Novus
an equine & cervidae rpg
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Novus closed 10/31/2022, after The Gentle Exodus

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Played by Offline Sparrow [PM] Posts: 5 — Threads: 2
Signos: 250
Day Court Citizen
Male [He/Him/His]  |  14 [Year 497 Fall]  |  14.3 hh  |  Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 19  |    Active Magic: N/A & N/A  |    Bonded: N/A
#1


If you must die, Sweetheart,
Die knowing your life was my life’s best part.

One, two, three, four…

Repetitive, I counted. My only driving force, my only state of progression. Every dragging step, every lurch of an exhausted heartbeat, every gasping inhale followed by shuddering exhale, I counted. A litany of prayer reduced to four single digits, the promise of salvation and a stubborn, foolish determination to not keel over in the dunes of the Mors personified into four simple numbers. One, two… Three. Four.

I lost track of the time since the night of my dangerous escape. It seemed to blur together, and I could not remember just how long I had been traveling, dragging my sorry state of a body through Novus to return home. The first few days were spent in a frantic blur; paranoia and terror drove my mad dash across the lands. As fatigue caught up with me two days in, I chose to spend the days in hiding to try and rest and regain my strength, while my nights were dedicated to travel. 

Home. Did I have a home? Would it still be mine to claim? Or had I been replaced? One.

I thought of my family cottage on the corner of the Ieshan estate, beyond the beautiful gardens where so often I met Adonai. I imagined it as it was; beautiful, quaint, it’s stone sides polished a striking white and the gardens around it blooming and full. The thought of my bed, so soft and welcoming when I could fall into it, was nearly enough to make me weep. Two.

My thoughts twisted, sullied and poisoned from the hardship of my absence and the mental image of my quaint cottage shifted into an image of neglect, forgotten, rotting, cast aside. The windows that remained open to allow the winter breeze inside were now boarded and sealed shut, the same done to the front entranceway to prevent entrance. I imagined it barren and full of cobwebs, and the only souls that lived there were the ghosts of memories. Three.

I wanted to cry, but I ran out of tears weeks ago. Four.

Crossing the Mors had been the most difficult part of my journey thus far. By the time I even arrived in Solterra my body was pushing the fine line of collapsing. The nights were cold and frigid, my legs seeming to sink into the fine sand dunes that made every step a challenge. I was exhausted by the time dawn rose and with so little protection from the glaring sun, my rest was fitful at best. Two days into the trek across the desert I noticed a number of dark carrion birds in my wake, circling overhead. Three of them, to be exact, and I recalled a moment months ago where I saw three black birds on Adonai’s windowsill before our lives were turned upside down.

My tired heart ached. My eyes burned. I could hardly breathe, the tongue in my mouth dry and parched, nostrils cracked and bleeding. Surely I looked a wretched sight, and had I possessed the energy I would have been horrified at my appearance. Every youthful splendor and ounce of vigor I once had was gone; my coat dull and lackluster, the grey-blue color stained with sweat and caked with sand, dirt, and blood. Every rib could be counted and the cut of my hip bones sharply stuck out. Old injuries, cuts, and lacerations were poorly healed and some had grown infected along the journey I made across Novus. I was a sight, and not in a good way. Surely not even Adonai could recognize me now…

It wasn’t until I stumbled across the Oasis just before dawn that I allowed myself to fall, its greenery like a welcome home embrace from a loved one. Unceremoniously I crumpled to the ground near the shore of the blue waters, the sound of the nearby waterfall like music to my ears as my sides heaved in large, gasping breaths. For what felt like hours I laid there, eyes closed, focused on breathing and not passing out. It was a miracle I managed to stay conscious. As my thirst kicked in, I shifted, rolling onto my middle after an embarrassing amount of effort. My hooves scrambled against sand and stone to pull my pitiful bulk the rest of the way towards the water and there I drank greedily, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of crisp, clear, cool water. Every swallow caused my stomach to cramp uncomfortably, but my eyes burned with tears of relief.

Finally.

I was home.

Lacking the strength to move from the side of the oasis I let my head drop in the sand, chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath. Exhaustion covered me like a mantle, oppressive and cumbersome, and my eyes grew heavy.

As unconsciousness finally took me I didn’t even see the three dark carrion birds perched upon the nearby stonework.

