AND WHEN THEY SEEK TO OPPRESS YOU, AND TRY TO DESTROY YOU, RISE AND RISE AGAIN, LIKE THE PHOENIX FROM THE ASHES UNTIL THE LAMBS HAVE BECOME LIONS AND THE RULE OF DARKNESS IS NO MORE
In his dream there is a ship
it beats, beats, beats against a dock.
There is lightning somewhere.
He thinks he has forgotten to breathe and
he can smell, but not feel, the way his skin burns.
If that dream had not come to him in waves last night, with a pain so sharp it is more than memory, he would not have walked the beach.
But the dream had come to him. So he is, now, on the beach beyond the dunes with the sun rising on the far horizon. Oriens is there, perhaps, for his transient moment of glory. If Orestes only squints hard enough there is a chance he may see the great god elsewhere, fighting off the coming day, just a few more moments the dawn seems to say, blossoming in shades of indigo and then, rapidly, mauve, lilac, heliotrope, blooming roses and soft pink orchids and cherry blossoms. The sky blushes shyly, coral and rose and then, the moment Orestes has been waiting for—
The world becomes gold.
Everything is bathed in it as the sun edges just above the far-off, curving horizon. Solis crests the end of the world at last and Orestes is bathed in the light. He listens to the gentle lap of the waves and mourns the fact they do not sing to him—but Orestes cannot dwell on that tragedy for long, as
the sun is in his eyes and
there is nothing but light
and it shines, and shines, and shines.
His new kingdom is a broken thing; as broken as he himself has been. But there is something beautiful in broken things. He knows, and envisions, the way every corner of Solterra is becoming rich beneath the touch of the light, as though evoked by King Midas in to some higher form. The streets of the Capitol must be transformed, now, into something pure and promising. The desert is not yet baked beneath the heat of the sun’s glare and, instead, it is all pristine. Orestes knows it must be. The canyons and the oasis and the city—all of it awakens beneath the mighty touch of the sun.
Orestes dwells, for a moment, on the deep irony of it. Should all this gold not burn me? And his forehead aches with the recollection of what those from another life had done. He could recollect each design as they etched them into his skin with metal that burned and burned and burned and yet—
His faces lifts to the light just as the sky fades into the cerulean of the day, and he thinks, there is nothing so beautiful.
Orestes ignores the void the loss of the light brings. He ignores the way there is an aching thing in his chest that asks, why does the sea not sing to me? Instead, he turns his back upon his once-mother and trots up the dune back toward the city. There is work to be done.
——
Something tells him—
Yes. Something says, in his mind, in his heart:
Let them come forward.
Challenge them.
Hand them back their kingdom, give them
The—the…
Yes. The torch.
It is midmorning when he walks through the streets of the Capitol and feels their eyes upon him. Heavy. Heavier. Atlas’ burden and more—more, it is Prometheus that Orestes’ emulates, because what is a greater burden to give a gift to men and hope they do not ruin it?
There is a statuesque horse at the center of the castle’s gates, a remnant of Raum’s tyranny. The other victims of the Mad King’s basilisk had thawed, dropping chunks of stone and returning to flesh. This one had not, and months later, Orestes no longer believed the rearing stallion would awaken. The irony of it—he was struck in the shape of so many figures of Solis, proud and fierce and defiant. The weeks since becoming Sovereign Orestes had spent cataloguing the dead and gone, those who had been lost. He was ensuring they would not be forgotten.
Orestes had imported a slab of glistening white marble from Venoror, sold by a caravan of vagabonds. He discovered a mason within Solterra and asked: catalogue the dead. The marble slab had been inserted before the rearing Solterran, with a long list of those who are no longer among the Court. And then, for good measure, there is a poem inscribed.
That neither schools nor priests,
Nor Kings may build again
A people with the heart of beasts
Made wise concerning men
Whereby our dead shall sleep
In honour, unbetrayed,
And we in faith and honour keep
That peace for which they paid.
~Rudyard Kipling
Orestes has made a promise, and the lion’s burning words resound within him still. “You are Solterra’s sacrifice. She has made you and she will break you. None can take from her any more. Only those who her fire chooses can sit upon her throne now. Sit. Sit and remember you are ash.”
The new Sovereign rests within the shadow of that statue, staring for a moment at the inscription. A courtier exits the castle and trots before Orestes. “Would you like the bell rung, sir?”
