The little swallow gambolled with light, springing strides through the sea of whiskered gold, while Noah watched on with an ever dimming eye; he was troubled yet by the harrowing memories of feline soldiers and their winged, canine slaves. The tiny creature’s frivolous naivety was a gift, or so he kept telling himself, a distraction from the mundane pressure to protect, his duty - guarding this precious family - which had all but taken the topmost priority in his life (at the sacrifice of everything else). Nights were spent far from the cosy, replenishing wings of sweet slumber, further still from the stew of virile impulse which had driven both his motivation and sense of ambition, in times past.
Noah was failing - if not his beloved dove and their daughter - within himself.
He was falling.
The winged stallion walked slowly, with the dead weight of lethargy (of internal conflict and indecision), dulling each stride. Nora, she who had stolen his love, his heart and his innocence, lingered among the tangled web of his toxic thoughts; the flame which had burned so fiercely had wilted, through no fault of her own. With every inch of his being, he cared for her, loved her, but something had changed between them, perhaps someone, and like a steel stake, there seemed to be a new divide between them. Pensively he eyed Miette, the apple of her mother’s eye, and couldn't help the sudden surge of resentment which curdled his affection. As she frolicked and cavorted through the sunshine ahead, the eagle wondered what would happen if he'd just turned then, and left her.
The thought lingered in his head like a niggling itch; he paused, conflicted, torn in two by the desire to be free, and the need to protect something so pure - a creature that he was wholly responsible for. As though scouting the area behind for witnesses, his sea-blue eyes swivelled around, a decidedly agitated expression thick around their brooding gape. No, he scolded, stamping a feather hoof with startling ferocity into the soft carpet of grass beneath. And so, lost beneath the tide of ill-mood, he continued towards those jagged mountains that had for long risen in silent guard against the perils beyond Denocte.
"Yana!" The name broke through the silence and weight of the swamp body, more of a question than a demand. She found that the swamp was becoming more home than the tower of the Dusk Court was, and it was the secretive self-proclaimed witch that came to mind every time her legs were stained with the murky waters. She had yet been able to find her alone long enough to carry on a conversation of importance. Of all the places to find the night-streaked girl, Rann was sure a trip to the swamp would prove worthwhile.
She knew little other than the quiet eeriness in the air; she could understand Yana's desire for a home in a place unlike any other since Rann herself was fast attracted to the simpleness of the Dusk Court in comparison to the livelihood of the rivaling three. But she desired to know more, sought to learn of all the beauty Yana saw in the area most would have avoided--she could figure the similarities between the two entities and the forces that held them together, and so she invaded the spaces of tranquility to seek her out. But where, exactly,
Yana was located, she didn't know.
So Rannveig pushed her way into the heart of the waters with nothing but silence for company, occasionally calling out the name of the one she hoped to name Champion of Healing.
And all our problems make us powerless
champion of healing is yana's if you'd like her to have it! i'm so happy to offer this position to both of you c:
@Yana
It had been some time since she visited the lands of the Fields, a once-bustling place in the confines of Terrastella; the simple beauty in the way nature seemed to just pass around them was incomparable to any other place in Novus. And so she had found herself roaming toward the openness of the orange-tinged grasses, a place she was promised the quiet tranquility that the Dusk Court was known for. The setting sun held her close as the sky turned colors and gathered nighttime clouds close, the rising moon already showing itself in.
Her body was a solitary post in the grand expanse of the darkening world.
It was there that she waited for the company of the young winged spark; the girl's name had been hanging on the lips of everyone she touched, and it was then Rann's turn to let it slip loose. She knew, before long, Florentine would find her there waiting. She trusted the knowledge the younger mare had gathered in her visits across the continent; the breeze, too, carried rumors of restlessness in her movements and discontent with the subtlety of her current court. Rann could only smile at the activity and flame that burned in the girl's heart.
She knew, too, that with the conclusion of the meeting she was running out of time to fill the ranks required to keep the Dusk Court together. And though there were some that gave her pause, her heart softened at the idea of Florentine--the girl, in some way, called to the younger side of Rann. So there, alone in the wide range of falling skies and rising earth, she had but one offer for the girl who could be not more fitting for the role of Emissary.
And all our problems make us powerless
this one's for you bby!
the position of emissary is florentine's if she'll have it <33
@Florentine
A step or two, maybe three, and she skidded slightly on the edge of the creek, gazing down below.
