For the entire year of his life so far, he had heard many a whisper, and many rumors chased him, his brother, his mother. They had nipped at their ears and poisoned their minds, and he had still attempted to push past all of it, his shoulders curling inwardly sometimes when he saw a Denocte citizen walking nearby. It had started off like that, with him shying near his mother, hearing her voice ring out in defense of her two sons. In defense of two innocent children that had deserved better in the world than to be looked down upon because of their lineage.
He had learned from her, and her strength. Cynix had drawn upon it too, taking her view of the world, her words, to heart.
Still even now he wandered the Night Court, well aware of eyes glancing his way, several soft murmurs that were only whispers that he didn't even attempt to hear. He pushed them off mentally, his wings stretching and fluttering a little about his head before they tucked in, and he made his way through the building only to finally step outside.
His brother and mother were still in the structure behind him, but that was okay. At a year old, he could do with a little exploring (though leaving Siavax behind made him somewhat uneasy).
All the same, he stretched still growing legs and hopped down the stairs, focusing on his hooves instead of in front of himself, and finding his small body hitting something with an 'OOMPH' that left his lips. Immediately, he backpedaled and his wings flew open, head looking up as he went wide-eyed and innocent. "I'm sorry!"
The Queen of the canyon was dead.
A new King ruled this wasteland.
For weeks the Elder Teryr's young had whithered in their nest, waiting and watching for their mother to return with their daily feast of mountain goat from the Armas, seals from the sea, or better yet; horse from the sands of the Mors. While the fledgling Teryrs were skilled flyers already, they were certainly not equipped with the knowledge or now-how for aerial hunting and so had mostly gone hungry since their mother's untimely dissapearance.
Upon a ledge they swooped and nestled against each other, one, two and three. Their life was fun and lawless apart from the ribs that showed on their sides, and while they missed their mother quite dearly they certainly did not miss her curfews and strict preening regimen.
It was on this day that the true King of the canyon returned.
Having spent his spring and summer in the most northern part of Solterra, it was only through the smell of decay from thousands of miles away that he had caught wind of (one of his many) mate's death. Vengeance would come to whoever had killed her, and the male Teryr knew well that they did not simply die in their nests.
Collecting his children from their humble ledge upon the south eastern cliffs of the canyon where the river met the sea, The quartet of Taryrs made their way to first inspect the body of their long-deceased family member. Arrows and spears, fire and blood had been the death of the territorial Teryress.
To the court of Day the family flew, the flock of timid youngins keeping close to their father as he first aimed his monolithic tail toward the heights of the tallest tower and attempted to knock the entire building to the ground. It appeared the elderly elder had lost his touch and his tail merely beat away the gallons of sand caked onto it, and instead he landed before the court in the cleared arena to unleash an almighty roar for those who resided inside, beckoning the famous Teryr slayers to come forth.
The Elder Teryr's mate seeks vengeance upon the day court!
ANYONE from ANY court can join this, but Day court members get a bonus ;)
Here's how this will work:
STATS:
The Teryr's health is currently at 100.
His attack is 85.
Your character will be using their individual health, attack and exp!
Add your characters health and exp together to get your character's health for THIS fight. (+5 for day court members)
Your attack will be the same.
For example, Maxence:
Health: (17 health + 28 exp + 5 day court bonus) 50
Attack: 23
You will be given a number when you post in the first round. This teryr post is #0, whoever posts next will be #1.
Numbers will be put through RNG to determine WHO gets damaged and how much! Damage will be decided like this:
(example) There are 6 characters, 4 will receive damage. I take teryrs total attack (85) and divide it by 4 (=12.5).
12.5 is now the maximum total of damage each character can get.
I put 12.5 through RNG for each character who was chosen in the first RNG for damage and whichever number is picked will be their damage.
If their health is 13 and RNG pciks a 6, they now have 7 health.
IF YOUR CHARACTER GETS TO 0 OR MINUS HEALTH THEY ARE KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS AND CANNOT CONTINUE!!
