He hasn't even had the chance to meet the Champions of the court, an age old position he's even occupied himself, once a warrior. The blood of fighters roils in his veins, and it will never fade from him. He'd been a soldier, but authority never really sat well with Leviathan; listening to them is the equivalent of in one ear and out the other, until he's deemed them respectable. Too many march with their heads held high and an authority born of privilege rather than experience and worth. Rather than trials to earn the spot.
The old scar that runs from his left shoulder and down his spine seems to tingle with the thought. The fight with the teryr those years ago . . . it's something he longs for. A Solterra built on cooperative effort, a great hunt that he's sorely missed.
But that's the past, a Solterra that is written in memories and spoken between citizens, rather than living it.
Thus, Leviathan has turned himself to being a Merchant, and hoping to meet a damn Champion so he can move himself to being a blacksmith again. He's missed his little shack, with the cobwebs strewn between old weapons once again, in horrible shape, like it had been the day he had stepped into it those years ago. Of course he comes when there's a new Sovereign crowned, and a festival lifts its head.
Part of him hopes to potentially see old faces, but he doubts it. Bexley. Torstein. Seraphina. They're all names that only live in his head at this point.
The smells waft over him as he wanders among the other citizens of Solterra, towering over most of them and catching glances cast toward him and his scarred body. He knows how he looks, but he doesn't give a shit about the rumors that swirl around him. Leviathan, the monster warrior that had crawled out of the Teryr's cave itself.
His lips purse, and he dips his head a moment to sniff at a cake, only to lift up once more with a wrinkle of his nose, taking a sidestep and pausing as he nearly bumps someone. His head turns with a gruff snort, large ears swiveling forward and a growl in his throat before he shakes his head a little, glancing over the pegasus. "So you're Adonai, the new Sovereign?" There is no greeting, mostly because he doesn't think anyone remembers who he is.
He's nothing but a phantom in Solterra, one from the older days, lifting his head again as if he matters.
happiness is a butterfly, we should catch it while dancing
T
he world keeps on spinning, repeating itself over and over until something changes, which it doesn’t, it never does, because no one ever truly changes because they can’t.
Kensa once told her that Hyaline was more of a home to her than the land to which she was born. Elena, at the time, had not understood. Windskeep, Paraiso, her family’s lands they would always be home. But as she stands here now, in Terrastella, she understands the feeling and the reasoning. She swallows back the tears that threaten to rise up her throat, the reminder of all that she has tried to accomplish. She doubts that a day will go by when she does not see the vision of Marisol, bloodied and broken at her Hospital doorsteps. She doubts she will ever be the same again. She tries not to look too far ahead. For Dusk, for Elliana, for herself, and all the things that go along with it. She cant look that far ahead, too many things can change, too many things have already changed.
She frowns. Pointedly. Doesn’t bother trying to hide it. But it is neither anger nor confusion that furrows her brow. It is concentration instead. She bites her tongue and tries to determine why she’d thought herself fit to do this in the first place. Why she thought she would be able the impossible chasms that are Marisol’s footprints. The frown dissolves around the edges of a grimace. There is nothing queenly about her. Elena’s crown is strewn through her hair as Dusk wildflowers instead of made of gold and planted upon her head. There is nothing grand or great that stands out.
The sun is stretching slowly towards the horizon, casting a warm, reddish glow onto the golden mare that stands quietly near the edges of the lapping waves, and she is ignited in the dying light. Her blue gaze, distant and unfocused, stares out at the expanse of gold-tinged water that ripples before her before she walks in from the balcony.
It was time.
“Azrael,” she breathes when she sees him. She seeks out his stability in this moment, the only kind of stability she could find in the steadiness of his eyes. She so quickly unravels and so quickly feels the edges of her threads fray and he doesn’t. He is the calm in the storm.E lena is terrified and she cannot begin to figure out how to express such a fear. It is him and him alone that stops herself from fluttering and coming undone and she clings to it. She presses his calm into her chest until she can breathe a little easier. Shaken, she presses her forehead into the width of his neck and breathes in deeply, trying to stabilize and not focus on all the fears that materialize around her.
Her breath is shaky but the longer that she stays there, pressed against him, she can feel her pulse start to stabilize.
Maybe this fear, this uncertainty, maybe it will make her a bad queen.
Maybe she should have thought of this before.
