There is a gentleness found in iron fists and a cruelty sleeping in soft words
Despite her upbringing in mountains and old growth forests, Cerridwen had always found herself drawn to fields and meadows. There was something easy about them, simple and honest even in the near-darkness of dusk that called to something in the mare; whereas in a sprawling wood, one may stumble upon shadowy corners, menacing and unknowable, even on the brightest of days. This wasn’t to say that the lass cared not for the thriving ecosystems that stretched out within and below the leaves — indeed, the Fae found that which she did not understand to be fascinating.
But fascinating as they were, they did not mean peace.
Strolling amid the prairie with her leonine tail held aloft, the amethyst mare felt almost drowsy, so contenting was the shushing of swaying grass. The stress and tension of travel began to slough off of her lean form, leaving the dregs of worry in her wake. As new as she was to the kingdom of Terrastella, Cerridwen knew that it was proper to present herself to the Sovereign, to offer her services as a healer and begin to contribute. Yet, the moment pale legs had carried her beyond the borders and into a new life, the Fae found herself resistant to the concept of being indoors.
It was a strange sensation; to have ruled a nation cradled entirely in the arms of Spring, to have no need for structures or shelters against such temperate climes, only to find herself a citizen of a far more developed realm. Truly, the femme was amazed by the technology Novus had wielded, and how naturally the concept of advancement despite political lines seemed to come to those who lived in each kingdom. Terrastella’s capitol city alone was a wonder in itself, having a hospital, libraries, storefronts, and a citadel with stones old enough to hold memories of ages past.
In her previous country, such modern societal developments were overwhelmingly rare, and given the growing bounty of information she had been presented with, Cerridwen had begun to suspect that her former subjects were living in the dark. How terribly she wished she could return, could step through that endless borderland and wrest her friends from the so-called gods who had ruled so jealously. The sunset mare ached with it, the desire to fix the wrongs and heal the hurts of a nation divided over so many age-old and petty disputes.
And yet, she had carried herself away from that doomed place, carried herself into a new life, and maybe it would be a mercy to forget.
cerridwen
"speech"
table by karma, art by Chillsins on dA
@Liam sorry if its a bit choppy, i haven’t written her in a few years
I don't care what they're going to say, let the storm rage on the cold never bothered me anyway
Bel was silently thankful she had been in Denocte before for a festival. It was proving helpful in her finding her way towards the Markets so she could then back track to where Luvena said her place was. Her walk was a little stiff, a little awkward as the half peeling temporary bandage itched the flesh torn by wolves not so long ago. She'd been careful to keep the wound covered, and hoping it would heal well, but it didn't mean that it wasn't difficult to walk. The weird flower petals had long since worn off and that first night had been agony. Now the dull throbbed pain of a fresh wound remained, but not near as bad as that first night.
Yuki had been left at the swamp today, as she tried to rush a little to get to where she was going. She was a day later getting to Luvena than recommended, however, but she was hopeful the wound was fine. She'd been careful not to tear it further. Watched it for any oddness or otherwise and it seemed fine. Though her vapors seemed to keep wanting to wetten the odd rock mush and bandage away. Shed been forced to lay on her side awkwardly to sleep to try to keep the vapors from causing the makeshift treatment from falling off. As it was, it had begun to start to peel.
Bel paused briefly seeing what looked like the doorway of what she was looking for. She made her way to the door way, peering in cautiously" Uhm, Luvena? Are you here? It's Bel." She greeted, hesitating to enter with out approval, especially if she somehow got the wrong place.
"Bel" Yukime
@Luvena Notes:: A bit rushed <3 But here ya go!