« r » | @Ruth

 
First person is weird and I hope I'll get the hang of it soon. ;o; <3









Played by Offline Jeanne [PM] Posts: 49 — Threads: 12
Signos: 5
Inactive Character
#2








☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות

"WHAT ARE EMOTIONS / ANYWAY? Flowers die / not knowing. And yet our feelings lead us down that one / path we only ever take, / deceptively edged with bloom after bloom after bloom."



When I find the man – who is nearly as much of a corpse as he is a living being, at that point -, I am supposed to be off work. My shift ended perhaps an hour before I arrived at the Oasis, intending to gather some of the plants that grow on the bank. Ishak, I’m sure, is somewhere nearby, though out of sight; close enough, I’m sure, to hear me if I scream.

(I am probably in less danger in the open desert than I am in the city, or, perhaps, even in my own home; but that is beside the point.)

I see the vultures first, and I expect some dead animal. It is not abnormal to find a corpse near the oasis, struck down by some predator waiting for them to drink at the banks; but there is no dead jackal lying on the shoreline as I approach it, nor a corpse at all. Instead, the vultures have encircled some unconscious man. I can barely make out the heave of his sides from where I am standing, my lips rapidly pressing into a mostly-uncharacteristic grimace.

This will be trouble. Frankly, it will probably be more trouble than it is worth. Regardless – I did take an oath, so it is my job, whether I like it or not (whether I am meant to be working or not) to see to the man, if I can. He is lucky, I think, that I rarely go out into the desert without my tools. If I didn’t have them with me, there would be very little I could do for him, save perhaps for asking Ishak to help me bring him back to the hospital.

(I suspect that I will find myself doing that regardless – but that is beside the point. I can probably improve his condition somewhat while I am here, make sure that he is stable enough to survive the trek back to the court. If the vultures have already come for him, he is most likely quite weak already.)

I don’t approach him out of a sense of charity, or sympathy, or duty. It is nothing quite so honorable, because I do not care at all if he lives or dies. What guides my steps, as I draw towards him across the sand, is primarily some sense of obligation, a vague sense that this is what I’m supposed to be doing. It is what a good person would do, I’m sure, and a good doctor, and, although I know well that I am not good, I like to pretend to be.

(If I could be good – I would choose to be good.)

My lips curl up around the white edges of my teeth as I eye the vultures that have landed alongside his body, a few daring to peck at his still-heaving sides; I stride up towards them, undeterred in spite of my slight stature, and, with an irritated hiss of “Leave” and a few snaps of my teeth, I manage to chase off the birds. They perch in the branches of one of the one of the palms bordering the oasis, observing like some silent jury. I ignore them, and I begin to examine the half-dead man in front of me.

There is nothing I can do about the malnutrition made evident in his jutting, bony sides. (That is something that will have to be dealt with later.) His coat is dull and caked in grime. (I think, with some exasperation, that he could have made it into the water before collapsing; it would have been far more convenient, unless he’d drowned.) More importantly, his wounds look old, and, if they are healed at all, they are healed badly – at least some of them are infected. I lean down to examine the ones that ooze pus and smell dangerously like rot, and my nose, unconsciously, wrinkles with something like disdain. It is difficult to know where to start with such a troublesome case; most of my emergencies are at least emergencies because they have a singular, severe wound. That is not this man’s problem. If anything, he seems to be suffering from a lack of care, but I tell myself that most strangers lost in the Mors haven’t a clue how to patch themselves up with the scarce resources left available.

(Else, I can’t imagine why he would cross the desert in this state.)

I’ll have to cut out some of the infection; it might necrotize, if I don’t. (It might already be necrotizing. Some of the deeper wounds seem to be draining, and he is unconscious, though there could be plenty of reasons for that.) I have some of my tools with me, at least, but before I’d dare to begin removing the dead skin, I need to clean him off. I bite back a sigh, opening my bag, and I pull out a washrag and soap.

I dip the washrag in the oasis, then wring it out and rub it against the soap. It’s old, and somewhat tattered at the edges, but it will have to do – it’s all I have with me, at the moment.

I lean over his body, jaw gritted in concentration, and I begin to scrub the grime off his coat, beginning with the regions closest to his wounds. I don’t touch the infection itself, however; I don’t want to spread it over the rest of him. (I will deal with it last, once I’ve begun to cut.)

And if he happens to wake while I am cleaning him – I am too preoccupied with my work to notice.





@Mernatius || <3 || brenda shaughnessy, "red tulips, then asphodel" 

















HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTH
laughs at my red teeth


please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence






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