It sat there bathed in sunlight. “Still as a statue” wasn’t meant just as a simile, of course, but actual fact. It’s harsh edges were prominent and hard, the faces smooth like steel. The shrine and pedestal upon which it sat, however, seemed rather the opposite. They were unkept, with creeping ivy beginning its slow domination of the stone. It was clear that since the obscenely devout Inkheart’s sudden departure, no one had really taken the time to maintain the sacred shrine.
There was peace on the peak, with all of nature proceeding as normal through the day. Until there was a sudden glint on the golden eyes of the statue. Anyone might have thought it just a trick of the sun, reflecting off the spherical structure. A few seconds passed, and it happened again. Then again.
And now onlookers might have doubted their eyes, their very sanity: the wild, wind-whipped mane of the Sun God began to ripple and wave in a sudden breeze. Wilder and wilder it snapped through the air, until — as quickly as it had started — it returned to its original pose and stilled.
Was it all in the imagination? A hallucination?
Nay— for there is a new presence atop Veneror’s Peak. A thrum in the air, almost tangible, audible, joins the energy of the wood and beasts. The statue is no longer JUST a status. Those nearby will feel its power deep to their core, will see the confident smile grace his golden lips as the god steps down from his pedestal.
A smooth, baritone voice whispers in the shrine.... “We have returned. Let them all witness our glory and power.” The unknown will soon be made known, and the news will travel far and wide— Solis has returned to Novus.
Solis' statue has disappeared also from his shrine in Veneror Peak! The deity has materialized into her statue's form and is now wandering about Novus as a horse, along with Caligo and Vespera.
This is a semi-open thread. The first people to reply to this thread with a minimum of 300 words within the next 24 hours will get a chance to interact with the god! You can write a reply as if they were there worshipping when he awoke, or as if they've stumbled into the thread after he steps down from the pedestal! This thread will be closed to new replies on Friday, June 22nd, at 6 PM EST.
Additionally, any open threads posted in Veneror Peak for the next week have a high chance of encountering any of the wandering gods!
As a reminder: no one was around to see Caligo disappear; and Vespera so far has only appeared to Rannveig! Oriens has yet to manifest.
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
The voice of the sky boomed, and a great wave of motion traveled through the crust of their world. It forced all Novus to tremble and forced one particular individual to make a decision. Efphion peered at the peak ahead of her, she had pressed on after discovering the absence of some of the Day Court. The daughter of Reth forged onward with the determination of a voracious predator. The stones that tumbled from beneath her feet were given no attention, they were abandoned and left to the forces of gravity. Effy ignored any other equine that dared breathe their existence near her. She would decimate any who dared halt her path, she was war and fury incarnate. Efphion had a sneaking suspicion that her precious sister would be just as curious, and perhaps this would allow for her to exact her revenge. A shrine protruded in the distance, the mouth of the shrine hung agape. Effy could feel a stirring, familiar pull beckoning her from within. A smile slithered across her features as she breached the boundaries of the shrine's maw.
Within the belly of the temple rested a glowing statue. Winds and surges of power began to pulse through the heart of the shrine. Efphion cast her gaze upwards for a moment, a wicked smile was etched into her ash stained features. Debris collided in the air until the materialization of a figure appeared where the golden statue had once appeared. A voice tugged in the very core of her soul, a soul that had been tainted and burned with the wrath of the sun. Reth was worlds away, and this supernatural creature surely had some significance. Something akin to the symbolism that Xamis had come to represent. "If the glory does not fall upon the court of Day, then the victors will face the wrath of the sun." Effy snarled to the figure that had sprung suddenly into existence. "Embrace me as your daughter, and I will lay our enemies at your feet."
and you're on your knees and your faith in shreds, it seems
White hair, freed of its kempt braids, flows wildly around the silver; she paces.
Occasionally, she glances up fervently at the shrine alongside her. What does she want from the gods, really? (Answers, hisses the voice in the back of her mind. But for what? What is to come, or what has already passed? She doesn’t think that she’s getting either.)