He thinks for a moment. Then:
“Yes, please.” The courtier runs back to the castle, and then:
Ting, ting, ting.
Silence.
Ting, ting, ting.
The bells are new, and at first there is nothing. Then—he sees a stallion step out of a small dwelling at the far end of the street, nearly out of sight. Hesitantly. Step by step. Another horse follows, and then another.
He waits as they gather, one by one. They know. They have seen him in the streets, and haunting the halls of the Solterran castle. They have seen him come and go, quietly. But he has not yet spoken.
Not until now.
“I am Orestes.” He says, and his voice is soft as a sigh—but it carries in the thin desert air, and he thinks he can hear each and every one of them breathe. There is a resounding emptiness to it, a hesitation, as though there is meant to be more than just his name. Orestes, Prince of a Thousand Tides. Orestes, Prince of the Khashran, the Shape-changers, endless and infinite. The Prince of the Lost People, the Forgotten People, Prince of the Sea and all Her Suffering.
It does not do. He repeats himself, louder, more confidently. His voice echos in the heat. "I am Orestes, Prince of the Sun. Solis has chosen me." The truth of it may be embroidered, as he has yet to discern whether the furious lion were an entity of Solis, or merely a manifestation of Solterra’s suffering. Either way, he does not feel as though it is dishonest, and as he thinks it he focuses on drawing on the heat around him. His tattoos begins to glow bright, luminous, as if the light has cracked open from within him and it pours out. “I know I am a stranger to you. But there are some things I can promise.” He steps forward to stand beside the statue and brilliant white parapet.
The sky aches above like a wound and beneath him the earth bakes. There is nothing but the sun behind him, rising, rising, into midday. Shadows lay still beneath their casters. “I will go first, into every fray. I will wear my scars for you like badges of honour, and they will all be on my front.” His mind is full of old failures, of foolish peace treaties and tricks. He thinks of how the sea sang to him from prison bars as his people were slain, and he thinks, never again. “I will be fair, and just, and Solterra will always come before anything. Before myself. The first thing I will do is rebuild the kingdom. I know you may not trust me, but I can earn that and if nothing else, trust this: I am nothing but your servant.”
”I cannot do this alone. Solterra has no Reagent, no Emissary, no Champions. I ask you, her people, to come forward. Take the fate of your city back into your own power, and choose to serve beside me. Guide me. Help me. And we will rebuild together. Who will stand?”
In his dream, there is a city
and it is broken, browbeat, bent.
In his dream, there is a city
the walls are gold, gold, gold
and there are people within them with hearts of lions, unbreakable, and he stands before them and asks:
Rise, rise, rise.
Just like the sun.
It is not enough, to ask.
He must tell them. The words come,
and come, and come, and he says:
"Who will rise?"
Pimrsi @ deviant art.com
AUDITION RULES
Not every character who replies to this thread must audition! This is both an audition and a meeting for all active Day Court Members. I would like this to be a very interactive IC process. I will end this October 27th with one more reply from Orestes, and if any characters would like to break off and have individual threads with Orestes or each other, I highly encourage it!
If you are auditioning for one of the positions, your character does not have to be a current member of the Day Court. They may be a newly made character and their audition can literally be their first post, so long as they have been accepted by staff beforehand. Additionally, the character can audition for a position in the court if they are from another court, although it is encouraged that they have previous ties to Solterra that are well-known.
In your audition, please answer the following questions OOC:
Which position are you applying for, and why would your character be well-suited toward it?
What is your current activity level, and can you commit to a reasonable amount of activity? How many IC posts could you make approximately each month?
Would you be willing to contribute plot ideas, lore, and court events? If so, do you have any existing ideas?
How would you like to see Solterra "rebuilt" post-Raum? What kind of events would you like seen, and multi-Court relationships?
Vendetta stands at the fore of the crowd with her skirt and her roses and her horns like blood. They have all seen too much blood, Solterra has bathed in it, and she is bright and hot with it. This man has turned one of their fallen into a centerpiece, into a marker, a reminder. There could be a soul yet within that stone. And it sickens her, to see him poised there, as if he ought to be part of one of their fountains.
The stories, of the trapped ones, had spread quickly once they had been freed. And even if there are no remnants of the horse left in that shell of stone, turning what is left of what had once been his mortal body to the afterlife is the least this Prince of the Sun could do for the stallion the rock had been.
The unicorn does not place much faith in Solis, but she knows that the pyres are a big part of Solterran culture. And whoever that stallion was, he has been robbed of his final resting ceremony.