It takes all she has to leave his side, but she makes her way to the front of the castle and she hands herself over to the incessant pounding of her heart, her pulse thrumming in her throat. Her smile grows softly, curling the edges of her lips, and she laughs, the sound low and easy and kind and she steps into the dying light of the day and into the Court, her Court. “Dusk,” she says to them all, blue eyes scanning over the crowd. “I have always considered myself first and foremost a healer and a friend, two things I wish to remain to all of you,” she says, standing taller, a sunset breeze catches her blonde hair just as stars twinkle above. “But I now come before you as your Queen, your sovereign.” The words feel foreign in her mouth. “I have served as your medic, as your Champion of Community, and now I wish to serve you in the highest regard as your leader.”
“In return, from all of you, I ask only for peace and harmony across the land, our land, and that all beings who call Dusk home, hold only good intentions in their hearts.” She catches herself as she speaks. She sounds like Valerio, and there is a swell of pride in her chest as she thinks of her godfather and the guardian he had been. “A time of change has come to Novus, let us stand tall and strong together,” she encourages. She turns her gaze to Marisol, catching her steel gaze. She wants to cry, then, more than any time else, because she no longer wants to shed a tear only for herself, but for her commander. Marisol would always have such a place carved in Elena’s heart. “Blessed be the fight, we are Terrastellans, and let us hold that to be true above all else.”
there is no safe place
for the hunted ones.
there is no safe place
when your body is
the site of the storm.
T
he attendant looks worried.
Across the room, Andras has been standing for hours, propped up against the far wall. He squints periodically as the heavy wood door creaks open like a mountain coming to life and light and sand spill into the small chamber. It is a familiar place. The groan of the crank, the shuffling of feet, and the unmistakable ring of anticipation is a cool hand smoothed over his cheek when the whole of the world outside this little pocket of space seems to have caught fire while his back is turned.
Next to the door is a sheet, which is the source of all the furrowed brows and the grim expressions. Andras hasn't read it. He has tried,, but was swatted away before his lenses would focus the words. Matches are not to be known in advance, the same attendant had said. The Solonia is about spontaneity.
Spontaneity.
As if the past few weeks have not been spontaneous enough.
The attendant looks worried, glancing from Andras to the sheet and back until he has to turn away, to look over the few Solterrans still left to participate. He imagines their matches across the arena, waiting quietly in the same vein, tense and stiff-backed and clenched in every muscle from head to toe. He breathes. The attendant still looks worried. When Andras looks back at her she stares at him, brows knit.
He is about to ask why, when there is a loud clunk in the sand past the door, and she breaks his gaze to lean into the crank, lurching the door open inch by inch. This time, the light falls on his face, his chest, and the warm air that pools into the doorway goes straight to his head.
"Hold on," says the same attendant, as he passes. He does, and she hands him a smooth, red arc of wood-- which he sees, as he turns it in the light, is a shortbow-- and a quiver to buckle to his shoulder. Suddenly, Andras is also worried. The girl wishes him luck, and the dawn king steps into the hot sun. It is all very familiar in a sad way. It is all very strange at the same time, as he runs one ghostly finger through the fletching of one arrow. He can't even remember the last time he shot a bow.
Somehow worse, still, is when he squints through his glasses at the growing shape opposite him, white and gold like the Solterran sun itself. Andras almost laughs.
"Our next match: Day versus Dawn, king versus king.
Adonai, Sovereign of Solterra and Andras, Sovereign of Delumine!"
It probably says more, that he's dead quiet, not even the unsteady crack of electricity to keep him company. When the cheering dies down, there is nothing but sun and silence. Andras bows his head low. "Your highness."
He wastes no time, after. They move away from each other again, circling back to a safe distance, and the match is called to start. Andras opens his wings and lifts into the air, raising his weapon. The bow shakes in his grip until Andras draws the string and forces himself to hold steady and breathe. He aims at the ground in front of Adonai, hoping only to buy himself some time. A man with anything to lose should flinch, he figures. He is thinking as far as getting Adonai moving and no further. Andras closes his eyes after he lets go. The idea that it hits nothing and the idea that it hits anything are equally unthinkable. He doesn't think about how the tips are probably blunted for safety (especially in a match that involves their king-- and another).
The only thing he can think, truly the only thing, is that he hopes Adonai is a better shot than he is. He didn't come here to leave without a scratch.
(Also if there is a way to give Andras disadvantage on rolls where he uses the bow because his knowledge of archery ends at "load, point some direction and shoot" it would truly and completely make my day thank you <3)
somewhere between the bottom of the climb and the summit
is the answer to the mystery of why
T
he pigeon arrives for him the first night he sleeps in Denocte’s castle. He does not think much of the arrival; the bird itself seems nondescript enough, with the gray plumage and iridescent feathers at the throat. The letter, tied snuggly with red ribbon, bares no seal that Ira recognizes. He considers it the first night on the job; why would he? When he unravels the parchment tenderly, delicately, as if pulling the petals off a flower—Ira is taken aback.
