i s o r a t h
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.


Isorath had always been an early riser, and often the final ghost in the hallways that retired to his chambers. Sleep was a fickle thing, and he was partial to the moments of the day where he was the singular figure in silent hallways or the lone silhouette of silver and gold against the pastel colours of the sky. There was something oddly comforting in these moments, like he stepped between time itself. Into a place that was only him and that which he wished to be.

In times before, he had risen to train. Eyes ablaze and mind eager, he had been raised a warrior much as he'd been raised a prince. There was no time to let his body go soft and fat with laziness and contentment, and even when he'd left his home in search of greater glories. He'd found himself bodyguard to an Empress and trained twice as hard, but his heart had been on fire then with love and the desire to see her and their kingdom safe. Now, he rose because sleep was fitful and unpleasant, urged awake to find peace in the lingering tendrils of nights tender morning kiss to the light. The bird calls and the dim glow of the fireflies soothed his troubled mind to a place where his breath came easier and his ears abandoned their sanctuary within the depths of his silver mane. It had been a long time since he had trained so passionately, and while he had endeavored to maintain the tone he had built, he had lost much of the thickness he once required. He was now lithe instead of muscular bulk, built with curves and sharp angles.

Perhaps it would do him good, if not for his body, then his mind — to have someone to test himself against, to remind him of those old roots that still dug in deep beneath his skin. Push him past the threshold until sweat soaked his skin and his hair fell from it's ornate pieces, until his breath became labored and his mind sharpened into a fine point made to weild himself like a weapon. He had been that once, and some part of him longed to be like that again. His words had grown sharp in their stead, his weapon aimed to wilt those that tried to get a rise out of him. New found vanity which bid him to hold himself above such things that might damage his shimmering coat and shatter the antlers which crowned him, but wouldn't it be something to taste it again.

He had risen and slowly, sluggish with sleep pulled himself from the mess of blankets and the comfort of his leather wings. Most would of found it a chore, but he had with ease that could only be accomplished from too many nights and early mornings, left the confine of his quarters and silently moved through the quiet halls toward the entrance. Mind focused on pulling the long tresses of his mane into something more tameable than the shock of silver curls which almost caressed the stone floor, held in place by the ornate clips fashioned in the shape of dragons.

Slitted pupils spotted the unicorn out of the corner of his eye, and his attention is pulled away from sorting through his hair at the greeting. Part of him feels exposed like this, half-disheveled and not fit to be greeting anyone and he inwardly sighs. There's no time for gripes or a wish to retreat and reappear when he is immaculate as Vespera's visage captured in the artists careful brush stroke or carving hand. So he grins and bears it, his mane is left half done, not exactly done but not entirely loose. On further inspection, the stranger with the careless smile is just as disheveled as he is, the sweat on his dappled coat is still slick enough that he can see it in the pink light of the morning. Many rose early in the morning for many reasons, some out of routine and others like him, no one truly looks their best in the early hours, no matter how much they wished it. It's enough to sooth the sore spot for now about his own appearance. "It's hard to sleep late underneath all this hair." He responded with a barely audible laugh, a wry smile playing upon his pale features.




 "Isorath talks."



This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.

GUESSWHO

i s o r a t h
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.


Once upon a time he might have entertained the halls Summer and the Sun, his roots were twined intricately with the blazing orb in the sky, and he was no stranger to an existence within a place that punished those with weak conviction and determination. It was a mutual thought, shared between the two as they observed one another. Isorath wagered that the stallion opposite him would look at home in Winter's embrace, her frost enhancing the winter-grey of his coat and bringing out the silver ore of his eyes.
No Isorath did not belong to the Summer Court, it's large families foreign to him just as he was foreign to them. His homeland was steeped in mysticism, strangers with wanderlust would often make port in the coastal cities whose backdrop was the arid deserts which stretched for miles. It was those tales which spread outward into the known world he wagered, tales of grand cites whose sea air mingled with the rich perfumes merchants peddled as dragons circled overhead.

