The sun was just beginning to rise over Terrastella and Rhone decided that this particular morning, he would watch the sunrise over the cliffs. It was a part of his new home that he had yet to explore, and he figured it would be a good place to see as well as a good place for some silent reflection. You see, Rhone had not been the greatest steward of the gifts he had been given. He’s made a lot of mistakes in his life and now he was paying so dearly for them. At least here, he was able to come to terms with the life he had been given and try to make his stay here in Novus far more beautiful than he had ever expected it to be.
He stood a safe distance from the edge of the cliff, his eyes looking out over the waterline and watching as the sun began to slowly crest over the horizon. The wind whipped through his mane, stinging his eyes and reminding him that he was still alive. He heaved a giant breath, feeling the way the salty sea air stung his lungs. And yet, it felt refreshing.
Eyes looked down to the ground beneath his feet, the dirt blowing in the wind. The land had been ravished far before he had ever arrived. But after the meeting with his other court members, he had volunteered to make this place beautiful again, a little bit at a time. Even though he had not met the gods of this land, he said a silent prayer to Brighton, the god that he had been born to worship.
As his prayer came to a close, the area around him began to sprout grass. It was only a small area, his magic small and limited. But he could feel his magic course through his veins and he enjoyed the way it made his body tingle. Out of the grass sprouted flowers and a single budding tree. It would take years for this small tree to grow into adulthood, but it would have a great start at life. Rhone made sure to implant its roots well, so the wind from the cliffs would not blow it right over.
And when he was satisfied with his small 15ft radius of beauty, he sighed as his magic began to dim. Already he could feel his energy drain. Tomorrow, he would start on the next patch and each day, a new patch would sprout. In due time, this place would be beautiful, he knew it would be.
What the actual fuck? Rufio appeared in Novus on a day when the autumn sun was hot and high in the sky. Blinking, he opens his eyes, finding himself somewhere entirely different than where he’d started. Where he expected to see the lush jungles of Neverland, to hear the whispering chorus of the sea, there was only desert. Far as his eyes could see, the dunes stretched high to the heavens… and Rufio knew that the magic had screwed him again.
Dusting himself off, the stallion sighed an audible sigh, stamping about in the soft sand. His chains glowed hot from the sunlight, jingling with every step. From the look of him, it was clear to the average passerby that Rufio was a punk. His fur is dark, except for where it blends to zebra-like stripes on his legs. Atop his head is a red and black mohawk mane, adorned with golden baubles and chains. His lips twist into a sneer as cold silver eyes peer over the landscape. Desert. Just great.
Neverland was a veritable sort of paradise – so unlike the harshness of Mors. Instantly, he began to miss the lushness of his home. He missed the brine of the sea air, the cry of the gulls, the wash of the waves. Though some might find beauty in the golden dunes, there was little more than disdain given to the land by Rufio. All he wanted was to go back home.
How he’d gotten here was something of a mystery too. He’d been fine, alone and minding his own business, when the magic had sucked him up into a vortex. Something deep within him worries that perhaps Neverland was gone entirely now. Already, it had been abandoned by the rest of the orphan lost boys. Even Pan, who had told them over and over that Neverland was his one true home, had gone again. For a time, Rufio had thought the green boy would return to them. For a time, he’d almost forgiven Pan for the first time he’d left. Showing his true colors though, he’d vanished once more. It was hard to trust a child with wanderlust in his veins… for even though Pan had a home in Neverland, he was never satisfied with staying in one place.
Rufio on the other hand… Rufio never wanted to leave. Though he doesn’t wear the same mantle of youth as his once-friend Pan, he had never lost his child-like attitude and angst. There is a callousness with which he views the world, disdainful of “adults” who put themselves into petty squabbles and drama. In truthfulness, the black and red stallion wanted to stay out of such politics. He wanted to just be left alone.
And now, that’s what he was… alone in a new and forlorn place. Accepting this fate, he gathers his wits about him, and starts walking. After all, if Rufio couldn’t change his circumstances, he’d be better off getting out of the heat than sweltering to death with no one to hear his cries.
mischief managed.
@Raum | "speaks" | notes: <3 let's get this party started!
You cannot make a man by standing a sheep on its hind-legs.