He talks a lot, this Orestes. But Vendetta does not care much for his words nor his promises. Words can be lied, and promises broken. Raum had spoken a lot too, but it had been his actions that had truly spoken for him. In her eyes, sharp and bright like rubies, Vendetta knows that it will be this man’s actions that will speak for him too, in time.
All things in time.
He puts on a very good show, with his gleaming markings, or tattoos, that swirl up his legs and curl over the bones of his face. He looks like he could be from the desert but he does not look Solterran, and the sun and the aridness have yet to dig themselves into his skin like a perfume. He is an outsider, and an imposter on these sand-filled streets.
He says he will go first into every fray, but Solterra has seen enough frays. What she wants to know is what he will do to keep them from burning, again. To keep them from seeing blood spilled on their streets, again. She does not want him to go first into the fray and wear his scars proudly on his front. What Vendetta wants from him is to stop the hurting and prevent the suffering. She has had enough of it to last a lifetime—a godly one, an immortal one, let alone the short one she is allowed on this earth.
Vendetta is glad that Raum is gone. Like many of the bastard snakes she has disposed of, he deserved little else. But, that does not mean that the unicorn is convinced that this Orestes, self-proclaimed ‘Prince of the Sun’, is the rightful sovereign for Solterra.
The sandstone beneath his cloven hooves feels foreign and cold. Each step into the capitol upon the hard, cobbled road sends a tremor through his bones. He does not know his intentions—he does not know himself. He fears what he might be capable of...he fears the darkness looming like a sandstorm on the horizon of his soul. A black storm brews there, on the edge of day and night. It is neither and both. The heat of the sun and the absolute darkness of a moonless midnight. Sand billows...the wind howls and cries...his heart seizes and gasps; begs for both a new dawn and the certainty of death.
How can she be gone? And why?
Jahin is a simple man. He is not a man of cunning or manipulation; he is not a man of vision or possibility. He does not question the will of the gods; he does not stare beyond the stars that litter the sky in wonder and awe. He accepts what is and what is not. He is and always will be simply Jahin of the Davke. Fashioned from sand and sun and wind. His soul is laid bare for all to see; stripped clean and honest by the unforgiving sun and scouring wind. How can he be anything other than what he is? He will never be anything more and anything less.
So why is that this day, of all days, he looks to the sky and screams? Why? Why does he question the will of Solis? Why does he question everything he ever knew? Why does he have visions of past, future, present? Why does he map out every choice he ever made in his miserable, pathetic life; wondering where and why he went wrong?
What could I have done different? he thinks, his body wracked with agony and guilt. Why why why. He pleads for answers and finds none; the stars remain cold and dead as the petrified statue in the square before him.
Makeda was never his and she never would be (she was as wild and untamable as the endless desert abyss), but even so, he feels the possibility between them snuffed out like a match and as fleeting as a shooting star. Or was there ever any possibility? He knows his love and devotion was unwanted and spurned...but how can you choose who you love? How can you un-love someone you have loved since childhood?
He will struggle with these questions the rest of his life.
He finds he cannot forgive himself for turning a blind eye to the regime of Raum. If the Davke were safe, what did it matter that the entirety of Seraphina's kingdom was plagued with the shadows and monstrosities of Raum? If Makeda and Avdotya and his people were safe, what did it matter? Let them rot, he had told himself, countless times, as if that would make up for the horror birthed from Zolin's reign. After all, what had the capitol done for the Davke in that time of genocide? What is one mad king for another? This time his people were safe. Protected. There would be no death, no fear.
How wrong he had been.
He stands before the new king; eyes bleary from weeping in the desert over the bones of Makeda and her lonely, hungry death in the belly of the desert. His hate for the capitol (or does he hate himself, does he look to blame someone, something, anything else?) burns within him; a wildfire of grief and regret and guilt and things he could not quite put into words. How had it come to this; how had he come to hate his own country and the rift that has torn her asunder?
He watches the king closely. Who are you? The tattoos that litter his body are surreal and otherworldly. Are you a son of Solterra? He does not dare to hope. What a burden this self-proclaimed Prince of the Sun has taken upon his unassuming shoulders...how could this shining new light ever hope to heal the rift through Solterra if he did not even know her many peoples?
