On Aghavni's back sits a golden monkey, and gripped in the monkey’s tiny fist is a blood soaked bandage. The blood is not hers, nor is it the monkey’s.
“Give it an hour, and it’ll all come back again,” she says ruefully, to the fist shaking lemur. It turns to her, hangs its head in sullen disparagement, and turns back to the sand. The bandage becomes a red comet in the dawning sky as it streaks to the edge of the sunken arena, joining its brethren in a growing pile of sopped up, bodiless gore.
She plucks out the spikes from her knotted mane and her curls tumble down, blanketing the little lemur in a waterfall of golden gossamer. After mulling it over—swab away at endless blood, or snatch a breath of rest before swabbing away at endless blood?—it decides upon the favorable option and burrows down into her hair.
Isn’t it a bit cruel, Aghavni thinks, stamping her hoof into the smudges of a capital S, for Solis to torment his poor creatures so? The d’Oru despise a mess, and flooding the arena sand with a river of blood in the name of divine providence—The Solterran seat is empty. Who is brave enough to fill it? She tongues the words across her mouth. Who is brave enough?
The message is received, loud and clear, she wants to yell. And the d'Oru are one lick of blood away from murder.
Aghavni lifts her eyes to the slice of orange sun peeking over the wooden skeleton of the Colosseum. The Solterran seat is empty. Her legs fold under her as she tucks herself into a comforting corner between stone wall and wooden portcullis. She’d often wedge herself into small, shadowy corners when she was younger. Between her bed and wardrobe. Besides Father’s desk and weapons closet. Beneath the train of upholstery. Corners became places to sort her thoughts like stringing pearls on a necklace, comfort gleaned from redundancy, whenever things became too much.
She’d grown away from the habit. Without her noticing, too much had become unexceptional, not enough a worshipped mantra.
“Still awake?” The d’Oru twitches its soft cotton tail over her shoulder. Thoughts dance beneath her closed eyelids. “Mind if I borrow your ear?” she asks politely. A blast of bone-freezing wind tosses her hair about her eyes, as if in protest. Shivering, Aghavni curls further into the corner and presses her limbs into herself like a babe in its woolen swaddle.
“I'm brave enough,” she says, with the carefully cultivated, carefully careless singsong of a girl born with a golden spoon down her throat, and painfully aware of it. “But it's not about bravery. I don't think it's about that at all.” The d'Oru cracks open one rimmed eye. What is bravery, but simply the will to do something another won't—can't—shouldn't? A wistfulness enters Aghavni's voice, and her eyes trace the patterns of invisible constellations in the brightening sky.
“Cultivate bravery like a rose on a vine. Fertilize it with arrogance, prune it with upright—or upside down—zeal. Snip the bloom at its prime, and crush it into perfume to dot along the neckline. Now, this perfume,” she pauses, and smiles strangely down at the lemur, “is not bottomless, as much as we pretend for it to be.” As much as we wish for it to be.
“Our bravery is our capital, you see, and we are always spending.” Sleep pulls at the corners of her consciousness like a worrying mother. She does not wave it off. Desperately, she clutches at the arms of the worrying mother. Desperately, she tamps down the forbidden wish in her heart for one of her own. Before she drifts asleep, she murmurs against the d'Oru's pillow-soft fur: “I wrote a letter to burn at Solis' altar, like I used to when I was small. Do you think he'll read it?” The comforting silence of the little creature is the only answer she seeks.
---
She brings the folded letter to her nose and inhales the scent of creamy parchment and the tang of acidic ink, before dropping it back into the pouch at her side.
Quietly, she pads down the hallway leading to the throne room like a ghost from a prior century. Lingers at a crack in the marble wall—that is where Uncle Zolin rammed the hilt of his sword into the wall so hard the whole castle shuddered, because a maid had brought him sugared pears instead of sugared camellias. At the scorched edge of a brocade curtain—where Mother's candle had toppled over and set the curtain afire, before Father had ran out with his wine and doused it.
At the floor-to-ceiling painting of the royal family shrouded over with a white sheet. Where Father had not been included, she thought, pushing her muzzle softly against the spot where a pair of dove-grey eyes stared out the face of a black-haired foal, and Mother had threatened to slice the painting in two when they unveiled it.