Restless like the wind, the mourning dove shifts under the setting sun's final gasping moments. She eases through trees and mud alike, remembering fondly the squelching of mud underfoot as a mere girl, the horrified gasps as she'd trail it through temple rooms until set at the dinner table only to be banned until not a speckle from her feet could be seen. How many nights had her Priestesses made her go hungry, watched with condescending faces while she withered away ,while she learned and flourished under their tutelage? The smile that now curls pale lips is nothing short of serene and unearthly, as unsettling as the marsh wren chirping. Only echoing silence greets them, a roaring abyss that swallows all sound and lets none live too long.
But this is her home.
Juniper has learned the sinkholes that once were, her wings spread to lift her above foliage and wetlands that would otherwise be impossible to cross by foot. The breeze whispers to her, tickles her with a warm welcome, pulls the sweat from her skin as she delves deeper and deeper into the heart of the Tinea. Just ahead a reptile slithers back into the waters, beady eyes watching as she floats above. Pale as death, pale as a phantom, she merely winks and watches it fully submerge, watches as its water-trail disappears in search of distant prey. Vines fall from ancient trees whose branches don't even listen to the howling of those high currents far above, water splashes, reaching up, up, up to sully her pristine coat, to cover her cloak, but it isn't quite high enough. She pulls higher, just under the canopy that is as aware of her as she is of it; every beat of her wings draws autumnal leaves closer, sweltering sweat-drops from the sky falling to mist her coat once more.
The fall never was as harsh as the winters. So she lands then, settles in alongside the broad expanse of a small clearing hidden away, a pool of water gurgling on the other side. Sinafay adored coming to this part, this one place of peace that rocked them to sleep in the summer heat after they'd indulged on fat, succulent berries falling heavily from their branches. It is here where she settles, a petite expanse of sky settling into the tall grasses, humming and crooning to the buzzing of crickets and dragonflies alike.
he knew the lie of silence to be as evil as the lie of speech.
Distant lands ring with bells and voices, horrors unfold and borders are closed. But they do not touch Terrastella, not yet, not quite. Here, the sun rises with the crispness of a new morning. Here, the world is born anew as their King returns at last. Dusk celebrates upon his return, people fill the streets and sing and dance and laugh.
Their glee is electricity in the air, drifting to the woman who once may have been a mourning dove or a changling, who wears storms as a cloak and laughs as she brushes, shoulder to shoulder, against the priestesses who have gathered within the walls of the court. For now, Juniper can relax. No messages yet are to be delivered, no vital information to exchange hands, no volley of arrows trying to catch her as she streaks through the skies above. Her heart lurches as she looks there, to the cloudless blue, and sighs when the sun kisses her upturned face.
What she would give to thread through the currents, but Jun is short on candles and paper and food, her shelves painfully bare. So into the masses of merriment she dives, not yet having met those outside of the Halcyon group (and very few within, as it stands), and still a stranger upon these streets. Bright, blossoming eyes dance along stalls like dewdrops on daisies, kiss bare shoulders and blushing cheeks brazenly and without regrets. This sweltering heat from bodies thrust together in throngs and crowds pushes the temple into her mind. The priestesses were not a large group, but they were enough to make her feel welcomed and comforted. This... This overflowing, unending pressure and pressing from the masses has Jun dipping behind a stall, disappearing into an alley.
Perhaps coming out when their King made his appearance is not the wisest idea she's had. Perhaps it would be best to let her belly growl and grumble, returning to the barracks that hold so few precious belongings once more. Ah, but first, should she go to the shrine, should she pray to her goddess for this bright and beautiful day?
Interested in creating a sub-group within one of Novus’ Courts? You’ve come to the right place! All you have to do is fill out the form and post it below. Once it has been reviewed, we will contact you regarding the acceptance of your group.
Please be aware of the following when applying:
Each court has two sub-group openings. Be sure to check availability prior to sending an application!
Sub-groups are not permanent. They are susceptible to being dismantled by way of removing the leader, either through imprisonment or death. Should another member of the group wish to continue it, they must obtain permission from the original player and re-apply.
We ask that you have a minimum of three other players interested in joining your sub-group prior to applying. You can use the Discord #recruitment channel to drum up interest, advertise, gain members, or answer questions!
Once approved, your sub-group will have its own channel in the discord for members only! To add people to your channel, message staff.