Likewise when we are attacking the teryr, I will put your character's damage stat thru RNG to determine how much damage the teryr takes from your character!
For example Maxence attacks and rolls a 14, Teryr looses 14 points of health.
Any questions please hmu (Meverrnind) on discord! :D This will be fun!
The lands were vast, and Faye enjoyed exploring them. She was still incredibly new to this place, and in general was still incredibly young; but one should never mistake her age for naivety. She was an intelligent little creature, friendly and kind, loving, even to strangers, always happy to offer her aid selflessly.
Little tri-colored hooves carried her across the lands as she traveled to the one place that drew her in the most. Though she'd never been incredibly nosy, she wished to know more about these lands. Faye had always been a seeker of knowledge and adventure, the bigger the adventure the better to be honest. These fields were breathtaking. All the detail in it's plant life was nothing like she had ever seen before, and it was hard to find any one place to look.
Fall was perhaps one of her favorite sort of seasons, the changing of colors and the crisp cool breezes. With the sun shining overhead it seemed to cast a gold sheen over the land, it was truly magical. And Faye was enjoying the scenery in peace.
The air is filled with the smell of incense, the rich notes of myrrh & frankincense accenuated by undertones of vanilla, patchouli and lilac. Carefully tended to occasionally by a lone white figure in the cosiest nook of the vast library. Claimed with purpose, Isorath for all his splendor and vanity, enjoys privacy more often than not. Laid upon the plush pillows and cushions, decorated with constellations and silver tassels, the winged Kirin works with a careful tenderness not known to many. His hair ornaments lay glinting in the warm candlight, cast aside to allow the swathes of silver to cascade free like rivers of starlight across himself and the stone.
Here he is relaxed, surrounded by time and history, her secrets his to find and rediscover.
The Sage reads diligently from the time worn books, delving further into the intricate history of Denocte, silent except for the articulate scratch of quill against parchment. Thoughts a thousand miles away to the current happenings of Denocte and her sister and brother Courts. Like many unpleasant things, the uncomfortable itch persisted in the back of his mind, reminding him that he would be cursed to ponder over them soon enough. There is no escaping the mounting tension, the former king in him sneered, the exasperated advisor in him heaved a sigh instead.
He has seen the rise and fall of nations, and sat in the gilded seat himself. He knows with crystal clarity the coming days will be anything but like they are now. The Sage will not be able to sit in this grand libary as he does now, a welcome guest.
Isorath paused in his writing for a moment, Calligo's name freshly written upon the crisp paper, the beginning of his journey to articulate her ethereal power. His eyes instead found themselves glancing out of the window, past the three headed dragon who held the burning incense in it's grasp. It's later than he expected, he noted to himself idly, the moon is seated in her lofty throne. It had been sunset when he'd retired to the library with polite farewells and excuses.
A break wouldn't be bad, he supposed, glancing back down to the neat stack of parchment filled with his writings, and at the tome he had sank himself into with abandon. Isorath has written enough to compose a codex, filled with his findings and flourished with his own thoughts and opinions. Occasionally, there is a drawing of a relic or an important face between the flowing ink. Shifting in place to prepare tea, his set up is cozy, but practical. A tea pot to brew with and a platter filled with delectable sweets to nibble at should the mood take him, pillows to relieve the ache and tension from being laid down too long. Designed with a long night in mind, adrift in the time ways and thoughts of others.
As he waited for his tea to brew, his teke reached for one of the peach coloured sweets, popping it into his mouth as he returned his attention to Calligo's tapestry in the sky.
The exiled knight is stripped of rank, of power and of purpose. A sword not wielded has few uses except to rust. A shield left to hang may only rot. The scars of the past whisper reminders of his failure in his muscles and bones. Marks of betrayal bitten deep into body and soul. These scars are the reward for his years of fealty. For blood spilled for a monarch bewitched. Now he has nothing.
And yet, there is hope.