I don't care what they're going to say, let the storm rage on the cold never bothered me anyway
The air was cool, not cold enough to be at a level that would have Bel feeling at home, but definitely comfortable nonetheless. The vapors swirling up from her spine hung over her, delicately trailing in spirals as the colder temperature kept them at the right distance to naturally keep the air around her a little colder, a little more comfortable for the arctic zone native. The extra heat from the various fires from the autumn festival were less comfortable for her, however. It's what led Bel to staying a bit further away from the dancers with flaming sticks. She'd been offered one when she first arrived, but had been forced to shake her head, instead wanting to just watch. That close to fire, even a small one, would be a little risky for a creature of the water. And that was if her own vapors didn't extinguish the flame early.
No, Bel was happy watching.
Her gaze followed the dancers as they stepped on land with a variety of grace. Some mirrored her own steady steps on land. Others moved with a grace that made her slightly jealous. How anyone could move that smoothly, on land, she would never know. But then again, in the water, Bel was poetry in motion beneath the waves where her fins and tail worked in strong correlation when her limbs and carried her through the currents like she was born to be there. Though, according to Yuki, it was possible to relearn how to move like that on land, Bel just wasn't there yet.
It wasn't worth a worry yet, anyway.
Now was a time for festivities! And there was definitely a feel of fun in the air. Laughter and groupings of others helping and talking together. Small and large groups. Loners watching from the distances, but still smiling and relaxed. As with any festival in Bel's experience while on Novus, it seemed a time of comfort and companionship. Laughter and smiles. Friendships made or strengthened. A time of celebration another year drawing to a close and making sure there were others to lean on for winter when it would be colder and darker.
And so much fun was planned.
Fireworks, feasts, apple pie baking and so much more. Even this fire dancing was having a smile touch Bel's slightly reptilian features as she leaned against a tree, her fins standing out against the greenery around her. White and blue might lend her to camouflage in the water but she was clearly visible on land. Which is why she let others approach first. She tended to be seen as a predator first. A Kelpie she'd been accused of, never mind the fact she was dual-natured. Fins and tail. But also limbs and hooves. Scales and blubber, but also fur and hide. Gills but lungs. A carefully cultivated creature who could survive on land, or in the water. But then again, she wasn't from this world. She was an alien playing native. She might have fangs, but they were for tuna and cod, not for other horses. And she ate seagrasses and seaweed just as much as fish or plankton.
But fear clouds visions.
And she'd rather others approach her first, least she alarms them instead of making a friend out of them. Thankfully some now knew her for what she was. Friendly, playful, kind . . . They saw the Bel beyond the fins. Saw the whole Treader, not just aquatic aspects. And with any luck, she might be able to make some friends along the way at the festival. And if nothing else, she could still have fun watching the others to.
"Bel" Yukime
Open to anyone Notes:: Just fun festivities for anyone who wants to hangout;) Bel will NOT be participating at this time in fire dancing LOL and of course Yuki noped out of being around in fire :P
The fields quickly fill with eager contestants, all believing their recipes to be the best. The fields are filled with applies that have been picked from the swamp, they gleam brightly in the autumn sun, of all colors. Grab those that look appetizing to you, gather your ingredients, and let the bake-off begin!
Rules
-You only need to post once! (Just respond to this thread).
-Be as creative as you like. Is your character a stellar baker? Is this their first time? Old family recipe? Creating it on the fly?
-At the end of the season, for all who have posted, I will roll the dice and select a first, second, and third place winner. Each will receive signos!
A chill has started to settle into the air. Terrastella still remains slightly temperate, though as autumn wears on, just like the changing of the leaves, you start to notice a shiver creeping into your skin at times, when a breeze blows by. Maybe you are eager for snow, maybe you grown at the thought of shorter days and colder nights. But, you find yourself excited and eager for the autumn events never the less. Decorations are strung up in Court. There is a sweetness to the air, different from summer’s ice cream and winter’s chocolate. Like cinnamon, applies, and hot cider. There is a certain freeness to the fall season that you swear no other season harbors, and you plan to embrace it for all it is.
Fireworks and feasting
Dusk Court We shall go wild with fireworks...and they will plunge into the sky and shatter the darkness.