<b>Name:</b> YOUR OOC NAME ON NOVUS
<b>Character:</b> LINK TO THE CHARACTER YOU PLAN TO HAVE LEAD THE SUB-GROUP
<b>Interested Players:</b> NAMES OF THE PLAYERS INTERESTED IN JOINING
<b>Name of Sub-group:</b> THE NAME OF THE SUB-GROUP
<b>Description of Ideals:</b> WHAT ARE THE SUB-GROUPS BELIEFS, GOALS, ETC.
<b>Sub-group Backstory:</b> PROVIDE A BRIEF BACKSTORY FOR THE SUB-GROUP; CAN EITHER BE A GROUP THAT EXISTED IN THE CHARACTER'S PAST OR A DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DROVE THE CHARACTER TO CREATE A NEW ONE
<b>Location:</b> WHICH COURT WILL THE SUB-GROUP BE BASED IN
<b>Notes:</b> ANYTHING ELSE YOU WOULD LIKE TO INCLUDE.
She could not help but recall the night they had crossed paths, the way the rain fell so sharp that it felt like pin pricks upon her glistening skin... the way the thunder cracked so viciously, like a bullwhip snapping at the heels of its mark; that was the night Avdotya’s suspicions of an abandoned crow swelled into bloom. Indeed, not only had he pressed the blade of his dagger to Solterra’s velvet throat, but he’d ran it across - gently, though, not quite deep enough to bleed the nation dry, but sufficient in the way it left them wounded and gasping for relief. Day Court was once again under the fire of chaos and calamity, and there sat Raum upon its broken throne.
It was with silence, then, that the viper prowled its empty streets. She was swift as the wind with the palace in her sights, the curves of carved stone peeking over weathered sandstone walls. He was in there... somewhere within a crow preens, plotting the moves and countermoves of a war yet to come, but Avdotya had her own intentions as the dawn of his empire was beginning. Her interests did not rest in the foolish squabbles of courts, kings and queens and she had long since denied any power a simple crown held over her.
But this was opportunity, one that granted her the ability to take advantage of Raum’s fragility as the head of a nation that would surely eat him alive if given the chance. She would be the first to assure him of that.
So she wound her way into the palace’s open courtyard, her body a shining beacon from the sweat that soaked her. Even as the sun had only just reached the dark edge of the horizon, introducing Solterra to its new reality, Avdotya could feel the intensity of the heat. She thrived in it, in fact the mare even reveled in it - the desert fueled her feral heart regardless of the claustrophobic sandstone walls that surrounded the capitol. That wildness was why she was here, it was why she stood before the palace steps with a nobleman’s head strapped firmly to her shoulder. It was why she summoned Raum from the depths of his stronghold.
”Raum!" Her voice boomed through the morning’s lull, and with it the ground around her began to shudder. It rumbled with the thrum of her magic and reached its earthy tendrils up into the walls, shaking the dust from them and - she hoped - enticing the king enough to heed her call...
... and when he did, she drove the blunt end of her spear into the dirt, loosing the head from its ties and thrusting it upon her weapon's jagged arrowhead. Staring up at Raum from atop its pike were the lifeless eyes of one of House Hajakha’s most favoured members, his tongue hung boorishly from his unhinged jaw and filled with maggots crawling from every orifice.
Avdotya, too, looked up at him from her place at the edge of the king’s doorstep, offering only the slightest play at a curtsy dripping with cynicism; she was where he would find the fires of Solterra. ”There are matters that need discussing.”
leep beckons to him. A nightingale’s crooning, honey-sweet lullaby.
But Caine does not succumb. He merely grits his teeth, darkens his scowl, and wills himself to lift one hoof in front of the other, over and over, over and over. Like clockwork. You have traveled further distances than this, he reminds himself, and exhaustion laughs in his face.
The sickle moon hangs sallow and weak in the hazy, starless sky. He has a night’s journey left still to undertake before he will finally see the golden sands of the Mors, and beyond that, the ivory palaces of the Sun Court. He has not eaten for three nights, has not slept for two. Staying a moment longer on the smoking shores of Vectaeryn — a fresh surge of hatred pulses through him, when he remembers the gilded extravagance of his birthplace — is a fate worse than a fortnight of hunger and sleeplessness.