Meet at Veneror Peak tomorrow.
The handwriting seems effeminate and elegant; no calligraphy that Ira has seen before. The seal only resembles an intricate knot, with no semblance to any of the Sovereign’s sigils. He closes his eyes to rest, but does not sleep; the night passes restlessly until Ira awakes far too early to begin his journey. He sets off well before daybreak, into the night, traverse a forest he knows well.
Ira tells the story within his own mind: No one knows who sent the first letter; if it came from the north-eastern kingdom of Solterra, the northwesternDelumine. They do not know if the pigeons, with the letters sealed with each Sovereign’s wax melt, were sent from the southern countries—Denocte and Terrastella. The rumors on the wind vary with each retelling, with each utterance, until the fantastical meeting on the summit will go down inscribed in myth. Perhaps, they will say, the pigeons came from each deity.
Hours later, Ira knows his own thoughts are fantastical as he ascends the steep pathway to Veneror. And yet—in a land where all but one Court had recently experienced mysterious turmoil, perhaps the tale does not read so strangely. And besides—the truth does not seem far from the aforementioned myth. The facts are not there. The message Ira received had been vague at best; merely a summoning of Sovereigns to the summit of Veneror.
He still has so many questions about his ascension to the throne. Where had the other Sovereigns gone? What entity had taken them? Or, more seriously, had they simply vacated their respective thrones? He wonders, as his muscles begin to burn for the climb, if any of the other recently crowned would know.
Recently crowned. Ira has heard the names. He has attempted to familiarize himself with the going-ons of the other nations. Adonai, in Solterra. Elena, in Terrastella. Andras, in Delumine. Me, he thinks, in Denocte.
Ira, when he reaches the summit, discovers he is the first there. This late in the summer, the air is downright frigid. He feels the end of the season, the early needling of autumn. He has felt it well before the peak and now, when he exhales, a long billow of semi-opaque breath escapes his lips. To his eyes, the peak looks nearly like a wasteland. Barren rock protrudes from the earth, jaggedly, as if a wound. He has long-since abandoned any shelter of trees, instead progressing into a bald face. However, he knows he is not all alone. He has come to Verenor often to understand the peak needs adornment aside from the statues of the gods cutting up, prominent, against the sky. They all measure the same height; and, at their pinnacle, stretch far beyond any rock or mountain feature.
The new Sovereign steps froward until he stands besides Caligo’s statue. He turns his back to it, waiting—waiting.
He holds his breath.
Ira does not know yet for what.
He casts a glance away from the statues, the rocks, the summit; he glances back toward the earth so far below. He wonders, exactly, how far that pigeon had to fly to summon the Kings of Day, Dawn, Night and the Queen of Dusk.
The colt's pebble opens a hairline crack in the stone lion's mane. The lion's eyes, two chips of raw obsidian, begin to glow.
You are standing amongst the uneasy crowd when a small gust of wind throws up a sheet of sand; you avert your eyes. Perhaps that is why you do not see it happen: that the stone lion's right eye blinks.
☼
introduction
Welcome to the stone lion mini-event for the Festival of the Sun!
When I was writing up the festival prompts, I felt that I really wanted a prompt featuring half the violence of the Solonia tournaments, yet retaining still that Solterran ~ flair ~. Hence I came up with this!
There is something trapped within the stone lion. The one who frees it, will earn the loyalty and the companionship of the creature within forever. That is, the character who frees the creature will win a special fantasy bonded: a chimera! The chimera's magic must be solar related, as this companion will be perceived ICly as a gift from Solis himself. Additionally, the fantasy bonded item cannot be transferred from one character to another. Please be sure to participate with the character you'd like to receive this special chimera bonded.
This mini-event is open to all characters—however, the chimera must ultimately go to a Solterran. This means that if it is freed by a non-Solterran, I will be awarding the fantasy bonded to whichever Solterran character posted closest to the winning post. There will still be opportunities to earn an IC participation prize (a fragment of the stone lion) as well as smaller Agora items "dropped" by the stone lion as characters attempt to free it!
☼
how it works
The stone lion will start off with HP: 150. Every character who posts may "attack" the stone lion once, in any fashion. The damage they deal will be their Attack stat. For example, if @Adonai attacks the stone lion, he will deal 28 damage.
Once you post your first attack, your character must wait for a minimum of 2 other characters to attack before attacking again.
Each player may enter a maximum of 2 of their characters to this mini-event.