You are eager to see the fireworks (what colors will they be? Pink? Orange? Yellow?). But the lure of the feast draws you first as you wait for the show to begin. Hot cider, warm cinnamon cake, drinks and food galore. You settle into a good spot between the castle and a book shop as the sky darkens and the promise of a spectacle hangs eager.
Apple pie bake off
Susurro Fields Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The morning of the first September was crisp and golden as an apple.
You rush out to the fields, eager to prove your skills. After all, your mother has told you time and time again, your apple pie could rival that of Terrastella’s best bakery. You load up with your supplies…and your secret ingredient, before searching for the richest apples—and hoping your competitors don’t find them first.
Fire dancing
Praistigia Cliffs We are here to dance to the music of our souls, to live in the wonder of our presence, and to be who we are in the beauty of our divine being.
This is not some normal dance you realize when you arrive at the cliff sides. Before you dance, you are handed a torch, it is unlit. Quickly, a girl with emerald colored eyes finds you and lights your torch. It is then you are allowed to join into the dancing. “You cannot stop until the torch burns out, or you’ll have bad luck all winter.” She tells you, and you see her flame is already beginning to die. But yours, it burns bright, as you start to move your feet, as long as it takes, as long as it glows.
The wind I hear it sighing, with autumn's saddest sound;
withered leaves all thick are lying, as spring-flowers on the ground.
This dark night has won me to wander far away;
old feelings gather fast upon me.
of the man who
left in september.
his name was law.
❖
505. spring?
The act of waking—the shock of it. The lungs remembering breath, the limbs remembering blood. Nothing else to call it but a shock. Did you know you can drown in it? Your own blood, I mean. Haemoptysis. Asked Ruth about it: a massive haemoptysis, no water needed, just you, your lungs, your blood, the heaviness of sweet-morphine sleep. A drowning in the sheets—painless, Ruth says.
❖
I shock awake to the white roar of a spring-fed river.
For a startling moment there is nothing in my head but a starburst of pain: a localized stab of it just beneath the ribs, my heart drumming like a captured rabbit’s. I press my head to my knees, cough out the too-sweet smell of grass at the end of summer. My coat slips down my shoulder, letting in damp forest cold. Shuddering, I pull the thin collar back over my neck.
Slivers of grass float off of me when I draw unsteadily to my hooves. The sun is already high in the sky, unobscured by scraps of cloud. Beneath it, the world is polished to a shine: everything is either sparkling bright or starkly in shadow, and my eyes smart when they go to the river’s surface. A snowy egret lifts its head towards me, its yellow eyes accusatory, when I stumble down to the lapping water.
The current is rushing too quickly for me to see myself as more than a hazy outline of gold, a slash of bright red where my mouth should be. There is the familiar dull ache of hunger in my stomach yet I ignore it. I will find him soon enough. And it is nothing, really, nothing at all, to the catatonic shock of awakening.
I feel in my pocket for the smoothness of sanded glass. By now the egret has dipped back into the current, bored by my slow, drowsy movements. When it surfaces, a bass’ silver belly thrashes in its dripping beak.
The vial, long emptied of its contents, is small and insignificant under this penetrating sun. I bring it to my lips—the tang of iron—before tossing it, end over end, to the bottom of the river.
It is high noon, and I am a thousand wing-strokes away from my kingdom of blood-in-the-sand.
❖
I think I’d expected for him to want to find me again, eventually.
How long could he stay away? A month. I could last two. A season, however, is cruel; a week after the solstice I sent the first letter, my calligraphy tight and pinched. Angry black slashes bleeding out on the parchment. The ribbon I had tied to Abbadon’s leg had been red, instead of the Ieshan’s diplomatic white.
And then I had paced. I used to find it comic, the pacing. The seriousness of the pacing. I never used to do it because I’d thought myself too busy for it, yet now I know I’d merely never been that desperate. Princes do not know desperation with much intimacy—we prefer to skirt around it—yet when we do know it, we are consumed. How dare they, we think, to deny us.