He reminds himself of the fact dourly, though this time it is thirst that cackles at his suffering. The pool of light, though strange and lovely in its strangeness, had done nothing to slake Caine’s burning thirst. The water, if it could be called that, had sat upon his tongue like oil and slipped down his throat as substanceless as light itself. A reprieve for nothing but the tediousness of his mind.
The stubble-short grass of the Eleutheria pricks like needles against his ankles, and Caine wishes to do nothing else but take to the skies and leave the menacing earth far, far below. His wings, when he flexes his sore shoulders, gripe angrily at his sides. Let us rest, they hiss at him, and mollified, he listens.
A shadow passes over Caine's features. Later, he will say that he does not remember what had possessed him in that moment.
Softly, he begins to hum.
It starts off hesitant and wavering, like a toddler wobbling on unsteady legs. His silver eyes narrow in concentration, adjusting the tune of his voice, sifting through the vault of his memories.
And slowly, the melody comes.
The music box had been his only possession the first few years he had spent wandering the halls of Agenor’s mansion. He had been left mostly alone, then, the sorcerer only visiting once a day right after sundown, and only for the span of a single hour — never more, never less. Caine remembers those days with longing, sometimes. Agenor had been almost kind.
He had found the golden box, no bigger than a teacup, in the dusty corners of a forbidden room. (There had been many, and he had only been brave enough to stray into one.) He hadn’t known what it was. Not until his curious touch had triggered a hidden latch, and the bezeled lid sprang open like a clam's.
And then, to his fascination, a song had poured forth from the mouth of a spinning, golden stag.
Agenor had confiscated the magical trinket, his expression livid, when the boy had worked up the courage to show it to him a few weeks later. Caine never found it again, but he’d never forgotten the haunting melody.
Weariness and anger and longing erodes the knife-sharp edges of the midnight assassin until he is nothing more than a boy. A boy, humming a song his voice struggles to give a life to.
He does not capture it right. The song lives and dies in his memories. Caine's footsteps stumble to a halt, and there, in the soulless expanse of the Eleutheria, he stands unmoving and silent for a long time.
The first rays of blue dawn peek over the groggy horizon when he finally moves again.
@Moira | "speech" | notes: he really just needs some sleep
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
There is no grand procession as Raum arrives at Solterra’s citadel gates. There is no welcome to greet him or congratulate his victory. But how could there ever be, when he wears the blood of their beloved queen upon his chest?
There is no break of stride, not as the great gates are pulled open in silence, the only noise the sound of grating, heavy wood upon stone. The new Solterran king does not flinch at the citizens who bare there teeth and spit upon the floor. Ah, the memory of his betrayal is still strong. No Denocte dog has ever taken the crown here, least of all a Crow.
Behind him Legion follows. Still he is savage, a dog fighting it’s leash but following as it thirsts and begs for sustenance. Poison drips along their bond as Legion dreams of fangs upon Raum’s skin, of his torso exploding into stone as his great herd of raven elks once did.
Not even such violent thoughts from his monster, is enough to make Raum blanch. Though maybe something twists within him. Maybe something dies a little more, turning cold as ice.
Legion’s tail twitches and patrons scatter before it, dust swirls beneath the sun, forming a cloud that plumes and reaches for the unwavering sun. Raum’s skin is moonlight silver, bright as a dagger beneath the glare of the Solterran daylight. Sweat blooms and glistens across his skin and his body begs to limp, to expose the punishing blow Seraphina laid upon his back. Yet he does not let it. Oh how Raum forces one foot before the next, as though he were liquid, smoothly pouring, like a river, through Solterra’s narrow, dusty streets.
The steps to Solterra’s citadel keep are high and many. Raum ascends and Legion follows, with wings and feet gouging into stone that keens into the hot air. Steps were not made for monsters such as he:
Cities and citadels were not made to contain me, but fall at my bidding. Legion hisses to Raum in promise as he returns to fraying their connection, like a beak upon a rope.
“One day you shall be free.” Raum says simply, softly, as if Legion’s freedom did not equal his own demise. As if a thousand terrible deeds did not lie between then and now.
In silence the Ghost stands before Solterra, before the grand doors of its Keep, at the pinnacle of its great stone stairs.