After she abandoned him, or he abandoned her, or they both failed her people, she hadn’t expected to make her way back to his shrine, but there she was; still shell-shocked and tumultuous from the summit, in spite of the cold laced across her charcoal features. It had never been hard to remain in control of herself in the past, and, in truth, she was not entirely sure what she was straining to keep captive. A year ago, she had thought that Viceroy carved so much of her away that there was nothing left, but now she realizes that it – everything - is still there, but she has lost the words to know what it is. She only knows that she wants - needs - it out of her, or smothered down too deep to recognize, or, or, or-
There is no she in ruling a nation, though. Not really. It is in the name of such irrelevance that she manages to bite down the maelstrom that threatens, honing her focus on answers, on solutions, on anything. Statues have been disappearing from Veneror. The gods have revealed themselves, in some fashion. And Tempus’s words, loud as thunder, still ring in her head. Change is coming.
She is not sure that she wants to know what.
She paces. Hooves clack against harsh stone; her eyes catch on the sun medallion that she laid on the shrine not so long after the Davke attack, and, internally, some part of her winces. Once, she had found comfort in the symbol, resting above the throne. Once, she had found comfort in its absence. Now, it sits like a judge on the stairs, watching her accusingly.
She remains tensed, expression unreadable. She paces.
The light catches off the sun god’s statue in a manner that is not quite right - she freezes, then dismisses it. Seeing things. Expecting things. Needing things. But it happens again, and this time she remains frozen, stiff as the statue should be, even as the wind twists and tangles in the sun god’s golden hair.
Then, a snap. Silence.
She takes a reluctant step towards the statue, and her entire body hums. He is awake. Her mind trails behind her, because he is awake and the same part of her that spent so many desperate nights longing for his voice is nauseated at the sudden presence of it. “We have returned. Let them all witness our glory and power.” Glory? Her own accusations bite back with a vengeance. She stands at the foot of the shrine, unable – or unwilling – to move, mismatched eyes searching for the sun god’s own.
That night with the Stormsinger, they were cold – freezing. Now they are ablaze.
Glowing, golden, flowing, burning; he is everything she ever imagined that he should be and somehow even more. (Bloodthirst and confidence and arrogance topped off with a smile.)
How many times had she whispered his name in prayer? But he was always silent. But you aren’t dead. But you would have rather- Irrelevant. Don’t you have questions for him? He certainly isn’t running. Your own words still ring in your head, animalistic and desperate, accusing, vengeful, clawing, clawing, clawing. You’re a wayward daughter now, Seraphina – and there is no going back to what you were. And it was so much easier, then. So much easier to run blind. But now you have heard the voice of God. What do you do with it? “Hello,” She says, finally, never looking away from those eyes, “Solis.”
tags | @Random Events notes | hooo boy this is going to be a trip and a half. anyways, it's 1:30 AM here, so I'll probably proofread this in the morning (so please forgive me for any egregious errors), but, for now....another weirdly abstract post, I guess, ft. a few references.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
06-21-2018, 05:32 PM - This post was last modified: 07-12-2018, 04:52 PM by Seraphina
Asshole. Motherfucker. When Bexley stumbles out of the summit meeting she is sweaty and dust-covered and apocalyptically angry.
Nothing but the hot bloody thrum of bass fury in her chest as the world unfolds around her. You immortal pieces of shit. And everything as they left it - what could be worse? When the rocks finally fall away from the entrance of the summit a codeine-crippling rush of relief finds her almost unconscious, but the moment it passes she is herself again and utterly Old-Testament God, Never mind the fact that she should be grateful for the fact that everything is as they left that, that she can breathe clean air now, that even as autumn comes in its abysmal chill that still sunlight pools like gold between her shoulder blades - now the bright halo of the sun above and the scintilla of heat it wraps her in makes her almost nauseous.
The heart remembers things that the body does not know what to do with. Fuck that fist-size weakness.
The moment Bexley is free of the clearing she knows where her body will take her. Strange, the disconnect between form and mind, the neat little slice separating her thoughts from her corpse (and a corpse it might truly be by the time Solis is done with her), but not strange enough that she pays attention to it. Ah, glimmering girl. August in a blue dress. Be the good thing God intended and not that feral animal pretending to wear royal skin. Nothing but clairvoyant violence fills what little empty space in her head has not been swallowed whole by the same black thing that smashed Acton’s kneecaps and crushed some Davke’s skull into the sand.