Every time a character attacks, they have a small chance of receiving one of the following items dropped by the stone lion:
a pet item.
an enchantment item.
an outfit item.
Once the stone lion's HP drops to 50 or below, the lion will begin restrengthening itself. This means that:
Every character who attacks from that point onwards has a 50% chance of having their damage halved, and a 25% chance of the stone lion absorbing half of their damage points as HP.
The character who attacks the stone lion and knocks its HP to 0 wins!
Again, if this character is not a Solterran, than the Solterran who posted closest to the winning post will win the chimera bonded.
It is not altogether uncommon to spot the occasional desert beast swept into the charybdis of downtown Solterra. For the markets, you see, are where things go to lose themselves—from the slack-jawed guard to the squalling child to the gold hidden deep in a cloak pocket. Some beasts are intelligent enough to appreciate this.
The phoenix, however, has not come with the intention of being ignored.
At first it is given a wide berth, as, for several long moments, a fog of anxious conversation engulfs the crowd: not one of the gathered parties can recall the proper way to approach a phoenix without risk of swift incineration.
Eventually, someone works up the nerve to try anyway.
The phoenix perches, with the nonchalance of a schoolboy, on the scarred wooden frame of the market’s notice board. Scarlet spools of fire lick up and down its wings, its eyes, silver as mercury, brightening in interest as the first of the brave draws near.
Hello, hums the phoenix, its voice like a flute’s melody. The crowd gasps. The phoenix tilts its golden head to the side, pleased.
Beneath its billowing fan of a tail is a sheet of parchment stamped with the seal of the King, yet written in Eibet—the common tongue.
Posted by: Sol Bestiam - 01-21-2021, 04:34 PM - Forum: Archives
- No Replies
This flaming guardian could be your worst nightmare...
The massive ebony, gold, and white pegasus had woke early, the pull to speak to his god drawing him. It had been a long while since the stallion had made the journey. Sol Bestiam was a very different being than he had been the first time, and much of that was thanks to having a place to truly belong. Thanks to Oriens and his cherished friendship with the aquatic mare that held a large part of his heart. The memory of her nudging him to find a relationship, to let others in, made the giant stallion laugh into the crisp morning air. He found that he was finally realizing, much to his chagrin, that perhaps he and Below Zero were not meant to be more than close friends. That knowledge still struck him as odd and he found himself struggling with the thought.
Sol found himself landing at the base of the path up the mountain. Even if it had been allowed, and he was truly unsure of those rules and restrictions, the stallion preferred the walk to get his mind into the best place to speak to the god. The audition had been the first time that he had actually spoken to the god's true face, had heard his true words. That voice had inspired a pull to really devote himself. That alone was a thought that put an amused smile on his face. He had never devoted himself to anything, had only taken for granted that he was destined for power. Now, he had given up that power and was trying to forge a new path in the world that he had come to call home.
Stepping into the carved temple-like area, Sol cast his gaze over the area to check for any other worshipers that might be in attendance to their gods, that might be speaking to Oriens themselves. Thankfully, it seemed that he was alone, cast adrift in the world between realms. He strode forward, his golden gaze resting upon the face of stone that was to signify Oriens. As he moved, he wondered if the god could hear his words through those stone ears, or if it was much more complex than that. Sol wondered if the god would deign himself to answer, or if he would be left speaking to air once again. Not that he had any right to claim the god's full attention. He was nothing more than a merchant in a realm that was far from where he was born.
"Oriens..." The 21 hand stallion said reverently, dipping his head before the statue. He fought with the desire to be obscenely formal and to speak from the heart. What would the other prefer? Would he lift his opinion for one that was as formal as possible, or did he prefer the words that came straight from the heart?
"From the heart it is... I apologize if it is not what you prefer, my lord." He started again, lifting his gaze as he spoke. "Time has passed quickly since my last visit, though slowly since the last time that we were able to speak. Much has changed in my world, and I credit a lot of those changes to you. You inspired me to be better, to make amends and prove myself to be the best that I could be. I went back to where I was born. To where I had done all of those terrible things. While I was not received with open hooves, I was able to at least attempt to make my peace with the herd and with the filly that I had victimized. She cant even speak above a whisper, yet she was willing to hear me out and allow me to say what I needed to say. I left an outcast, forever forbidden to return. But I returned to Novus with much better emotions regarding the stallion that I have become. I want to do more to honor you, though I am unsure of where to even begin. You have no idea how badly I wish that you would come down here and speak to me. That you would tell me exactly what you would like me to do. I want to be of use to you and to the court that has taken in the monster that I used to be. I want to be better." He finished, once again dipping his head. He continued to speak to the god silently, repeating much of the words that were said to the open air. Sol found that he was not willing to leave just yet, having patience to see if Oriens would indeed show his face or if he was once again speaking to the solid stone around him.