Jahin steps forward before he even realizes he has answered the call. Not this new and foreign king's call--it is Solterra that beckons him forth...it is the sun and the desert and the wind that calls him. It is the bones of his people littered in the sand and the blood of strangers that calls him forth. His own blood thunders through his veins; the sand-storm on the horizon of his heart billows black and angry and full of a furious purpose, the like of which he has never known before. He hesitates briefly, thinking of Makeda. He thinks of Avodtya and Seraphina. He thinks of the terror incited by both Zolin and Raum...he thinks of how he did nothing and how he is now faced with an opportunity to do everything for Solterra, for his people.
"I am Jahin. Desert-born and son of the Davke. I would stand by you as Regent and servant of Solterra. I would swear to hold you to your promises. And not just your promises to those who dwell in this shining city, but to all the peoples of Solterra--to the peoples who live feral and wild beyond these walls and have culture and laws of their own.."
Which position are you applying for, and why would your character be well-suited toward it?
I am applying with Jahin for Regent. Jahin has lived in Solterra his entire life. He was Davke-born and raised but during the reign of Zolin he was captured and imprisoned. After Seraphina liberated him and many other captured slaves, he served in the capitol in the ranks of her Ifrisol. Once Raum seized power, he returned to his people in the Desert, assuming his debt to Seraphina paid. He has lived both lives (Davke and Capitol) and honestly cares little for the outside world (unless it concerns Solterra of course) and thus would be best suited for Regent rather than Emissary. He has only gone outside of Solterra’s borders one time (Arma Mountains). He is a provider and his people mean more than anything to him.
What is your current activity level, and can you commit to a reasonable amount of activity? How many IC posts could you make approximately each month?
I’ve recently returned from a summer-long hiatus (I work lots of overtime in the summer months), but hope to make 3-4 IC posts a month at the very least, and if I don’t manage this I have no problem stepping down and handing over the reins. Jahin is my main character at this point (I love writing him and have wanted to develop him further for a while now). I also have Polyxena in Denocte but she is more of a behind-the-scenes-when-the-muse-arises character. There might be another in the future, but along the same activity level as Polyxena.
Would you be willing to contribute plot ideas, lore, and court events? If so, do you have any existing ideas?
How would you like to see Solterra "rebuilt" post-Raum? What kind of events would you like seen, and multi-Court relationships?
I love brainstorming and plotting! Honestly I’d like to see Solterra become a “power-house”, so to speak. After Zolin and Raum, they really need a comeback! (Seraphina ftw did a wonderful job along these lines) And I think embracing the Davke and the Scorpions and parlaying with them would add A LOT of flavor and spice to the overall tone of Solterra. I personally think sub-groups can offer so many different possibilities! I also think it contributes to a kingdom being more than just boring black/white, good/evil….but more of a morally shady gray area, which presents opportunities for characters who are not necessarily a good fit for “virtuous kingdom life” to be involved in the making of big plots/Solterran life. I don’t see why Solterra couldn’t uphold the same values while embracing different cultures and ideologies to make it stronger altogether. I think people in the sub-groups would love the opportunity to be more involved as well!
Event-wise: Definitely reconnecting with other courts! Solterra has been a wee bit isolated these past few IC years. I think it’d be neat to have some kind of markets open in Solterra, where merchants from other courts can trade, mingle, etc., within the borders of Solterra and enjoy the great capitol Solterra has to offer. Multi-court relationships: Hey, if they can benefit Solterra, why not? But in my mind, Solterra doesn’t make friends with just everyone without benefiting themselves. It’s a give and take relationship with other courts. Jahin would lean very much that way, but I can see Orestes taking a different path in that regard maybe? (speculating here) and that would be good too, Jahin would be likely disgruntled but ultimately his main concern would be supporting Orestes and also balancing whether or not it benefits Solterra.
Is there anything else you would like to add?
Oh gosh, not that I can think of? Other than excitement? <3
The ringing of bells echoed through Ramses’ core and turning his head, the stallion stared down the alleyway towards the palace. Somewhere, through the maze of sand blasted buildings, something of importance took place. Crimson eyes narrowing, the man’s lips curled in a sneer as he moved towards the sound, his ears flat against his skull as he imagined what could be waiting for the citizens of Solterra in the square.
Weaving through the crowd, he followed the broken creatures around him. A simple defeat radiated from them and Ramses found himself frowning. Since when did the people of Solterra seem so… breakable? Perhaps Raum had scarred their nation so deep, they’d never truly recover. A shudder ran down his spine at the thought. It was sickening, the state of Solis’s kingdom and it had grown hard for him to swallow.
