stars instead of lines of white-froth water. The rocks seem nothing more than bits of dead stars caught in a current of light, or perhaps they are stones caught in the creation of another world. Light pools upwards on the undersides of the leaves arching fat and wide across the racing river. The leaves dance in the wind like night-moths with a whispering song too soft to understand twisting around their branches like vines.
And perhaps this is the first time that Delumine, deep in the throes of night, seems not like soft rising of the sun. Because tonight, by the river stitched of light, Delumine has become the dawn of another world (one blessed not by the gods but by wonder).
The first horses that gather by the bright-drenched river, notice only the way the light reflects off the world. And the second group of horses only notices the way the light races with the current but never seems to fade.
It’s the third group of horses that discover the magic.
A poet and his band, long weary of the dancing and the tame parts of the festival, stumble upon the shoreline. Their eyes are all watery with liquor and their tongues loose from the thick-drunk hangover of song, and merriment, and idolatry. Each inch of their skin feels like art to them, like words and immortality melded down into flesh and bones. Perhaps it’s why the flute player steps into the current and starts to hum (or perhaps it has something to do with the way his doe eyes seem too liquid for this hour of the night).
The reason perhaps, does not matter, only the effect of his soft, lilting, humming song.
It starts with a single thread of light pulling away from the river and twisting itself like a crown across his brow. More threads of light join it, laying themselves down upon his spine and between the tangles of his mane. Soon his friends join in and together they discover that the threads of light are not lights, or stars, or godsblood.
The magic is not magic at all. Each spindle of light is made of fireflies that dance together so tightly that their wings weave, and tangle, and hum like a canvas begging for creativity. The only magic it seems, is that there are millions of them, in this single patch of the river.
No one bothers to wonder at the reason for them. Each horse is too concerned with luring the fireflies to their skin.
Soon it’s discovered that song, and music, and nothing more than voice and dance, woo them into falling upon flushed skin instead of water. And so the contest begins, with each horse trying to coax the fireflies into forsaking every form but their own.
At the end of the event, all firefly-catching threads will be entered into a raffle! One winner will receive a free unique item that attracts fireflies to them whenever the wielder chooses. Completing a firefly catching thread will also award you a free accessory item, with an enchantment that allows it to glow like a firefly.
A Walk in the Woods
There's a tradition in Delumine, one as old as any can remember. A path stretches through the forest, a weaving, winding path that seems forgotten most days of the year. But on each autumnal solstice, the trail is revived.
Each year it is decorated with fairylights, and lanterns, and flowers. At the end of the path is an ancient tree, a tree that legend says once used to be a young woman. It’s said spirits walk the path on the equinox, when the threads between our world and the spirit world are stretched said. It is also said that walking this sacred trail can reveal visions, and ghosts of loved ones. But the line between life and death is blurred this night - those who brave the forest need be careful to stay focused on the present and not give into temptation. It is easy to become lost this night, particularly for those who wander alone...
It’s quiet here; the festival is no louder than a whisper on the wind now, the lanterns a gently-winking light in the distance. Nature mutters softly all around you, calling to you in the rustling of the grass, in the chatter and chirrups of birdsong overhead, in the whistling of the nearby river. The clearing you find yourself in has been carefully trimmed - grass cut short, hedges shaped meticulously, fairy lights strung between the trees - but beyond the lantern-light the forest grows wild. Beyond the tangles of vines and blankets of moss there are shadows, rustling in the leaves, pressing eagerly in.
There’s a voice, too, soft and barely-there; you have to strain to hear it, but it seems to fade away soon after you notice it. A moment later, you can’t remember the words; only the ache they left in your chest, a sense of longing for something you can’t quite name -
“Do you hear them?”
A tall figure peels away from the trees. His dappled coat blends into the green of the forest, but his gold eyes are bright against his surroundings, staring at you intently. Above his brow hovers a miniature sun, ribbons of white light casting his features with sharp edges.
Do you? Perhaps you think the voice is only a figment of your imagination, the whispering of the wind through the trees. Perhaps you’ve grown up with the stories of the forest, and discount its oddities as nothing more than wishful thinking and folklore. Or maybe it is the stories that have brought you here today, the promise of something other hiding here between the trees. And so you’ve followed the voices muttering in languages long forgotten, an inkling in the back of your mind that brought you by instinct to this meadow. No matter the reason, you find yourself in the same place as all the strangers before you, staring at the start of this almost forgotten path.
