warbird,
bless my soul, I'm feeling so unholy
Release this hold, I'm feeling so uneasy
She was born of the devotion of two mothers— two Valkyries, bonded by love. Her existence itself is a victory, flaunting itself in the face of the normal and recognized. With the help of the vodar, the Valkyran flesh witch, they pieced her together from the meat and bones of the worthy fallen. And so she was avodara, not from the flesh but OF the flesh. Creational magic and sacred descendence aside, she was not a Valkyrie, but mortal. And her mothers, called to battlefields in worlds beyond, could never stay for long, dooming her thusly to this world of corporealness and finality. Such was her curse, to have the call to glory, but be trapped, here, in this mortal existence. But in this world of flesh lips and tongues, her truest name would turn a speaker to ash, or render them a babbling, maddened mess. So she has taken a grammatically adjacent title for herself: if the valkyries are Angels of War, she will be a Bird of War.
Though she does not share a consecrated title with her mothers, Warbird is still driven by duty, and purpose, the greatest of which is the intent to conquer challenges. She was, after all, crafted of the sinew and matter of the noble dead. This form, barrel-chested and staunch of the neck, was not her first and it would not be her last. No matter where she went, following the bone-trails of her mothers, she would overcome what hardships she could find, seeking out suffering, learning from it— mastering it, proving herself worthy of one day joining the ranks of her mother's people. Each new mortal kingdom she came to was another opportunity to attest to her ability and merit.
Once she had worn armor, black as night and strong as the mountain, and carried a sword sharp enough to cleave skulls, but it was wrenched away from her when she came to this world of four-legged beasts and those which surrounded them. She still had her wings, though— great powerful things, deep black plumage crowned in feathers of white, which struck through the hot air like the hammer strikes the anvil.
Something drew her to this place, a land of bedlam and oppressive statures. It sang to her like the Siren song of the monsters of her homeland-- a coursing dirge to match the heat-hymn singing in her blood. The desert whipped and lunged like an untamed beast, but she had slain fiercer serpents before, and so she did not shy from it. She beat it back as her strong legs pierced its layers, her mighty breath creating swirling monsters of her own accord in the silt. All around her the desert whirled and thrashed itself in a liturgy of suffering which would sunder and suffocate the unworthy and ill-prepared-- but Warbird had crossed seas both deeper and more malicious than this golden one-- and fouler looking, too-- and with one fierce rake of her wings, she sent the grit cascading behind her in a golden fountain. And that would be all of that.
A visitor in this strange realm of stars and magic, Warbird had been more an observer of late than ever previous in her life. From one kingdom to the next she had traveled, watching, waiting, taking measure-- and all of them, their gods and devotion, she had found wanting. The children of Dusk hid behind mystery to conceal their weakness, while the patrons of the Night goddess thought themselves special for being called outcasts, and not on the merit of their measure. They thought it was unique to feel wronged when in reality it was just another state of living. The Dawn Court seemed... intangible, a concept of a place and a people held together by an idea, and nothing that one could truly put stock into.
But here, under the ever-present blazing sun, one could neither hide from nor thrive in weakness. Here, there had to be a strength, a solid-state of nature, for here the sand was unforgiving and there were no cool shadows to conceal or soothe. Here in the desert, there was no good night to go into, just bone-chilling darkness and the cold mockery of the stars above. The Sun-god seemed both slave-master and gem in the core of His own crown. Well, Warbird had served darker masters than He, and still, this wanting, this empty core at the center of her flesh had desired, and craved, for purpose, for the pursuit and the fight and the endeavor. Maybe it was worth giving Solis a chance, for had He not fought the very night? And had He not struck out from the comfort and opulence of His godly life for the sake of spurning His weaker siblings?
He seemed a harsh master, for sure, if evident by the lodgings He seemed to prefer. Bones long swallowed by the desert seemed to sing as Warbird approached the pedestal, the source of the melody. There was no rest for the wicked-- no, not here, in the Desert under the light of Solis' watchful eye. Instead, the wicked were put to work. How could one hide from the very sun? The dawn would smite any brief respite gained from trickery or cowardice. This was a land of might.
Warbird held her head high, red eyes flaming in the desert swell, as she approaches the pedestal. The light casts powerful shadows on the writhing sand as she lifts her broad wings above her, preparing to take this mantle, to rise to her next-- and hopefully, her last-- great challenge.
Though she does not share a consecrated title with her mothers, Warbird is still driven by duty, and purpose, the greatest of which is the intent to conquer challenges. She was, after all, crafted of the sinew and matter of the noble dead. This form, barrel-chested and staunch of the neck, was not her first and it would not be her last. No matter where she went, following the bone-trails of her mothers, she would overcome what hardships she could find, seeking out suffering, learning from it— mastering it, proving herself worthy of one day joining the ranks of her mother's people. Each new mortal kingdom she came to was another opportunity to attest to her ability and merit.