Approaching the center of the city, he found himself looking at a sun kissed creature covered in tattoos. The stranger stood above them, his voice whispering across the air, power radiating from him. Ramses’ frown deepened as he retreated into the shadows, his lips pursing with disapproval. This is who Solis had chosen? This imposter without the desert in his veins and sand upon his skin?
The coyote found himself scoffing silently at these promises that were pouring so easily from the golden beast’s maw as he made quite a spectacle of his magic. He heard the “ooo”s and “ahh”s from the crowd but the Davke born was unimpressed. This is not what he had expected when he’d imagined a new sovereign, a new politician. The thought of serving under this foreigner caused his blood to boil, that monster in his chest roaring.
Scarlet eyes moving over the crowd, the sound of the stallion’s words ringing in his ears, Ramses felt the turmoil in his stomach, a wretched thing of darkness and despair. “Who will rise?”
"Never," the coyote whispered to no one but himself, the words laced in rage as they swirled around him, an angry serpent of hatred.
This unfamiliar man could never understand what his people had endured, he could never do anything to redeem the actions of the wicked kings of this land that had murdered his tribe, his family.
Watching as another Davke born stepped forward and offered his loyalty, Ramses shook his crown, the discontent reverberating from his skin.
Finally, the creature of the sands turned back into the darkness of the streets, his head held high as he walked away from everything he’d ever longed for, the beast caged inside him screaming.
"Never," he snarled at that thing within him, he could never satiate his desires at the peril of his people, even if it meant leaving the only home he’d ever known….
Baphomet felt the call of the bells deep within her heart, pricking her nearly ebony ears and sashaying through the court toward them. The jingling bangles on her ankles felt like they were responding to the call, the noise music to the chimeric mare's ears. Golden eyes searched the group that was massing, hearing words but unable to see the speaker at that point. Turning a corner, that was quickly remedied and she tilted her head as she took in the golden glow that seemed to light him from within.
His words were promises, though she was still new enough to the court that she wasnt completely sure as to what all he was referring to. She had heard the horror that Raum had brought on the court and had been conflicted in her opinions of him. This stallion was seeming to promise the moon and sun to the court, a court that seemed broken as she glanced around her. There were affirmative and negative comments flying and she flicked an ear in response.
"Your goals are lofty, and it seems that they may fail without support. I may be new to the court, but my heart is dedicated to it. I vow that I will do what I can to try to help this court rebuild and be the strongest that it possibly can. Regardless of rank, I am yours to command as you see fit. Yours to direct to help the Court." She spoke eloquently, golden eyes strong and white cross gleaming in the sunlight. Baph adored the heat of the court, basking in it like a reptile and feeling energized by it.
[*]Which position are you applying for, and why would your character be well-suited toward it? Emissary - Baphomet is new to Solterra, but she wants to do her best to build up the court and perhaps branch out to try to build relationships with other equines in power positions.
[*]What is your current activity level, and can you commit to a reasonable amount of activity? How many IC posts could you make approximately each month? Currently, I am getting through a terrible month. I am working on being on Novus at least every few days with a goal of keeping my characters as active as possible. My goal is to keep up at least 10 IC posts per character per month, more if that character has active threads.
[*]Would you be willing to contribute plot ideas, lore, and court events? If so, do you have any existing ideas? Definitely <3 I would love to help out as much as needed. I would love to see court events that get the court together and allow relationships to be built. Seasonal fun, competitions, stuff like that. Planning events is one of my favorite things <3
[*]How would you like to see Solterra "rebuilt" post-Raum? What kind of events would you like seen, and multi-Court relationships? I would love to see Solterra work as a whole to build into a stronger court that can be proud of those in leadership and be able to stand for what they believe it. I think reaching out to the courts and trying to see where the relationships lie would be a good idea, see if there is room for alliances or if there are courts that refuse to ally with Solterra. Perhaps holding gatherings where the other courts are welcome to come and mingle, or meetings with the leadership of other courts to try to find a unifying purpose across the board.
[*]Is there anything else you would like to add? Um... Just a huge thank you for even considering Baph and I <3
That had been his name, and he had given it to her in a silk-cushioned box, and she had curtsied and gifted him hers, wrapped in mink. Without a care in the world.
What made it worse was that she hadn't even found out on her own. Charon had told her - and if her father's chief advisor hadn't thought her foolish and brash enough before, there was no more doubt about his view of her now.