“They’re only the voices of the lost,” the stranger continues on, gently nudging the ivy from their path as they step forward. “Some say they only sing to those who are also lost.” His tone is wistful, as if a part of him wishes to join the ones he’s lost in whatever hidden places they run through. For a moment he is quiet, reflecting on them. And then -
“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.” The gold of his eyes seems to brighten, staring at you with renewed intensity. He laughs quietly, indulgently, and muses almost to himself. “Of course, not everything beneath this canopy is beautiful.” His words send a shiver down your spine, and you lean in closer as his voice drops so low you almost miss his next words: “perhaps you will learn what else haunts this forest tonight.”
He takes a step back, so that nothing stands between you and the pathway into the wood. The miniature sun remains, dancing just above the beaten trail, the light within it waving at you. As if it already knows, when it begins to retreat down the forest trail, that you will follow along behind it.
“Or perhaps I’m just as crazy as everyone says I am, and all you’ll find hiding here are a dozen of the most beautiful violets. As you walk down this path and enjoy the beauty the gardeners have curated for your enjoyment, remember to not stray far from the trail. There are treasures to find, if they interest you, but not all of them will be worth the risk.” His voice grows softer, as he retreats once more into the shadows of the forest. “All you have to do is follow the lost voices…”
And then you are alone in the forest, with the miniature sun calling you forward. Perhaps a friend stands by your side, or a bonded, or a stranger; perhaps you have decided to wander the forest alone, despite the warnings. But as you step upon the beaten dirt, a sense of anticipation fills the air and stills the trees. And you can’t resist following after that glowing light, wondering what the forest has in store for you.
To begin the quest, you must post a new thread in the Viride Forest board and depict your character beginning the pathway. Please include [quest] somewhere in your thread title, and tag the @Official Dawn Account! You will receive an NPC reply to your thread to continue the event. This event will be interactive - in each NPC reply, your character will be given a choice. Whatever they decide will influence the rest of the quest for them.
This quest can be taken alone or in groups. If writing with two or more characters, each RPer must make a unanimous decision for each choice.
As a note, various pathways will reveal various endings and award various rewards! Be sure to finish your thread to reap the fruits of your labor.
Posted by: Pan - 05-31-2020, 06:11 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (2)
Pan
The festivals had taken a toll on Pan. For days, he’d spent his time in the Night Court, enjoying the revelry and taking in the sights. He’d danced with beautiful girls, touched exotic silks, tossed dice with pirates, and eaten so much that he could barely move. Long into the nights, he’d celebrated with the citizens of Novus, sleeping long into the morning so he could reset to begin it all again the next evening. It was a welcome thing, after being locked away on the island for the past many moons. The boy loved the company, the liveliness, and the spirit of the celebration, even if it did wear him out.
He napped in the dappled sunlight, uncaring of who saw him sprawled in an ungainly manner in the grass. His green eyes are closed, his mouth still formed into a smile, and his scaled belly blinks and twinkles in the sunlight, greeting the world. It could be strange, seeing a horse sleeping on its back – but then, Pan had never been conventional. A small otter naps beside him, curled neatly into a ball of warm russet fur. Not far beyond the furry creature is Pan’s satchel, slung carelessly over a rock, heavy with Pan’s treasures (junk by any other name).
The boy made an interesting picture for the stranger to stumble upon, only taking heed of the approaching stallion when his shadow blotted out the sun. With a yawn, Pan blinks up at Michael, slowly making out his form against the halo of sunlight which surrounds him, offering a sleepy boyish grin. What time is it? he asks hazily, yawning as he rolls to his feet, shuffling off the last remnants of sleep as he sluggishly makes his way toward the satchel. Rummaging through it, he draws out an apple pastry, nibbling on the crust while fishing out a second one for his friend. Want some? He offers it with a friendly smile, nothing but naïve trust in his mannerisms.