For we are the deniers. For we are the ones who hurt. It is birthright, versus achievement.
It is the reason why, when I see him in the gloom of dusk through a phoenix’s eyes, I feel a violence twist beneath my skin that I have never known. I do not change back to that weak, sick mortality. My lungs are on fire but I am a phoenix—what does it matter?
He is keeping close to the river like a water creature, his back the forged gold of a shield. For a moment I only watch from high above: he looks well in a disarming way. Not a hair out of place—everything gold and pyrrhic.
It has been months, and he looks well, and my lungs are on fire because they are dead when I am still alive. I exhale, because a phoenix cannot laugh.
There is a new king on the throne, and everyone is making bets on his life.
It is just past high noon. O stands on the fringes of the crowd, screwing up her face against the blinding white sunlight; it fractures in her dark eyelashes, frosts her vision with incandescent flakes of light. Heat pours down on the crowd like syrup. O feels it on her face, her shoulders, dripping down her legs; her whole body grows warm, a stone left out in the sun.
The street rats write down names and collect coins. From the corner of her eye, O watches as a scraggly girl with wild, dark, hair snatches money from the purse of a frumpy-looking nobleman and says acridly, “I’ll write you down, sir.” Her eyes, grass-green and sunken into the dark velvet of her face, are emboldened with bright fire. “Two months it is.”
She flips the money through the air to her partner, who tucks it neatly into a drawstring bag already bursting at the seams with collected bets. They are an interesting pair, the two of them—the crackle of annoyance in the air between them makes her think they must be related. And their business seems to be thriving: the crowd jostles against itself as they try to take their spots and make their bets against the new king’s life.
These are the facts all the gamblers have: he is young. Points given for longevity. He is of noble birth. Points given for privilege. It has been rumored, though there are conflicting reports in the Solterran library, that he is quite ill: points taken, for obvious reasons. O can’t help thinking anyone who bets on him lasting longer than a year is a hopeless optimist.
The gambler languishes the girl with a glare before backing away, and O’s soot-dark lips curl into a faint smile as she watches him stumble back into the crowd.( He is ungainly for a person of his birthright, which is exactly the kind of thing she’s always loved to see.)
Bet after bet is placed; contract after contract is written up; the whole court is alive with the sound of laughter, snapped remarks, hooves clicking on the sandstone. Heat bakes the sound into a tinny little record, playing over—and over—and over. O listens into conversations of the crowd, mildly interested, until the novelty of the eavesdropping wears off. Then she pushes her lean weight off the tentpole and slinks toward the table of food, all its bright metal dishes glinting like the Oasis does from far away, and, dog-focused, follows the smell of dark caramel and crushed pomegranate to a platter at the west end of the feast.
It’s laden with dessert: a hundred or so perfectly round flan, their faces so lacquered in sugar that they catch even the brightest bits of sunlight, freckled with jewel-red pomegranate seeds.
O stares at them for a long moment; then she reaches out to grab one, and brings it to her mouth.
The Roanne were quick to hear of the festival. They had Tyr out on land everywhere, watching the other Solterrans through observant eyes, each of them given bags in which to hide their pelts. The Roanne may have a place in Solterra, but still, they were not completely trustful of the landwalkers and their new king. Hosted in the court itself the noon feast seemed to be a popular event, with many already mingling as the salt-water woman graced them with her presence.
It was a shame that here on land, few knew of the power the Morrigna held. Most knew of the sea dwelling colonies, but few cared enough to learn who they were. In the eyes of the Roanne they should be on equal terms with the Ieshan, but others seemed not to agree, and reality, as Saoirse acknowledged, was that few cared for the seal-skin bearers.