"Orestes." Her heart had jumped into her throat when the tattooed boy's name had appeared, wrenched out of thin air, from lips that had no business, none at all, knowing it.
She hadn't moved from her paperwork, but her pen had stilled, and fat drops of ink bled carelessly over her signature. "That new Solterran king."
"What?" She hadn't meant to say it so loud. Charon had glanced over the rim of his spectacles at her. She hated when he did that, and he knew it. "I assumed you would've known," he said, his own pen hovering poised in the air, no ink drops in sight, "seeing that you were there."
"I left early." He'd sighed at that, typical typical, before turning back to the bookshelf and pulling out a thick manuscript. A sigil of a crown encircled by a sun was stamped in real gold on the cover, along with a black, heavy-handed 'XXV' printed neatly beneath. "The new king has begun compiling his regime. Announced that he'd hold auditions for positions - a technocrat in our very own Solterra, never thought I'd live to see the day - soon," he'd murmured, pulling out another manuscript, 'IX', and then another, 'XVI'. Grunting, Charon set the stack of heavy volumes down on her desk. Dust blew up in clouds.
Official Solterran court documents they were, from her uncle's time. Her father had ordered a scribe to ship over a crate of them to the White Scarab years ago. "Recorded accounts from some particularly influential Solterran ambassadors. Pliny, Draga, Dreyfus, Sallow. Controversial, a few of them." She'd nodded mutely, sliding the first volume towards her and dutifully flipping open a page. "If you're going for a position, wouldn't hurt to impress his highness, would it?"
Your eyes. They're beautiful.
Chewing on her lip, she thought, darkly: I'm fairly sure I already have.
----
It is stiflingly hot. A bead of sweat slips beneath Aghavni's silk scarf and dips over the curve of her withers. Her exposed neck bakes beneath the Solterran sun, and she is sure that if she presses the spikes holding her hair along the underside of a throat, they would singe through fur and skin and flesh. Like a living coal.
The prince of the sea, of the sun, of them, speaks. All are silent, as they listen and bide and sharpen the tips of their fangs. She, fangless but jaded, stilettos in her hair and daggers in her scarf, watches his golden tattoos play like shadow puppets across his skin. How proudly he wears the sun sigil, high upon his brow.
How secretively she wears hers, burned into the pupil of her eye.
"Who will rise?" he asks them, his voice incandescent. She waits, as Father had taught her. She had never recited letters, or numbers, or whatever silly, demeaning task children did to delight their parents. Instead, she'd recited hymns and battle formations, read diplomacy and undermined sabotage. Her father had numbered her lessons. "Forty five," he'd say, glancing up from his work, and she'd clear her throat, perch on the arm of his chair, and recite: "They must wait for your voice. You must always be the one to tip the scales."
"King Orestes." A lock of her hair falls into her eyes as she curtsies. Her voice is perfectly level, her eyes perfectly emerald. They are strangers. Perfect strangers. "You have been honest with us,"haven't you? Her eyes narrow, enough for him to notice. "And so I shall be honest with you. My name is Aghavni. But I have another name: Sol the Fourth, of House Hajakha. Solterran born, Denoctian raised - I have a title, too, but it is long, and I have forgotten it."
She allows herself a breath, and smiles when it does not shake. "There is none other who knows the Old Court more than I, the Old Families, the Old Ways. Solterra has been a monarchy for too long for her to accept foreign kings and soldier queens with any amount of kindness. There will be opposition to you." She pauses, the words "especially from the nobility," clenched beneath her tongue. She pushes it aside. This is not the time.
"As a member of your regime," (Lesson twenty-five: Assume permission.) "I shall help you to ease these tensions, to the best of my ability. Rest assured, it is not just history I know." Her eyes read, for any who dares to wonder: I have been trained for this my whole life.
"So, I ask you for the role of Emissary." She tastes the salt of her sweat upon her tongue. I will prove my worth. To Father, to Solis, to you. Her eyes flick gingerly towards the throne. She allows herself to imagine her mother upon it, supple limbs askew, showered in faceted emeralds. Draped like a goddess in the lap of a god.
But when she looks upon the face of her mother, a faceless being stares back. Little dove, little dove. You have forgotten my face. Crying, the bloodless wraith crumbles into ash.
the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood.