That blackness is summer in Candyland compared to what washes over her now.
Nothing matters. Not her wants and not her loves, and at this point it’s debatable whether any of what Bexley loves loves her back, or if it even exists. That makes her existentially, chemically, dizzy. Veneror burns at her feet. The Regent’s body temperature has rocketed so high the air around her sizzles, a mocking mosaic of a girl on fire. Dry plants crushed by her hoof steps burst into frightened smoldering. Sparks shower from her skin. Every few yards a pearlescent-gold ghost bursts into existence at her shoulder, snarling and rabid and warmly violent in a way that Bexley is not showing quite yet, then falter and fade a few steps later.
With each stride a braid unwinds, a curl breaks loose, until all her hair is wild and pretty porcelain again, smoking against her shoulder, and how fitting it is that when she arrives, her god looks the same as she, all tousled hair and golden skin.
It is enough to make her sick.
Two have already arrived, and Bexley flicks a disinterested glance toward them. The look in her eyes - an implausible but all too real gold now, rather than their usual deep blue - is callous and more deadly than it has been in years. Her gaze drifts back to the god with lazy purpose.
Solis, she says, and her voice is unnaturally cool, is flatter than anyone would expect for her, is dead and and loud and flirting with massacre. For a moment, the possibility of being civil rests around the, comfortable as a blanket on a cool night. For a moment, the gold in her eyes cools to blue again, and the heat fades from her skin, and her hair settles around her shoulder. Nice to see you -
And then the composure breaks.
- you coffin-dodging waste of oxygen - and she is on fire again, half literally and half with rage, sparks flying in every direction, eyes blazing gold, heart wild and rabid in her chest, and the emotion that floods her is so overwhelming that mirages appear on every side, not only of her but of Seraphina, of Efphion, of Solis himself, sputtering in and out of existence with spastic energy, and none of it is enough to deter Bexley from the speech that floods out of her in a snarl so angry and ragged it could be a child’s - immortality must be a curse when you have to deal with yourself for so long. Fuck you. I wasted so much time trying to pretend I shouldn’t give up, but everything goes, everything slinks off to die, everyone’s a sick dog you have to put down, and I refuse to die having been loyal through every awful second for the sake of your huge ego, I refuse to be loyal to you when you won’t do the same, and I won’t keep acting like some idiot lovesick for someone who won’t love her back until the glorious, wonderful day you decide you can’t live with your guilt and put me out of my goddamn misery, because - because - you don’t deserve it.
At her feet, the dry grass smokes and withers.
There. Piece said. Smite me if you want. It’s what I’ve come to expect from you.
Bexley’s lips peel back against her teeth in an ugly, ugly snarl.
06-21-2018, 06:17 PM - This post was last modified: 06-21-2018, 11:24 PM by Bexley
Pavetta possessed very little knowledge of the Novus gods. She now knew such beings existed, of course, after the strange owl messenger in Delumine, and the terrifying, unnatural events that had taken place three days before on the mountaintop—a summit of all courts. She held deep mistrust in her heart; for wild, corrupted gods of the woods and rivers and sky had desecrated and ravaged her homeland. They had been cruel, remorseless gods. Pavetta knew only they and so she found it difficult to open her heart to these Beings of Novus. No mortal knew their intentions, their end game. Perhaps there wasn’t an end game; only an endless cycle that had begun once more in Novus. In the Rift gods could die and kill other gods, but they returned. Again and again and again.
An endless, terrible cycle of death and rebirth and destruction.
So why was Pavetta here, lingering atop the tallest peak in Novus? Where the air was thin and the kiss of winter already embraced these windy heights? Where the regimes of the Courts had been trapped, all in a show of power (and who knows what else, really, because what else did gods have to wield but power?).
While she could not find acceptance and faith in her heart, there was a burning flame of curiosity that no amount of rain could extinguish. It raced through her veins, unpleasant and ever compelling. Pavetta was not a particularly wise, level-headed unicorn. Her decisions were never rational, nor explainable. She was complicated and flawed—a contradiction in most aspects of her nature. And so she remained, despite her deep distrust of the higher order, exploring the various shrines and struggling to read what remained of old parchment and bits of personal scrolls on such shrines—hymns, worship, prayers, hopeless she thought. Although she felt sheepish for invading such personal devotions for a god whose name she did not even know—she could not stop herself. Some notes were written devotedly, others written in fear in concern for their immortal soul.