An ivory maid, sun-kissed and fire-eyed, led him from the Tinea Swamp. She gave him the name of the land he walked upon and the Court which held it. Like a line thrown to a drowning man, she gave him something else as well. Something he could neither name nor describe. Something that made the deepest shadows of his mind seem somewhat less dark.
...a warrior of the Dusk Court.
And what does that mean? Normally Diarmuid is content to leave philosophy to scholars. His mind is not so quick or flexible as theirs, lacks the learning that lets them spar with words. And yet some days it feels like he has done nothing but think since he limped onto a ship bound for anywhere but the white cliffs of Sophra. For now he holds this rank, whatever its meaning.
Dusk Court Warrior
Is he to be sword or shield, tool or toy? He knows so little of the Sovreign that he cannot say. Today he is tired of thinking. Today, he strives to knock a little of the rust from the blade.
The Steppe is barren. It is far removed for the lush vibrancy of his birthplace. And yet when his dark hooves touch the edge of the beaten circle he feels a sense of familiarity. There is an instinctive loosening of the muscles, an ease and a confidence that fills him like a pitcher plunged into the sea. He walks the circle slowly, methodically, his blind eye turned towards the center. The red-dusted stallion knows the measure of the ring, the distance to it's center and the sturdiness of the footing. A tilt of his head notes the treachery of the holes in the ground.
All the while his good ear flicks and turns, listening. He must never cease moving, turning his head to look for the flash of ivory and gilt, listening for the turn of dirt under hoof or the rustle of wind over wing. Though he is first here for their spar he does not believe he will be waiting long beneath the sky blood-streaked with the last fingers of sunset.
"Israfel!" He calls out, voice ringing with an air of authority usually absent. The name lilts as it falls from his lips, rolling with the accent of his birthplace. There is a note of vibrant joy that rings just in the sound of her name. Reserved excitement for what is to come. He forgets in the moment how long it has been and the months of building muscle back in the ruins of his body. He only feels the vital rush of blood and the eager waiting the precedes a spar.
Diarmuid is a soldier. A soldier needs a duty. Perhaps he has found it in Terrastella.
Summary: Diarmuid walks around the edge of the dirt circle and calls out for Israfel.
It was time. Voltaire needed to meet the king, and more than just nodding to him from a distance while pushing boulders or digging in the dirt. His steps were weary as he made his way through the desert – slowly and carefully. Already, the heat of day was stinging against him, despite the autumnal tones to the air. It wasn’t comfortable, but the blue stag was far from a creature who welcomed comfort. He didn’t deserve it, simply enough. What Voltaire did deserve, was a life dedicated to service. The healer had not yet made his mark on this place, but it was only a matter of time until Maxence recognized and came to him… so he decided to get ahead of the inevitable.
His stoic carriage did not falter as he crossed the threshold of the sandstone palace, but pressed onward. In the hallowed halls, he found their king – alone, for what seemed like the first time. As he passed beneath the red-gold arches, he stopped short of Maxence, bowing until his long jagged horn nearly brushed against the hearth. Raising his head once more, the blue stallion cleared his throat as he sought the words to speak to their king. It had been far too long since Voltaire had spoken, and his voice was rusty and harsh to his ears.
”I have come to serve.” It was a simple statement, and his shrewd icy eyes found those of the warrior king’s and held. ”What will you have me do?” For now, the chores had ended, but Voltaire’s penance had only just begun. He didn’t offer anything more, nothing personal – for Voltaire knew he was nothing more than a cog in the wheel here… and it was all he wished to be. He wanted to fade into the background, holding up his pillar but not drawing attention to himself. But still, he offered the king something of a grim smile, waiting to see what would unfold.
Morning was breaking across the Day Court, the skies alit with gold and pale shades of blue. It was unseasonably warm for the breaking autumn, but then, Voltaire believed that it would always be warm in a place such as this. Even in the desert dunes, nightfall had been warm (where in his experience, the desert nights were dark and cold). Shivering some as the sweat on his coat met a sudden brisk wind that tossed sand to wedge between his hairs, he blinked against the sun and turned to rub his face against his chest. The sand, at least, was something he could never get used to. It was harsh and unwelcome, even as he shook it from his coat and trekked away from the loose dunes and toward something a bit more sturdy.