Hers was draped proudly across her back, a limp grey pelt, spotted with black and white, with finely sewn stitches holding tears back together, marks of underwater trials and spars. It was held in by a single rope, tied around her neck in a sailors knot. She was here to make the Roanne known. It was the first festival of the sun in 50 years, and in the past, the Morrigna had not attended, keeping themselves separate from the landwalkers. But this was a new age, one where the new generation of Roanne, were determined to be a part of Solterra, one with the rest of Solis’ people. True they had fought in every Solterran war, joining ranks against Denocte, flanking in around the coast, to attack from the shore. But at the end of the day, most every last one of them had returned to the sea, sinking back under the waves to their reef.
She made her way to the bar, eyeing up every drink that the menu held. A slim selection stood before her, each one more appealing then the last. But to refuse any of the feast's offerings would not be a good start with the new King, so she settled on the first drink she saw. Pale gold, fitting for a creature with eyes the color of royalty. She sipped the golden concoction, making a face at its sickly sweet taste. It smelled of the fruits of the earth, foreign to a tongue that had only tasted salt-water and seaweed.
She peered around her, watching Solterras people speak to each other, with voices rough as sandstone.
Thalassa. That is what the Gorgon is really called—a name, because mortals care so much more for those than they should—yet it was not until he murmured it at her door that Thalassa remembered.
Priestess Thalassa. Long ago, that was what she had been: something holy.
I have need of you. Ah. Don't they always? His mother had needed her once, too.
☼
introduction
Welcome to the trials for Solterran Regent and Emissary!
My main goal for choosing IC trials over appointments is that I would like for every interested character to have a chance at the position. And I'll say this right at the start too: even if you're not interested in the position, but wish to participate in Thalassa's challenge for the fun of it, please do! Just note somewhere in your opening post that your character is not seeking a Regime position. <3
Let's get started, shall we?
☼
how it works
At its core, the trial process has been designed to take into account a character's EXP and a writer's creativity in answering the Gorgon's questions, as well as incorporate an element of randomness. Here is an outline and explanation of how I will be judging it!
Every participating character starts off with base points determined by their EXP. (Example: Adonai would start off with 30 points.)
Thalassa asks her first question. There will be two answers you may choose from; please elaborate on your character's reasoning! There are NO correct answers—however, there will be an IC "right" answer accepted by Thalassa that will be determined via dice roll after a round ends.
The characters who answered "correctly" will receive +5 points. "Incorrect" answers receive no points.
To the answer/post I deem to be the most creative, insightful, true to the character, or well-written, I will add a creativity bonus of +3 points.
The trial will last 3 rounds. Thalassa will ask a question, your character will have a specified amount of time to respond, and I will roll the dice, tally up points, and post, via Official Day Account, Thalassa's response & ensuing question.
Round 3 will be a special round. Instead of a question, Thalassa will pose a hypothetical scenario that your character must "solve." There will be no correct or incorrect answers; instead, I will award +5 points to the answer I deem the most creative, insightful, true to the character, or well-written.
After the final round ends, the winner will be determined via a final dice roll. For example:
Character A has 40 points; character B has 35 points; character C has 28 points.
If I roll a number within 1-40, character A will win.
If I roll a number within 41-75, character B will win.
If I roll a number within 76-104, character C will win.
The winning character may choose between the Regent position or the Emissary position. I will then roll again, and the next character will take on the remaining position if they wish to! If not, I will roll again.
☼
notes
Due to the nature of the trial, I will be strict with posting deadlines. If you do not post your character's response by the date specified, they will unfortunately be eliminated from the trial! This isn't school though (due at 11:59 will be written on my grave)—I will grant a wiggle room of 1-2 hours.
If the deadline is 2/10 at 9 PM PST & you post at 10 PM PST, don't sweat it! Posting at like, 2 AM PST would be sus ... unfortunately ...
☼
expectations for regent & emissary
There will be some activity requirements and IC/OOC duties for the holders of these positions. I fully understand that Novus is advertised as a game for busy people, though, so I hope these requirements won't be tyrannically burdensome!
REGENT DUTIES
The Regent's player should commit to writing up some fun, seasonal IC "quests" for me to refresh Solterra's quest board with! (Mentioned in the Court Rules thread.)