Pavetta had chosen the sun shrine to linger by this bright, golden dawn. She did hail from Delumine, after all, and so she was naturally drawn to the sun, to the light—but part of her longed for the shadows, the darkness, the secrets of night and she did not wish to admit it, even to herself. A few others lingered near the shrine, too. She recognized the regent Bexley and regal Seraphina, Sovereign of Solterra. While Pavetta deeply admired the fearlessness both had displayed during the events at the Summit, she did not wish to bother anyone who might be worshiping (although why they would worship the very things that seemed to have trapped them in an earthquake was beyond her). And so she continued prodding the weather-ruined scrolls and parchments, reading smeared names, places, and hopeless prayers.
At some point, Pavetta looked to the sky and for the first time, she wondered, a philosophical musing: Do you see them down here? They look to the sky, wondering why you aren’t listening.
And so one could imagine Pavetta’s surprise—nay, shock—when the statues eyes glittered knowingly, and then stone hair shifted in the brisk morning air, and then nothing. Pavetta drew nearer, ears pricked forward and nostrils flaring in alarm. When the statue disappeared and a mighty figure appeared, no one but Pavetta seemed surprised. The tall, golden eyed mare with ear piercings praised the being’s entrance, vehemently, devotedly, promising to slay the stranger’s enemies if he would only bless her. Pavetta’s ear flicked back uncertainly (and in personal distaste) at such unquestioning loyalty to a previously stone thing that had never bothered to notice them until now. But she did not back or turn away, despite her heart that fluttered like a trapped bird in her ribcage. She decided to follow Seraphina’s lead, who was deadly calm and somewhat reserved. The still before storm, the silence before a hurricane.
Solis.
She seemed to know him on a personal level, but Pavetta could only wonder why or how, and if it was for good or ill. Bexley had a passionate opinion. There really was no other way to describe it. The golden woman glowed, sparking, spitting venom and acid. When all was said and done, Pavetta suspected they just might all get smote into barbecue crips for the wolves. What had transpired to inspire such anger, such malevolence? Pavetta could relate to the distrust, the deep suspicion--but when it all came down to one moment--one moment in the universe to approach a creature that had the power to destory worlds--she could only feel curiosity.
“What are you?” she asked at last, after Bexley was finished ripping the god a new one--ears flickering back and forth. Not who, but what. It was not an accusation, or judgement, she would reserve that, for now—it was a desire to know, to understand. “Why do they worship and pray to you?” When you do not answer, she wanted to say, but did not.
a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse,
creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---
Honestly, I had escaped up to the place of worship almost as soon as the gates of the court had opened once again. It seemed as if there was a beckoning of the lords and ladies to the summit, and I saw it as a nice chance to sneak in a little extra of my nap time than I had been getting lately with all of the activity humming around Denocte with the populous trapped inside it's embrace.
I thought that it would be quiet and peaceful, and the way the sun hit the rocky cliffs of the Peak was the prime spot for a cat nap. Little did I know that the dreamlike state would once again be interrupted. But this time, the smell of cherry blossoms and the gentle darkness of night wasn't interrupted by the sound of another singing a joyful tune. Not by a voice that sounded like bird song on the first day of spring, but rather by what could only be described as a sonic boom. Like the sound of a rocket ship taking off, the ground shook, the cool breeze weaving between ivory and gold feathers turned hot for a moment. And then?
It all stopped.
Rose gold ears snapped back, disappearing into snowy threads of silk while robin's egg blue eyes grew wide with shock as I was startled back to reality. An invisible brow lifted, while my rosy fleshed jaw did the exact opposite...if not attached by muscle and tendons I am sure it would have actually hit the warm rock I was resting on. The shrines. They were disappearing as if they hadn't been there the whole time. But moments after they vanished a figure that closely resembled the featured god or goddess appeared and walked jauntily down the peak the same way I had ventured up.
My mouth grew dry, a part of me screamed to get up and chase after the starry creature I had devoted my life too. But my limbs seemed to be paralyzed, probably a mixture of exhaustion and shock. I still wasn't entirely sure I wasn't dreaming.