She was far from the Night Court, or any of the courts, for that matter, wandering about the neutral lands instead of taking any steps in to populated territory. Rather, she enjoyed the noises of the creek, the bubbling waters running over small rocks, rolling downstream almost lazily. Her ears twitched forward, and she bent her knees slightly, lowering her front half as her wings spread behind her ears. Slowly, they flapped, and she adjusted her body before she gave a hop, and landed in the water instead in a shallow end.
There was a small splash, and her mane fell in to the water beside her, her tail soaking itself as well, but her wings flapped in an eager way, ruffling and sending a spare feather or two that molted drifting on the wind.
Araxes smiled at her reflection when the ripples stopped enough for her to enjoy it, wings tucking down, and her head lowered as she took gratifying sips of water. Every inch of her posture (even her soaked belly and legs) radiated a relaxation, a secure sensation that she had no need to break. There was nothing to fear here, and all the same, she lifted her head as a fish brushed past her nose, a soft snort leaving her as it did and an "Oh!" of surprise. It gave a flick of the tail before it was gone, and she frowned.
She climbs up and up. With each step taken, the oxygen in her lungs is stripped thinner and thinner. Winds swirl the paltry air around sharp rock and rubble, then up, over the snow capped crown of the great mountain. The mountainous winds get rougher and wilder as they circle the girl of dusk and earth. There is nothing unique about the honey-coloured girl, but the flowers she brings, offerings for the gods, are like none they have ever seen up here upon the mountainside. Their touch is rough as they tug at petals, pulling them free to toss, to play, to throw across the mountainside.
The dusk girl ignores the wild, curious winds and the petals they steal. Her attention, her eyes, are on other things for there, before her, lies a cathedral of stone and flowers. Florentine stands at its mouth, a creature of golden sunlight and wild lavender. She brings earth and light to this dark and grand temple.
She enters, bolder and braver than she had any right to be. Petals scatter hither and thither into a cathedral train that ripples behind her. Her grazed limbs and tangled mane are the wild clothes she wears with bold, bold pride. It is no god she comes to marry, no illicit romance to find in the shadowed corners of this hallowed place. No, she comes to sate her curiosity – this girl who cannot believe.
Beneath towering arches she walks, fingertip wings trailing along the smooth, cold stone. Her breath is a weak wind in her lungs, her heart a fluttering of feathers against her ribcage.
Believe, it beats, it begs.
This girl of fine bone and slender torso stands, so diminutive, at the center of Novus’ sacred, beating heart. She is so small here, but oh, Florentine is the bird that will not be caged, the weed that will not stop growing, the sun that will not stop shining; but ultimately, she is the girl that cannot start believing.
She drinks in the inscribed names of each god, plays them across her tongue and tries to find a place for them in her too-full heart. Beneath each name she lays her apologies in flowers and petals for her heart aches only for Time itself. That too-full heart twinges and her wings quiver. Those gods press in, their names reaching for her…
But Flora is the bird that will not be caged and in a flurry of tangled hair and wild-flower incense, she spins to run, to fly, to flee.
But the night is there, cloaked in Calligo’s dark. It is guilt that has her lashes lowering to hide her amethyst eyes as she passes the night court sovereign in a rough caress of feathers and lavender scent like incense. Her wings flare to fly, to run and to escape these trapping gods. But suddenly she pauses as she passes him, a breathless question playing upon her lips as she smiles wryly, “You won’t tell anyone there was a non-believer here, will you?”
Posted by: Kaladin - 07-23-2017, 09:15 AM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
Mortality is a damn pain, thought Kaladin, re-arranging his body again on the stone bench. A tangled strand of his mane fell limply between his eyes, and he shook his head to toss it away. He had been bemoaning his gangly adolescent body for the past while, realizing exactly why his father had cursed him into this particular mortality as earthly purgatory. These bodies are so determined to be ideally matched to the corporeal world, and yet they lack the mechanism of actually being comfortable. He mused, intrigued yet repulsed by the mechanisms that were responsible for both his discomfort, and existence.
For a moment, his body accepted his new position and he returned to his previous task, enjoying the quiet of the afternoon and the temporary leave from his Caretaker tasks. A moment later, however, his foreleg began to throb. He cursed under his breath as he shifted again, and his back cannon bone hollered at its cramped positioning. Granted, he admitted, choosing to ignore his body's complaints this time, I have been sitting here for hours. He turned the page and set his mind back to reading, hoping that the influx of knowledge would be cathartic to at least some amount of the pain. Discomfort was a small price one paid for godhood.