Such was the way of the lost boy and his trusty otter companion – too foolish for self preservation – too unquestioning. It was good that Michael is the one who approached him, and not one of a more nefarious nature – though even then, Pan would have found the good. He always finds the good.
Did you come from the party? Nevermind that it was morning now, and the celebration wouldn’t begin again until dusk. As far as the boy was concerned, the gathering never really ended. He was eager to take every bit of it, banishing away his loneliness with every stranger he meets.
Rufio is drawn to the sea. It reminded him of home – and however much he hated the circumstances which had trapped him in Neverland, he missed it. He thought of the sandy shores, the crystal blue water, the tropical lushness of the jungle. It was a veritable paradise (albeit a lonely one), and he’d dreamed of easier days on the shores for some time now. So it is not unusual that the boy is on the shores, staring out to the ocean while his companion rested on a nearby pile of golden sand, gnawing on a crab she’d unearthed from the tidepools.
Waves crashed, and Rufio closed his eyes to imagine he was somewhere else. Somewhere further from this hellhole. He didn’t hold any affection for Solterra, but it was as good of a place as any to hang his hat. Once, he’d pledged to support the king’s cause. Raum… that was his name. But after his task was completed, Rufio had decided it wasn’t worth his time to return. War had come, and he’d wanted no part of it. So the metalworker had simply wandered around Novus, managing to stay out of the sight of others, keeping a low profile.
Sunlight beams down and cascades in prismatic light from his elaborate golden adornments. They chatter when the wind blows, creating a melodic tone which he found pleasing. There is another sound now though, one which suggests that his days of being alone were over. He turns, eyes flashing hot as they fall on her form, a sneer wrapping around his lips as he motions his companion to his side. Asha, come. The command is not spoken, but instead is a sort of telepathy he shares with the hyena alone, as she yips and makes her way to his side. Both of them stare at Lucinda for a moment, silence masked only by the quiet wash of water against sand.
"What are you staring at, Girl?” He huffs at the stranger, waiting for her to answer as his tail flicks impatiently against striped hocks. If he were intimidated by her jagged horns and haughty stare, Rufio didn’t show it. Instead, he simply juts his chin out further, stubbornness set as he regards her warily – not entirely disappointed at finding some company, but certainly not letting that show.
It's the Full Moon on a late summer night and what better way to spend it than doing target practice?
Morrighan couldn't sleep, as per usual. Unfortunately, her insomnia has gotten increasingly worse since becoming pregnant. She figured she may as well start using her extra time awake feeling restless to do something productive. Perhaps it can even be therapeutic and she can take out her frustrations on some corn stalks and sticks.
Bram helps her put together four targets in a row. They managed to find the flattest possible spot in the prairie, which wasn't exactly easy. One target is still at a slant and another is higher than the rest, but it's better than nothing.
While her magic has gotten stronger over time, she still finds herself getting tired more quickly when conjuring fire out of thin air. It typically works more easily if she has the help of some kindling or dried grass. Therefore, it will be important for her to practice in case none of that is around her during combat.
Focusing her eyes on the first target, she conjures a small ball of fire. It hovers by her side and slowly lifts up to eye level. Morr knows she has to act more quickly or she'll use up her energy too fast. She takes a deep breath and on her exhale, she launches the fire towards the target. Of course, she misses and it lands about a foot away from the actual target and sets a section of the grass on fire. As quickly as she can, she trots forward to stamp it out. The movement is a bit uncomfortable being so much wider than she usually is. Her normal gate is replaced with mostly waddling, but she tries to ignore the discomfort.
Maybe this won't be therapeutic.
Morrighan decides this time to step closer to see if she'll have more luck not being at such a distance. Hopefully in time, she'll be able to hit a target from farther away so she can make surprise attacks on her opponent.
As she readies herself for another try, there is movement to her right and it's in the form of another horse. She can hear Bram growling nearby.
"Moira," he says through their bond, but Morr doesn't break concentration just yet. Instead, she lifts her dagger into the air and it ignites until it's surrounded by bright flames. The weapon is pointed directly at Moira as she approaches, but Morr does not throw it (as much as she'd like to). For now, it stays close by.
"What do you want?" she hisses, her tone being a combination of disgust and dread. This is the last horse she'd want to talk to on a sleepless night.