The magnetic pull of her memories is almost too much for Aghavni to separate from. Almost.
She turns the corner, biting down hard upon her tongue, and finds herself staring furiously up into the flaming eyes of a lion. “Solterra will burn the unrighteous,” it cackles, snapping its serpentine tail towards her like a whip. Its tip misses her muzzle by the space of a hair.
A wall of flame bursts to crackling life in front of her, and Aghavni chokes back her gasp. But she cannot stop her legs from backing away, and betraying her fear. Fire. Flames lick like starving wolves at her face. Heat crisps her hair, and softens her golden spikes.
The castle is burning again. Saliva cements in her throat. I scream, and I scream, and no one hears me, and no one comes. The walls begin to melt, like putty. Smoke blinds her eyes, blocks her nose. She cannot bear it! She cannot—
Hissing, Aghavni digs the metal edge of her fan into her flesh. Hard enough to break the skin. Not enough to draw blood. “What makes you think that her fires will not burn you?” the lion roars, fiercer than a thunderclap.
“Because I refuse, beast,” she snarls. Who is brave enough? Brave-enough brave-enough brave-enough! She snatches the letter from her pouch, and brandishes it like a sword at the lion's metallic face. “I refuse to burn before I can give this to him. And I refuse to burn before he grants me audience. If Solterra demands it of me,” her eyes widen, doll-like and fawn-like and not-at-all-brave-like, before narrowing into cutting shards of purest emerald.
“If Solis demands my death at these flames to please him, then he is a cruel god.” Shuddering, Aghavni tosses the letter into the flames. Watches as it curls and sputters and burns.
Watches as the first section...
Swallowing, Aghavni sets her jaw and takes a step towards the flames.
Another step. And another. Until blinding amber light burns through her clenched eyelids, and heat reaches its fingers towards her tender neck. Her heartbeat crashes against her ribcage, faster than a sparrow's.
Her voice is hoarse and trembling and daringly hopeful when she steps into the fire, and whispers: “And I do not believe he is.”
“Give it an hour, and it’ll all come back again,” she says ruefully, to the fist shaking lemur. It turns to her, hangs its head in sullen disparagement, and turns back to the sand. The bandage becomes a red comet in the dawning sky as it streaks to the edge of the sunken arena, joining its brethren in a growing pile of sopped up, bodiless gore.
She plucks out the spikes from her knotted mane and her curls tumble down, blanketing the little lemur in a waterfall of golden gossamer. After mulling it over—swab away at endless blood, or snatch a breath of rest before swabbing away at endless blood?—it decides upon the favorable option and burrows down into her hair.
Isn’t it a bit cruel, Aghavni thinks, stamping her hoof into the smudges of a capital S, for Solis to torment his poor creatures so? The d’Oru despise a mess, and flooding the arena sand with a river of blood in the name of divine providence—The Solterran seat is empty. Who is brave enough to fill it? She tongues the words across her mouth. Who is brave enough?
The message is received, loud and clear, she wants to yell. And the d'Oru are one lick of blood away from murder.
Aghavni lifts her eyes to the slice of orange sun peeking over the wooden skeleton of the Colosseum. The Solterran seat is empty. Her legs fold under her as she tucks herself into a comforting corner between stone wall and wooden portcullis. She’d often wedge herself into small, shadowy corners when she was younger. Between her bed and wardrobe. Besides Father’s desk and weapons closet. Beneath the train of upholstery. Corners became places to sort her thoughts like stringing pearls on a necklace, comfort gleaned from redundancy, whenever things became too much.
She’d grown away from the habit. Without her noticing, too much had become unexceptional, not enough a worshipped mantra.
“Still awake?” The d’Oru twitches its soft cotton tail over her shoulder. Thoughts dance beneath her closed eyelids. “Mind if I borrow your ear?” she asks politely. A blast of bone-freezing wind tosses her hair about her eyes, as if in protest. Shivering, Aghavni curls further into the corner and presses her limbs into herself like a babe in its woolen swaddle.