Despite Kaladin's best complaints, the day had turned out to be grudgingly enjoyable. It was warm out, the air fresh and sweet-smelling. The Delumine sun shone shyly, peeking out from behind the light rain clouds that were trying futilely to appear threatening against an otherwise azure sky. Kaladin had chosen the ornate bench beneath a leaning willow as his reading roost, counting that the ancient tree's intertwined limbs would offer shelter, should rain come. Between his hooves lay a scroll lined with scrawling text practically the size of rice-grains. He'd foraged it from Delumine's library under the pretext of medicinal purposes, and was now scouring its contents for knowledge of binding and breaking spells. Whichever ancient magic-worker had written on the dusty parchment had been frustratingly unhelpful, and with every next sentence Kaladin felt his willpower slipping.
Cursing yet again, he reached telepathically for the quill lying by his side and underlined a line of text. The movement sent the crystal of his collar rattling, sending a line of invigorating determination through Kaladin. Remembering the purpose of his studies, he launched himself back into the runework with renewed fervor.
Just as he entered the world of magic-casting once more, the crunch of hoof on cobblestone alerted Kaladin to a stranger's approach. He raised his head, immediately hostile for the interruption and ready to tell off whoever had disturbed his peace. He glared up, amberglass eyes both startled and annoyed, to take in the approaching equine. "You know,, it is basic etiquette not to interrupt people when they are studying." He growled.
@Nicodemus shoddy post but i'm just so hyped to get this going
Morozko was not a stallion often given to marveling, and yet here he stood, amazed.
He’d never seen anything like the creature before him in his eight years in Veteris. It was huge, nearly the length of his body, and seemed to squat on stubby legs on a muddy bank. The beast almost blended into the leaf-litter around it, but unmistakable was the armor it wore: a plated shield over its back, ridged like dragon-spikes. It was battle-garb even a citadel guard like he could envy.
The beast was snapping turtle, though he didn’t know it. He would have nodded appreciatively at the name, though – scant moments ago he’d made the mistake of drawing too near, and it had opened a cruelly beaked mouth with an audible hiss.
Now he stood a respectable distance away, damp to the knees from his retreat through the muck, and waited for it to do something.
It nicely summed up the bulk of his existence in Novus so far: observing and waiting, trying to learn the customs and world of a place so like his, and just different enough to feel distorted.
This swamp in particular was one of the worst – it was so humid here. Morozko hated the way his skin felt constantly damp, and even the late-spring breezes in the open meadows felt too warm. It made him feel sluggish, unprepared; the unicorn missed the sharp bite of his home country, the kind of cold that forced you awake. The way the snow made everything stark and clear.
Not like this place, he thought, as his silver-eyed gaze combed the dark bands of trees. Everything was a muted green or brown; what sunlight filtered through the leaves and moss did so weakly, and provided scant illumination of the algae-slick water and mud below. Anything could be hiding here. Even the birds sounded like they were calling out warnings.
Perhaps it was time he heeded them. With a last appreciative glance at the squat little dragon (he could think of nothing else it might be), the unicorn turned back north, picking his way delicately through the boggy ground. His mouth made a slight curl of distaste, but that melted into a flat line a moment later, when he heard a splashing and a snapping to his right.
Pausing, Morozko turned his narrow head toward the source of the noise. He waited until the figure resolved into the shape of an equine before giving a wordless nicker – a sound both welcome and warning.
Thread Subscriptions are an incredibly handy way of keeping track of your character's threads, or any thread you feel like stalking! (We don't judge.) If you go into your user CP, on the left-hand column under 'Miscellaneous' is a tab labeled Subscribed Threads. When you subscribe to a thread, they will automatically show up here with info such as their title, how many replies have been made, who replied last, and when!
Subscriptions are separated by accounts. In other words, if you were to subscribe to one thread on CharacterY's account and another on CharacterA's account; these threads will only show up in the Thread Subscriptions of the account you used to subscribe to them. Or you could subscribe to every thread on your OOC (or any account) to be able to see all of them in one place!
This guide will break down how to utilize the thread subscriptions option! These may be used as another way to keep track of threads you're participating in, owed replies, etc.
To use this feature, you will need to subscribe to your threads manually.
Two easy ways to subscribe to threads:
At the bottom of any thread: on the left-hand side are multiple options (underneath the Quick Reply box). By clicking the third, "Subscribe to this thread", you will be brought to a page that will allow you to choose from multiple subscription options: No Notification, Instant PM Notification, and Instant Email Notification.
When "New (or full) Replying" to any thread: under the text box are again multiple options, one of them titled Thread Subscriptions. There are four options here, the automatic being 'Do not subscribe to this thread.' Checking any of the circles underneath this option will subscribe you to the thread.