It wasn't long before the gods, or fate, decided to show me that I was not in fact dreaming. I watched a silvery mare pace beside the only remaining statue, that of Solis, she was gorgeous if not frantic in appearance as her striped limbs moved in a blur back and forth, back and forth. Another appeared, she too was a stunning creature painted in smoke and ash, words moved her inky lips as she stopped in front of the statue that...if I looked close enough seemed to be changing before our very eyes. It was his eyes that changed first, then his mane, before finally there was a regal flaming stallion standing before the gathered mares.
Life seemed to spring back into my slender, pale frame as I scrambled to my feet. Not wanting to be found laying on a cliff side if the flaming god decided for some reason that I was the one to pay attention to. Suddenly, I was very aware...and feeling quite betrayed by the sun marked birthmark on my shoulder. Curses fluttered through my mind as I took tentative steps closer to the deity that I wasn't devoted to, the fact that I, a religious creature, was this close to one of the divine was mind boggling in it's own.
Large, feathered wings pulled in close to my sides in hopes to hide the fact my rib cage was about to explode from my flesh as my heart beat about a million times a minute in surprise and wonder. But there wasn't time for me to step forward and speak between the silver and the new-coming ball of flame. Curses and ill-wishes flung from the chestnut's lips into the sky and if they were visible I'm sure I would have watched them smack across the god's face, sparks seeemd to dance off of her slender frame like a firecracker and I found myself voiceless once again.
Who were these creatures?
Pale blues watched as a horned, grey striped creature slid into the mix. Ignoring the flaming mass of mare and questioning the god directly on why these dynamic mares worshiped him. What made him so important. I swallowed hard, hoping the dryness and the lump that had formed in my throat would fade as I slid behind the throng that had congregated and moved to stand closer to the striped mare who seemed to be the only one with her head screwed on tight. Maybe staying alongside this brave, level headed one I would be able to find my voice once again and not just be a pale shadow among the group of outstanding ladies.
"Speaking."
@RandomEvents | this has 800 many words. enjoy quite, innocent little night bby intruding on the insanity | coding by Kat & image by Fintron
06-21-2018, 07:01 PM
Played by
e-cho [PM] Posts: 243 — Threads: 27 Signos: 0
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
She has never witnessed a god, was not taught to worship them and bask in the temples outside of their estate, but it is what these people do. Moira is curious to immerse herself within the heart of Novus. To many, she is an onlooker, held at bay as a doctor, a healer, a player on the sidelines that's never quite remembered clearly. To others, she is a painter, an artist, a lover, a fighter. And to a special stranger, she almost rivaled Solis himself when he saw her. They could have been lovers with the way light reflects off of her skin set afire, they could have been immortalized in stone side by side only to have their hearts begin to beat again at the same time.
So many possible futures and pasts and could have beens.
But Moira is not his lover, she is not just a healer, she is more than an artist. With nothing but a wish to learn, a need to know, a desire for the unknown pulling her from the halls of Denocte long after the citizens went to the summit to greet one another to the top of the Peak. Once before has she been at its base, along the desert and dreamlands, in a haze of restlessness with a boy who was far too pretty and could have been her family were he not so different from them. They are the stormy skies and lightning showers, they are sparks and flames, they are everything she will almost never be.
But they would not come to this mountaintop. They would not step inside the shrine that held the god who she would dare to rival in looks alone. And Moira Tonnerre is not just the creature her family made.
She is a being of her own imagination, and so she steps fearlessly into the shrine that Solis called home, made her way down the path lit by everlasting light on the walls, following the voices ahead. Some were familiar, others were not.
The phoenix looks to Seraphina, to Bexley who was ready to burst, to Aethelind - the one with wings that set Moira's heart beating so quickly she could hardly catch her breath, to Ephion who wore darkness unlike the man that haunts her dreams, to Pavetta who was perhaps the most normal of them all. Once she's seen them all, once those amber eyes rove over the women gathered before the god, only then does she dare to look at the statue given life. Light falls from him as it does the sky, yet her heart does not race at the sight of it - of him. Instead, the woman moves forward like a stream. Smooth. Flowing. She approaches, turns about him as any doctor would inspect their patient, and when the world holds its breath, when she leans in until she can feel her breath upon his neck, her lips quirk up in a curious smile. "You smell like sunlight and dust - you've been stagnant too long I assume. I came here to learn, but I found you and them instead. I'm Moira Tonnerre, but who are you?" Low, so low her voice is nearly a whisper, the rumbling of waves washing back to sea, a mere memory breathing its last breath. She is quiet once more, a candle flame smothered too soon, and still those merry eyes dance with curiosity and the need to know more, to do more.