“Solterra.” Raum greets, without love, his eyes as black as pitch – drenched in shadow and deep as a bottomless chasm. “Your queen is dead. Seraphina fell before me in Bellum Steppe. I left her broken.” And his skin bears the grizzly testament of his victory. He had indeed left the former queen broken. In his mind she still lies, twitching and gasping, her blood still warm in his mouth, upon his skin.
“I am your new king now.” And he is a horror, dressed in blood and dust, adorned with wicked eyes.
Raum pauses then, trailing his (freshly changed) blue, blue eyes over all those gathered. If he were anyone else, he might care what they think when they look up to behold their silver king. But Raum does not and he never has. At his side his beast caws a serpent’s cry that trembles both earth and sky. Legion’s skull tilts, his bloodied blindfold tilting too as he listens to the crowd. His beak is jagged and sharp, his fangs sharper still and a monstrous sight he is.
“A new monarchy is born this day and you will kneel before it or face the punishments borne of treason.” Raum voice is ringing steel and yet it is as soft as the silk of his scard – that same silk that binds Legion’s eyes and once twisted tight around Rhoswen’s throat. Solterra’s king’s gaze is a thing of ice and vengeance and it threatens to douse the whole of Solterra. “Many of you may have heard rumours from Denocte. Ask them now, for after this night you shall ask me no more. Solterra is made for better things. She sets her sights now on things that lie beyond these walls and they will be realized.”
Raum’s skull tilts then, twisting, corvid and bright, as he gazes to the citadel gates and beyond, on, on to where the other courts lie. “The tide is turning and it will make Solterra powerful.”
--: Your lovely overlord has arrived. Isn’t he great? Heh –hides under a cushion-
Eventually Grey unroots himself from his place on the bank of the river, tearing white eyes away from the reflection he sees. After awhile it had stopped looking like him, though does he truly look like himself anymore at all? The blurriness encompassing the edges of his vision encroaches and then retreats with every step, fluctuating in intensity. The black shadows are beasts, clawing at his skin and begging for his blood. The unicorn thinks he starts to feel a pounding in his head, like a giant bashing down the walls of his mind. Boom, boom, boom.
He follows the river’s winding path through the trees, listless, ears twisting at every sound. Oh, he is still a soldier somewhere deep inside, and though he walks almost aimlessly, he is still too alert of his surroundings. Too aware of the stillness and every sound that breaks it. Part of his expects that there should be more noise in the night, and yet the forest is almost sedate. It unsettles him, a strange pressure settling between his shoulder blades and brushing across his nerves.
Ahead Grey thinks he sees where the river breaks the canopy cover. Perhaps, he thinks, this river will lead him somewhere afterall. Perhaps he might find someone capable of telling him where he is and where he should be headed. His chest expands and then releases and slow, heaving breath, and still his sight swims and dances and still his head pounds and pounds and pounds so that when one of the shadows seems to rear out of nowhere to Grey’s left and he turns to face it, his hoof catches on one of the rocks claiming the edges of the river. His heart crashes and falls as he, too, begins to fall. He throws his legs out in front of him, scraping against stone, in an attempt to catch himself.
able only knows fear and purpose as he flies. He wishes he was full-grown with wings that could span miles in just a few beats. He wants to be large, large enough to carry away Isra when she's in trouble (instead of being sent away to find help).
He wants to be a hero, instead of a dragon that was too late to save his unicorn.
All he has to guide him, once the poison in Isra's veins leave only dark, heavy silence between them, are the memories he has from her dreams. Although she thought of the gray stallion in more than dreams. Really she thought of the stallion almost constantly but he doesn't want to remember that, dragons are always a little jealous after-all (and the young ones can be full of envy).
Isra should have been his first.
But now the stallion is one of his only hopes. He thinks she remembers her calling him Eik but in his youthful envy he didn't try very hard to remember.
Just as he's about to loop over the meadows once more, a gleam of light by the distant lake catches his eyes. It looks like something just out of place enough to make him chant in his head, Isra, Isra, Isra. His wings are tired but they carry him as quick as the wind to that stained glass tree.
Below it, through the glass, there is a blot of gray and black.
Fable dives and when he lands there is only worry, hot and red blazing like a fire in his mind. And under that is the thought of a mountain, looming far above the others.
@Eik | "speaks" | notes: a very worried Fable has arrived