“I'm brave enough,” she says, with the carefully cultivated, carefully careless singsong of a girl born with a golden spoon down her throat, and painfully aware of it. “But it's not about bravery. I don't think it's about that at all.” The d'Oru cracks open one rimmed eye. What is bravery, but simply the will to do something another won't—can't—shouldn't? A wistfulness enters Aghavni's voice, and her eyes trace the patterns of invisible constellations in the brightening sky.
“Cultivate bravery like a rose on a vine. Fertilize it with arrogance, prune it with upright—or upside down—zeal. Snip the bloom at its prime, and crush it into perfume to dot along the neckline. Now, this perfume,” she pauses, and smiles strangely down at the lemur, “is not bottomless, as much as we pretend for it to be.” As much as we wish for it to be.
“Our bravery is our capital, you see, and we are always spending.” Sleep pulls at the corners of her consciousness like a worrying mother. She does not wave it off. Desperately, she clutches at the arms of the worrying mother. Desperately, she tamps down the forbidden wish in her heart for one of her own. Before she drifts asleep, she murmurs against the d'Oru's pillow-soft fur: “I wrote a letter to burn at Solis' altar, like I used to when I was small. Do you think he'll read it?” The comforting silence of the little creature is the only answer she seeks.
She brings the folded letter to her nose and inhales the scent of creamy parchment and the tang of acidic ink, before dropping it back into the pouch at her side.
Quietly, she pads down the hallway leading to the throne room like a ghost from a prior century. Lingers at a crack in the marble wall—that is where Uncle Zolin rammed the hilt of his sword into the wall so hard the whole castle shuddered, because a maid had brought him sugared pears instead of sugared camellias. At the scorched edge of a brocade curtain—where Mother's candle had toppled over and set the curtain afire, before Father had ran out with his wine and doused it.
At the floor-to-ceiling painting of the royal family shrouded over with a white sheet. Where Father had not been included, she thought, pushing her muzzle softly against the spot where a pair of dove-grey eyes stared out the face of a black-haired foal, and Mother had threatened to slice the painting in two when they unveiled it.
The magnetic pull of her memories is almost too much for Aghavni to separate from. Almost.
She turns the corner, biting down hard upon her tongue, and finds herself staring furiously up into the flaming eyes of a lion. “Solterra will burn the unrighteous,” it cackles, snapping its serpentine tail towards her like a whip. Its tip misses her muzzle by the space of a hair.
A wall of flame bursts to crackling life in front of her, and Aghavni chokes back her gasp. But she cannot stop her legs from backing away, and betraying her fear. Fire. Flames lick like starving wolves at her face. Heat crisps her hair, and softens her golden spikes.
The castle is burning again. Saliva cements in her throat. I scream, and I scream, and no one hears me, and no one comes. The walls begin to melt, like putty. Smoke blinds her eyes, blocks her nose. She cannot bear it! She cannot—
Hissing, Aghavni digs the metal edge of her fan into her flesh. Hard enough to break the skin. Not enough to draw blood. “What makes you think that her fires will not burn you?” the lion roars, fiercer than a thunderclap.
“Because I refuse, beast,” she snarls. Who is brave enough? Brave-enough brave-enough brave-enough! She snatches the letter from her pouch, and brandishes it like a sword at the lion's metallic face. “I refuse to burn before I can give this to him. And I refuse to burn before he grants me audience. If Solterra demands it of me,” her eyes widen, doll-like and fawn-like and not-at-all-brave-like, before narrowing into cutting shards of purest emerald.
“If Solis demands my death at these flames to please him, then he is a cruel god.” Shuddering, Aghavni tosses the letter into the flames. Watches as it curls and sputters and burns.
Watches as the first section...
Dearest Solis, God of the Sun and All That Shines:crumbles into ash, ink into smoke.
If it were not for my family, perhaps Solterra would never have turned out this way. Perhaps the people would not have died at Hajakhan hands, and then at Raum's hands, like little straw puppets set aflame. I wonder - do they hate me? Do you hate me?
I am sorry. It is not worth anything, I know that all too well. However, despite my family's atrocities, I refuse to walk away. They can hate me. I will not blame them if they do. But if they allow it of me, I will show them what this kingdom can become. What we can become...
Swallowing, Aghavni sets her jaw and takes a step towards the flames.