He wondered if this stallion had ever heard of such a place, and what place the unicorn called home, if he was not of these lands.
For all the troubles such a mane caused him, such as mild suffocation in the early hours after a particular roll of his body wrapped the unnaturally long strands around his face, he couldn't bring himself to cut it. He certainly envied those who had shorter hair some days, when it was unruly and refused to remain in it's braids and ornate styles. How easy his morning routine would become if his hair was less than half it's length, and no need of maintainence at all if he sheared it to the roach Morozko had. "It's not always like this." He offered in good humor, a faint smile now on his own pale lips. "Most days it cooperates."

Large wings dropped from their snug embrace against his scaled sides, talon fingers extending to spread out on the stone floor beneath their hooves as he shifted himself, not wanting to block the doorway also, if another happened to sail by the pair. The gilded claws glinted in the rosy hue of the morning, softly haloed whenever they flexed. The Unicorn's inquiring gaze doesn't bother him much, he's long grown accustomed to strangers glancing his way as he passed, either in awe or curiosity of his unusual visage.
Soon the inevitable question came, and the winged kirin turned his lavender gaze back to his new companion's face in a contemplative look. "I am," he began with a dip of his head, and then a short laugh, "I suppose that is true, I would hope it would be in a more acceptable style at the meeting though." He straightened his lithe frame after that, one that echoed of a life made to hold himself to lofty standards and proper etiquette, the trappings of a fine courtier. "I'm Isorath, the new Sage of the Dusk Court. I'm afraid I arrived after the meeting, so I'm still learning faces and names as I find them." He admitted the last part with a breath, it was always mildly frustrating, having to relearn faces and names whenever he moved on. 


"Isorath talks."



This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.

GUESSWHO

i s o r a t h
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.

The statement lapsed the winged Kirin into a long stretch of silence, lavender eyes peering at him curiously from under a canopy of snow white lashes. Isorath isn't sure what about the statement struck him, but paired with the sharp smile which played on the Unicorn's lips, it was hard not to mull the words over with suspicion. Jealousy perhaps? While he had never shied away from the unique beauty of his own looks, evident in the way he preened and pruned his hair and how his scales shined like polished gold, it still struck him when such comments reached his ears.

A large portion of his forelock fell loose from the sharp curve of his antler, raining the shimmering strands over his face, only then did the silence break, an airy laugh escaped his pale lips. Lighter than air and silken in it's tunes, his head tipped to the side as a wry grin replaced the straight line his lips had been but moments before. "I'm sure they do," he agreed initially, clinking his talons thoughtfully on the floor, "but it is not the mares I aim to impress with my looks." He admitted, once upon a time perhaps, but that felt like it had been a lifetime ago.

It would be a fine day, with promise of a cool breeze on the air to take the edge of the suns magnificence. A perfect day for flying, and spending the hours lost to the cliffs and the lush fields. Back home, Sun's Reach would be alive and making the most of such fine weather, equine and dragons alike bustling overhead and through the street. If the thought caused a momentarily pinch of pain in his chest, he didn't let it show.

"Two strangers in a strange land." The kirin mused idly, a soft breath exhaled from his nostrils. If he had known the single horned unicorn had been reluctant in sharing his history, the next question would of been spared from his lips. "Where do you come from, Morozko? Another Court of this land, or another land entirely?" Already, Novus had proved to be as varied in it's inhabitants as it was it's land, each and every one he had met so far had been different than the last, no two the same. What was Morozko's story? Was he tied as the roots of trees to this place, or had he come here like a leaf on the wind?

The conversation turned back to him, and his own morning rituals. "I wake early to either run or to fly, if the weather permits." He responded with a small roll of his shoulders, the scales there glittering as the light shifted across their smooth face. Once his training was rigorous, hours upon hours under the blistering sun or battling the harsh winds. "I used to train for hours, but I've gotten a bit...lax." Isorath paused for a moment to glance at the other stallion. "Would you like to join? Though it looks like you've just gotten back from your own morning run."



"Isorath talks."



This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.

GUESSWHO