Voodoo snorted as he stepped into the markets. They were his favorite place in the court, a place where all were welcome and most could find what they were seeking. Stretching his heavily muscled form, he delighted in the feel of his intricately marked pelt sliding over well trained and honed limbs. He was a warrior, having been trained from birth. Recently, he had been assigned as a guard to a member of a lesser noble house that was residing in Denocte. Shaking his head, he felt the sting of his ivory mane as it struck his flesh. Pain was nothing more than a test to prove his strength.
Striding forward with almost feline grace, he began to browse the merchants' wares, making small purchases here and there that could be delivered to his home. After stopping in a lesser populated area, he began to watch. His icy blue eyes followed horses as they did their business. He smirked as he watched
couples embrace and head towards more private quarters. Shoppers danced through the markets, each searching for the perfect items at the best prices. A few loud words and minor scuffles could be heard around certain merchants, no doubt horses bickering over the purchase of wares.
Resting a rear hoof on its tip, Voodoo continued to watch the world around him with curious eyes. It would be interesting to integrate himself into life in this court...
@
"Speaking." Notes: Open <3 New boy needs to meet others XD
thoughts are the shadows of our feelings -
always darker, easier, simpler
A
lthough young, Ira has spent more time than he would like to admit visiting the medics and doctors of Denocte. The first visit had been when he was little more than a leggy colt; he had taken a fall in the unfamiliar mountains and had very nearly sworn to never venture within them again.
His father forbade it. Limping, the next day, they returned to the trees. Ira harbored a fear of the forest for months, after; but each day it gradually faded, until the fear became something deeper, more inherent to who he was. You cannot love a thing, truly, unless you are prepared for it to hurt you, his father once told him.
Ira remembers the words, rather fondly, as he seeks out Luvena in the crowd. He knows there is bitterness to accompany any joy; but sometimes combining that knowledge with ones understand of life becomes difficult. Even more so, Ira realizes, since becoming Sovereign. The actuality is a strange one, foreshadowed his father’s preoccupation with duty. Everything his father had ever taught him—
The newly crowned Sovereign exhales, deeply. Enough of that, he tells himself. He knows he should not have ventured so far, alone, to check his traps one last time. He knows he should have been more careful in removing them from the forest and the trees. But mistakes happen, especially when his mind wanders. “Luvena,” Ira calls out, through the crowd. His search has been postponed by citizens stepping forward to talk to him; but at last, he has found who he was looking for. Ira smiles, albeit a little sheepishly. He cannot become a man overnight; the expression remains boyish, almost guilty so. “I got a rather nasty gash in the woods again. You think you could patch me up?”
Arma Mountains are a surprisingly comfortable place to be sometimes, especially when one is lost to their own thoughts.
Cicatrix finds themselves lost more often than not lately, wanting to do the best they can for Denocte. Azrael had given them his position, had entrusted them, and what had they done with it but flounder? It was time to change that, and speaking to Caligo every night doesn't seem to help as much as they want. She does not answer from her perch, but perhaps she watches them, tests them.
There's a shiver down their spine, and Cicatrix draws in a breath, wings stretching with one great sweep of them. They mean to take flight, but they hear something. There's a flick of their ears underneath of the cloak, and they turn their head, wings closing and the halo casting more light over the rocky crevices of the mountain terrain around them.
It isn't a surprise that there are others around here, but they still always find themselves surprised at times that others are willing to even come near them. It isn't as if they're the most friendly .. er .. face.
Shaking their body slightly, Cicatrix instead approaches the sounds, hooves carefully kicking rocks away and finding firm purchase, scanning the area around them. It surprises them to come someone that nearly matches the night sky, and their head lifts up a little. It would have been harder to see them, if not for the golden light cast from the ever present source circling their head.
That surprise turns to something of relief however, and they breathe out, wings even loosening at their sides, revealing glimpses of the stars charted on the very membranes.
This is someone they've been seeking.
"You are Sebastien, are you not? The scholar?" Hope colors their tone, and they even seem to ruffle up from it. Feathers stand on end on the joints of their wings, content and excited, and if they had a face, they would be smiling. As it is, there is at least very little blue dripping from between sharp gilded teeth, giving a less imposing visage than usual. "I have meant to look for you. How strange, to meet you all the way out here." But they're not complaining.
Perhaps this is Caligo's way of guiding them in a direction they needed to go.