Once she had worn armor, black as night and strong as the mountain, and carried a sword sharp enough to cleave skulls, but it was wrenched away from her when she came to this world of four-legged beasts and those which surrounded them. She still had her wings, though— great powerful things, deep black plumage crowned in feathers of white, which struck through the hot air like the hammer strikes the anvil.
Something drew her to this place, a land of bedlam and oppressive statures. It sang to her like the Siren song of the monsters of her homeland-- a coursing dirge to match the heat-hymn singing in her blood. The desert whipped and lunged like an untamed beast, but she had slain fiercer serpents before, and so she did not shy from it. She beat it back as her strong legs pierced its layers, her mighty breath creating swirling monsters of her own accord in the silt. All around her the desert whirled and thrashed itself in a liturgy of suffering which would sunder and suffocate the unworthy and ill-prepared-- but Warbird had crossed seas both deeper and more malicious than this golden one-- and fouler looking, too-- and with one fierce rake of her wings, she sent the grit cascading behind her in a golden fountain. And that would be all of that.
A visitor in this strange realm of stars and magic, Warbird had been more an observer of late than ever previous in her life. From one kingdom to the next she had traveled, watching, waiting, taking measure-- and all of them, their gods and devotion, she had found wanting. The children of Dusk hid behind mystery to conceal their weakness, while the patrons of the Night goddess thought themselves special for being called outcasts, and not on the merit of their measure. They thought it was unique to feel wronged when in reality it was just another state of living. The Dawn Court seemed... intangible, a concept of a place and a people held together by an idea, and nothing that one could truly put stock into.
But here, under the ever-present blazing sun, one could neither hide from nor thrive in weakness. Here, there had to be a strength, a solid-state of nature, for here the sand was unforgiving and there were no cool shadows to conceal or soothe. Here in the desert, there was no good night to go into, just bone-chilling darkness and the cold mockery of the stars above. The Sun-god seemed both slave-master and gem in the core of His own crown. Well, Warbird had served darker masters than He, and still, this wanting, this empty core at the center of her flesh had desired, and craved, for purpose, for the pursuit and the fight and the endeavor. Maybe it was worth giving Solis a chance, for had He not fought the very night? And had He not struck out from the comfort and opulence of His godly life for the sake of spurning His weaker siblings?
He seemed a harsh master, for sure, if evident by the lodgings He seemed to prefer. Bones long swallowed by the desert seemed to sing as Warbird approached the pedestal, the source of the melody. There was no rest for the wicked-- no, not here, in the Desert under the light of Solis' watchful eye. Instead, the wicked were put to work. How could one hide from the very sun? The dawn would smite any brief respite gained from trickery or cowardice. This was a land of might.
Warbird held her head high, red eyes flaming in the desert swell, as she approaches the pedestal. The light casts powerful shadows on the writhing sand as she lifts her broad wings above her, preparing to take this mantle, to rise to her next-- and hopefully, her last-- great challenge.
About the RPer
@Sunsides
Twenty-four.
I was, however briefly, an emissary of the Night Court, but then life swallowed me up. I was also sort of a… a ‘special race’ on another site that had a certain number allowed at a time etc. It was great! I love POWER muahahaha. But in all honesty, I love being included! I love being involved in plots! I have so many ideas! Let me spread the love.
Yes
This site is just so fun and crazy and has just enough structure while giving everyone a blank canvas with magic. And the people are so nice and welcoming!! I love all of Novus.
Sovereign Questions
Well, she is, at her very core, a soldier. She is as resolute as the mid-day sun and as tireless as the great orb which moves endlessly in the sky and dictates the lives of those below it. She belives in cultivating the strong and believes everyone must prove their worth. She sees the desert as just another challenge she must conquer. She is proud of herself but believes in fighting for your pride, earning your pride. She has conquered all the challenges thrown at her so far and will succesfully triumph over this one, as well.
She is loyal, and, perhaps where she differs from other Solterrans, is she is steady. She is not prone to outbursts of anger or temper, but she achieves her goals with brute strength and an indomitable will. She struggles with empathy but has an innate natural compass to do the right thing. She has been the tool of warlords and cruel kings, and has led rebellions and spilled blood in the name of freedom. She would want to create a land where one’s place is earned by merit, but where one also has the chance to hone and craft their skills— where everyone is given a chance to rise and meet expectations, or fail and be crushed under the weight of them. That is her Solterra— it is the best, and nothing can stand in its way.
Her goal as Sovereign would be to generate growth in Solterran strength, whether that be as a unified army of grand warriors, or master artisans, or the greatest scholars in all the land— whatever any Solterran wanted to be, she would want them to be the BEST. She would want contests that pit strength against strength, wit against wit. She would want open borders and the chance to prove to everyone that the desert dwellers are the dominant population on Novus. She would want to join her people in adventures, exploration, and discovery. Aaand she may even stoke the fires for some fights in the future….
Me? Coming back with this audition? More likely than u think