The now familiar sandstone spires of the Day Court rose in the distance, but the blue stag avoided the capital today. He needed to meet the regent here, officially that is… and he wasn’t quite ready for politics. Surely, Maxence would want to know his story, and Voltaire’s background was far from a thing he wished to share. So instead, he found himself moving toward the oasis, wondering for a moment if it was real before shaking away the thought and stepping into the blue pool, enjoying the sensation of the cool water against his sand-strewn coat.
She would find him there, partially submerged in the sapphire water, and as she approached the water’s edge, his ice blue eyes found hers and held for a moment. He didn’t know the mare, only that he saw her from a distance during the day that he’d helped with the sparring arena. Neither had spoken to each other, yet he’d respected her attention to duty. Voltaire was a creature who respected the order of duty and responsibility.
Only once it seemed he’d stared for far too long does the blue stallion clear his throat, a bit embarrassed at being caught up in his own thoughts. ”Hello.” He offers, quietly. ”I saw you, at the arena… but we haven’t met. I am Voltaire.” As a simple creature with simpler words, he offers her little more into his own insight, but begins to make his way from the water to the shore once more.
take care to bury all that you can
take care to leave a trace of a man
☩
As he watched like a lion over his pride, eyes of seven seas praising the gold-cloaked landscape of the Mors, he hoped— no, prayed she would come.
It was no longer a matter of weeks, days or hours. In minutes the Solterran patriarch would begin his journey from the den of lion's into the crows murder on his own to seek out the night king and seek whatever resolution possible. Maxence could feel in his gut that the task was frought with danger, and his decision to leave Avdotya and Seraphina with the day court was one he had not made lightly. If they all did not return, struck down by a flock of birds and picked on like carrion, who would save Solterra?
For this reason he waited alone on the dune, the last sliver of sun bidding farewell over a red desert. Avdotya— would she farewell him? The others he had mellowly praised upon exit of the court, thanking each of his people that came to wish him luck and bless him with Solis's light.
But the one he wished to see the most was one who had eluded him as he made his solemn departure.
And so the stallion would wait, harnessed and cloaked in fur, ready for battle. There were always minutes he would spare for the bear-marked shieldmaiden, and quite simply, if she would not come he would no longer wait.
Whether or not he could leave without her luck, her blessing and her wicked gaze of fire was a question that began to linger upon his mind— what if he never saw her again?
Despite the oncoming change in seasons, Solterra remained the same perfect, blissful heat. Velorca was enjoying it thoroughly, soaking his silver skin in the sunlight as he was often prone to do, his hair once again loose and silky as it brushed the corners of his clean boned jaw. He was in his chambers - the room vast and covered in extravagance. Silks and furs, jewels, silver, the finest perfumes, the finest of materials - but mostly gold. Lots of it.
All the wealth in his chambers could have funded Solterra for more than a year, could feed it's people and provide much needed support to the dried out Solterran army. He basked in it. Like a dragon curled among it's treasures, he lounged upon the silk sheets of his bed, watching the warm sun ascend ever higher.
It was noon by the time he got out of bed, and even later than that by the time he left his room. There was a pristine decadence to him that made most in Solterra stop in their tracks and watch him pass - to some he appeared a beautiful courtesan, wealthy and controlled - un-affordable. To others, his beauty was a draw they could not resist, their eyes lingering familiarly upon his elegant body, the suppleness of his muscles, the softness of his lips. Some knew him well, others were vying for a taste.
Velorca knew this well as he strode down the blazing hallways, fluid and full of grace, golden eyes sliding around him coolly. He was aiming for the library - dusty and unused as it was here. He was a Sage after all - even if he was the most unforgettable wisdom-keeper Solis had ever produced.