@RandomEvents she's in his bubble. girl needs to back off.
The first records of our young world were those of tears and blood;
its last records will be those of tears and blood also.
It is a simple yet undeniable observation that mortals are drawn inexorably to power. The witch doctor certainly was - she adorned herself with the implements of creatures in whose claws and teeth lay the power over life and death; she shielded her face from the masses that she might look more clearly upon the faces of the gods - and so was Kenkéknem after his own fashion. His power lay in the tokens tangled and braided with careful, reverent attention into his unruly mane, and through Vespera's attentive ear.
But his piety did not stop him from approaching the midday sun made flesh when it shone for the first time in living memory upon his sightless face. It did not stop the witch doctor from doing the same.
She limped along at Turhan's side, skull-masked face unreadable except perhaps by the gods themselves. Solis was bright and wild and frightful to behold, and yet...
Awe could not contort the severe lines of a dead animal's brow, nor could it sway the mare's allegiance. She was of Vespera and for Vespera, and her voice was not for Solis.
The mouse brown mare stood watchfully, almost protectively at Kenkéknem's grizzled side, bobbed tail twitching, peering out from behind her mask as the mortals gathered and offered their own words of love, hate, or indifference. She defied anyone to denounce her silence in the presence of a god, knowing nothing of the sort would come.
There was greater blasphemy on display here.
The Witch Doctor there are no grotesques in nature
i have made the obscene decision to do something unforgivable.
C
hance. It is pure chance he is here, at this time, and Caine has never detested his luck more. I arrived to a Solterra in smoke and flames, and the one day — he pauses for breath as he finally draws near enough to hear — I choose to play at being faithful, everyone else does too.
Blasted luck. Even a god has come down to play.
Black wings stay slicked against his sides as Solis’ rumbling voice reverberates through the clearing, buzzing through his teeth, buzzing through his bones. A grimace splits the Illusionist's sharp face into even sharper fragments. He is not shocked. He is not reverent.
No — Caine is wary, immensely so, because when did a divine being leave the comfort of his gilded throne without a reason? And if history recorded more truth than lie, whatever reason it is should’ve sent them all scrambling from the peak like the sheep they ought to recognize themselves as.
Not approach the god like a damn fool.
Dark features grow darker still as he watches them peck like curious chicks at the foot of the living statue. And in the case of the golden one, (who is on fire, he notes, with brows raised to the skies) reckless fury instead of curiosity. She has guts, that one, and Caine is almost amused.
He turns, instead, to a figure of gleaming silver. It is his first time seeing the young queen in the flesh, and in different circumstances Caine would have greeted her. But the energy that whines through the air like static keeps him firmly tethered to his spot at the edges of the roiling crowd, and nothing, nothing will draw him closer —
“Moira?” Her name slips from his tongue like a curse as silver eyes flash with bewilderment, the white of her tail floating past him like a moon come to challenge the sun. Bloody hell. A citizen of Night at the Sun God’s shrine. The irony sits on his shoulder like a laughing crow.
He is still processing her arrival when the girl leans in towards Solis like he is nothing more dangerous than a mortal man. Fool. Eyes narrowed to slits, Caine glides like a panther across the clearing. She's out of her bloody mind. He reaches her in three easy strides. This close, he can feel the heat radiating from Solis’ divine body like radioactive waves, and his feathers curl like a withering summer sprout.
“Tonnerre. Might it be wise if you give this lovely god some respect by backing off?” His voice purrs low like a tiger's growl, white teeth gnashed into a biting smile, as his nose hovers inches from Moira’s ear.
If Caine really is haunting her dreams, surely she will not mind if he haunts her reality.
@Random Events | "speaks" | notes: -grabs mo and runs-