The wind howled throughout the eve, and their raspy breathes spoke volumes unto the earth. It was a bitter night, in both temperature and delusion. The shaman had run rampant in the dreams, minds, and thoughts of those whom he encountered, but no answers were left in his wake.
What was this relic? What significance did it hold?
What on earth did it resemble? Does it even exist?
In the fevered landscape buried within the depths of a sleeping mind, it spoke. But who was it - she - he? The shaman? A god? Tempus himself? "Bring yourself to me," hissed between tight teeth. There was no anger, just anxious need captured within the sanctity of a dream.
The visions would be bright within Rostislav's mind, startling. The dream - or was it a nightmare? - brought cold sweats with it. There was no denying its message; but whatever the outcome would be, was uncertain.
Should he choose to follow it, the vision would lead him to the very tips of Veneror Peak. The day's sunlight brings warmth, but even at the northern-most peak of the worshiping mountains, the air would nip at skin like the insistent teeth of a herding dog. Or hellhound. Whichever fits, really.
The restlessness caused by the dream may even manifest in the form of panic, sending him up the mountain much quicker than he thought his legs could take him. The trek up the mountain would prove arduous and draining, leaving Rostislav aching in areas of his body he did not know could ache.
The shaman, ever tricky and cruel in his ways, had given the drunkard stallion nothing to offer at the top of the worshiping mountain. But that didn't matter anymore.
Should he? Would he? Where is he?
Once in sight of Veneror's cathedral, he would forget the grueling, backbreaking journey. He would forget the aching muscles, the heaving lungs, the soaked skin, his throbbing skull. Silence would envelop him, caught like a whirlwind in his throat. Are you even breathing anymore?
What was once lost has now been found.
Tucked in the corner of the spiraling stone pillars of the clearing, the ivy cradled her. The hellhound, lying prone on her right side and nape rested against the base of a massive stone pillar, sprawled peacefully amongst the rock. The ivy that encapsulated the vast pillars overtook the hellhound like a blanket, loosely weaving through the superficial top layer of her fur - but never constricting. Instead, it provided protection; those who sought the hound yet were not hers were met with an impenetrable blanket that dug deep into the ground, rooting Damaris into place. But once the intruders would leave the sacred land, the ivy would recede - its tight grip transforming once more into a gentle caress. Throughout it all, Damaris' green eyes remained closed, her chest rising and falling with a deep slumber. Like the ivy, she only awaited the right person to return.
Once Rostislav's breath would brush the creeping stems, they would recede, and Damaris' eyes would slowly begin to open. Such a vibrant green, meeting the stark contrast of his white eyes.
Hello, old friend.
@Rostislav's dreams have led him to the cathedral of spiraling stone atop Veneror Peak, where Damaris lies sleeping under a light blanket of ivy. Rostislav may interpret the dreams as a vision from the gods, but please be aware no 'confirmed' contact was made!
Thread requirements: 1 reply, 300 words. Please tag the RE account in your reply.
Once you respond, you may then begin including Damaris in Rostislav's posts.
The meeting had petered out, with horse after horse taking their leave. Ever the dutiful, Máni had remained behind, eager to finally reunite with Rannveig in a more.. proper, way. One that was in private, with just the two of them.
Well. Two and a new Bonded. Vidar reminded him of his presence by digging claws down in to his mane, clinging a little tightly and clicking his beak.
Máni shook his head just the slightest, before he turned it toward Rannveig and finally allowed himself to lean toward her, to brush his muzzle against her neck and her face, anywhere he could reach as his larger form closed in on her. It was a reunion of the senses; touch, taste, smell, hearing, seeing. All of them were lit up as he pressed to his beloved, and he drew his head back, only to bump soft velvet noses against one another. "Congratulations are in order, my beloved." His voice was a murmur of delight, his eyes showing the sheer joy he felt for her, and for being with her once more.
"I had planned on giving you these trinkets when I had come back regardless, but now it seems fitting to present them to you as gifts for your position as well," he hummed. He shifted himself, and the white raven came moving up his neck, perching on his head and letting out a soft caw as he wiggled the pouch from his neck. Gently, it fell, and Máni caught it in his mouth, offering it to his love.
"Gifts from my journey." A few precious gems and perhaps a necklace or two, things he showed as he opened it with the lesser telekinesis that all in the lands possessed. A wolf's fang, a hawk's skull. Plenty of trinkets. He hoped to please her with them. "I am sorry I took so long on my journey.." he apologized after a moment, offering a small smile.