They should also pitch event ideas / share in writing them up with me! It's my hope as Sovereign to release a "smaller" IC event one season and a "bigger" one the next.
The Regent should aim to post at least 5 times a month.
This is something I'll be experimenting with, but I plan to release lore for a Solterran Royal Guard + Fleet group soon—& to mimic RL power relations, the Regent will be second-in-command of Solterra's armed forces. This means that ICly the Regent should thread with Royal Guard/Fleet members, direct patrols, check on training, etc—and if Solterra ever finds herself provoked ... the Regent will be expected to don their "generalissimo" hat ...
EMISSARY DUTIES
The Emissary's player will also be expected to contribute to IC event planning / writing! As well as contribute 1-2 quests to the quest board.
The Emissary should aim to post at least 5 times a month.
Again, in accordance with my experiment with giving more IC duties to Regime ranks, the Emissary will be in charge of not only diplomatic/intracourt affairs, but will be official Solterran spymaster. The Emissary will manage a small, elite corps of spies, and will be expected by Adonai to keep this on the way down low. Meaning ideally, no one will know ICly the Emissary has this role ...
Additionally, the players of the Regime are expected to be welcoming, approachable players willing to plot/thread with new and old members. You guys are also reserved the right to bother me (I kid, no one is ever a bother) with event ideas, lore you wish to release, plot relations, anything really—throw them at me!
Adonai & I can't wait to meet & work with the new Regime members. ♡
I'll come to thee by the moonlight,
though hell should bar the way
T
he ambience in the tavern was pleasant that night, as it was nearly every evening in Seamus’ Place.
A young would-be performer played a merry violin in the corner, his lavender skin and curved horns accompanied with a wide grin as he played quite animatedly. Tristan made a mental note to tip the youngster well for his hard practiced entertainment. The general din of discussion and wayward voices could hardly be made out over the jaunty tune, but drinks were flowing and spirits were bright, and all in all it appeared to be just the same as it was every evening.
Tristan reclined at his usual corner table, his usual drink in a cup just in front of him, mostly untouched. It was his second of the evening and he had no intention on overindulging. Merlin snoozed upon the worn tabletop, stretched out upon his back with his wings beneath him and tail hanging off the side of the table to twitch back and forth in slumber. The knight had been there for nearly an hour, perhaps a little more, but he had taken his table after engaging Seamus in their usual friendly conversation and teasing banter as the man poured him his first drink of the evening. The barman was a brilliant conversationalist and few knew the word on the streets quite like he did. They went far back, the two of them; it was one of the only rare perks of immortality.
Lifting his tankard of mead the knight took a drink, keen turquoise eyes scanning the scenery. The table he sat at was stationed so that he could see every exit and entrance into the tavern itself, a habit built from lifetimes of war, fighting, and bloodshed. It also allowed him a good vantage of the tavern itself, and he was content to watch patrons come and go as they pleased. Everyone knew to behave in Seamus’ bar, and rightly so; the enchanted walls would have no mercy if violence was struck up within these walls, and Tristan had no qualms in stepping in to help enforce the rules before things got too unruly.
A cool breeze swept across the interior of the tavern as another individual shuffled in from the streets outside and it was habit alone that had Tristan scanning him from across the room. Broad, tall, and looming, the knight recognized him immediately even though the memories were fuzzy simply from how long ago it had been.
General Kodarki.
A greyed brow raised in surprise. What in the world was he doing here…? Concern and curiosity fought for dominance within his breast, but he watched the General as he moved throughout the tavern, shuffling in. Perhaps it was by allure alone, the connection of their history alone and the inevitable magnetism that came with fighting side-by-side that caused their eyes to meet, and from behind the rim of his tankard did Tristan grin, turquoise eyes glittering in the low-lit lights as he held the General’s stare.
He motioned for the General to join him with a nod, but offered no word. Not yet.