Another step. And another. Until blinding amber light burns through her clenched eyelids, and heat reaches its fingers towards her tender neck. Her heartbeat crashes against her ribcage, faster than a sparrow's.
Her voice is hoarse and trembling and daringly hopeful when she steps into the fire, and whispers: “And I do not believe he is.”
About the RPer
rallidae
20
No, I have not actually! This will be my first time.
Yes
Since Novus is my first RPing experience, I was very overwhelmed at the raw talent of all the members when I first started! But more than that, as I accustomed myself to the site I was blown away by the overwhelming sense of community here. I've enjoyed developing my skills as a writer so much writing my characters and plotting with everyone, without fear of criticism or anything of the sort, and without these years on Novus I don't think my writing skills would be as they are now. It's been such an eyeopening, fun experience writing with everyone and entering the equine RP world!
Sovereign Questions
Due to her birth and her upbringing, Aghavni has always felt a very deep sense of moral responsibility for her court. She feels that her family (namely, Zolin) is at fault for what Solterra has suffered throughout its history, and is haunted by a guilt that she knows is quite irrational, but at the same time can never rid herself of. She's proud of her bloodline regardless, so I can see how some characters would find fault with that, but she won't be mentioning it at all unless prompted.
Because she spent half her life in Caligo's court, she believes that she would bring a new perspective to the throne. Like any Solterran she's stubborn and extremely willful, but she greatly admires the beauty, delicacy, and expressiveness of Denoctian culture and will try to incorporate that into her rule. She'll rule more through diplomacy, without relying on the might/influence of the Solterran military like the leaders of the past. She's averse to violence, though doesn't see it as "bad" - she thinks that Solterra has gotten a reputation over the years as a court of hotblooded warriors, but instead of seeing that as a disadvantage she admires Solterra's emphasis on honor and fighting for what they believe in. As a member of the "old nobility", she sees herself as a bridge between them and the people as well, and will be playing that to her advantage in negotiations and policy making.
I also plan for her to wield plant manipulation magic! Which might seem counterintuitive to a desert court, but her magic will work more like "plant compulsion", a very forceful and willful magic compared to the more passive, empath-like magic of communicating with plants, nurturing them, etc that accompanies most wielders of plant magic. I think this will be a great addition to Aghavni and her rule because she'll stubbornly try and grow things in the desert, and Solterra is in serious need of food and some sort of greenery.
As sovereign, Aghavni's first and foremost goal would be to patch the damaged relations between Solterra and all the other courts, namely Denocte. She recognizes that Solterra's isolation has hurt it badly in the past, and wishes to establish strong alliances with all the courts to secure better trade relations, and also work out a system of "indebting" Solterra (monetarily as well as strategically) to the three other courts to secure a massive amount of food, supplies, etc to aid in the rebuilding of the court and its people. She's also going to be working hard to build a strong regime and court of champions!
Once the rebuilding campaign is more underway, she hopes to establish an academy of strategic thought and military in the heart of Solterra. She wishes to provide free education in defensive techniques, strategy, swordfighting (or just fighting), Solterran culture, etc to anyone who wishes to learn (not just Solterrans) as a way to instill pride into the citizens of Solterra by showing off their merits and intricate traditions, and establish Solterra as the hub of warrior culture (warrior code) that will hopefully change how others see Solterrans as merely "barbaric" and "bloodthirsty."
Along with this, she's not going to fully crack down on Solterra's black market. This might be controversial, but coming from the Scarab she realizes the value of black markets (especially in tough times) and will be paying personal visits to the "bosses" of them to negotiate. She also really wishes to grow Solterra's market in general, and to encourage the production of artisan goods by arranging festivals where Solterran artists, as well as any foreign ones, can set up booths and show off their wares.
I wish to host events that branch out of Solterra's rich culture (and expand on that culture too), like a sports tournament, or a challenge of chivalry (in essence like a series of challenging trials laid out by Aghavni, where the winner receives a prize) or an IC, yearly carnival to celebrate a Solterran holiday. Basically: let the Solterran's unwind and party a bit after suffering so much! c':
I'm uber excited for this opportunity as I love Solterra with all my heart, and all I want to see is for it to thrive! It's such a diverse, culturally rich court and I'd love for a chance to be more involved with it. Thank you for your consideration!