Which position are you applying for, and why would your character be well-suited toward it? Aghavni is applying for Emissary - I believe she suits this position extremely well, seeing that she has an extensive amount of knowledge about Solterra, and has spent half her life in a foreign court. Diplomacy is a strength of hers (if asked, she would tell you that negotiating contracts with underground crime organizations prepares you extraordinarily well for this sort of work) and she would actively try to arrange alliances with the other regimes, promote Solterra's new values under Orestes, and happily send invitations all over Novus for Solterran events.
What is your current activity level, and can you commit to a reasonable amount of activity? How many IC posts could you make approximately each month? I can reasonably make at the very least 1-2 posts for Aghavni per week! I plan to prioritize her posts if she gets a regime position. My schedule will be much freer this (academic) year, since contact hours for my classes are so much less than I'm used to.
Would you be willing to contribute plot ideas, lore, and court events? If so, do you have any existing ideas? Definitely - I have lots of Solterran lore expansion ideas, especially in creating adopts or recurring NPCs drawn from their lore! As for event ideas, Aghavni [true to her Scarab roots lol] loves organizing parties and festivals and such, and I have a lot of ideas in that department as well, like a battle academy, festivals honoring Solterra's holidays, and maybe even a murder mystery plot with mini prompts and "suspect" descriptions released in multiple rounds?? (Something I've been toying around with for a while!!)
How would you like to see Solterra "rebuilt" post-Raum? What kind of events would you like seen, and multi-Court relationships? I'd love to see Solterra flourish in any way, honestly - but most of all in hosting large-scale events because I don't think Solterra has ever really had one in the past? And there's so much potential for it! I'd love to see Solterra's military might and "warrior culture" really bloom too, it's always been something I've loved about the court. I think there's a lot of potential for secret societies and ancient orders to be created, each with their own alliances, which can stir up some good ol' tension when sought ;D
Is there anything else you would like to add? Super excited for this opportunity and for the future of Solterra, I LOVE Orestes!!
10-10-2019, 06:08 PM
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Muirgen [PM] Posts: 114 — Threads: 16 Signos: 0
The inside of him was cracked like an egg. Yolk dripped down his ribs, never
touching
the
ground.
A statue stood in the center of the city. A remnant, a symbol, another promise. Never again, they said. Never again, not after this time. Or the last time. Or the time before that.
A numbness settled in his bones, in that shell, and when it split open there was only the great anger that permeated his life. That ruled it.
Who will rise, he asked.
The sun. The sun will rise again, with each atrocity, Solis continues on as his people suffer. He will rise, and you can thank him for every day that Raum was king.
Strangers from the crowd speak to Orestes. Some want power. Others do not. Some are familiar. Others are not.
Hajduk thinks of starving. El Toro does too. He steps forward.
”My name is El Toro. I have lived in Solterra for two years now, and it has become my home. I intend to serve it in every capacity that the previous regime failed it. I ask for the title of Champion of Battle.” He dipped his head, a crown of horns and jewels that glimmered in the sun. Hajduk pressed one white flank to another, proud and pale and burning in the light.
El Toro steps back, and he thinks of his father.
He thinks of winning, and of losing. He thinks of this position, he thinks of gaining it and losing it and never getting it at all. He thinks of his father. He thinks of flying and never being able to. He thinks of winning, and of losing. He thinks of his father. He thinks of his father. He thinks of his father.
Of winning, and of losing.
Of screaming, and of breaking.
Of wandering, and of dying.
He thinks of his mother, alone, waiting for the day he comes back. His mother, alone, wandering and screaming and breaking and dying, just like-
He thinks of his father.
Hajduk thinks of rain, and kindness, and rebellion. Hajduk thinks of the mountains and the sand. Hajduk thinks of the petrified man in the square, and the many many names below him. El Toro thinks of screaming, and leaving, of Seraphina and Raum. He looks to Orestes.
* Which position are you applying for, and why would your character be well-suited toward it?
* El Toro is applying for the position of Champion of Battle. His entire life, he has been trained as a soldier and groomed for success, even though his entire society was against him. His father cracked up after being denied the position of captain of the guard, something he had sought his entire life, and which Toro had sought afterwards. He isn’t diplomatic, and he’s not the best educated in Novus or Solterran culture, but he knows how to fight and is inspired to defend his new home from further atrocities. He loves Solterra.
* What is your current activity level, and can you commit to a reasonable amount of activity? How many IC posts could you make approximately each month?
* My activity right now is fluctuating, I had a hiatus or two from the summer till recently and am currently balancing college work with personal projects and Novus. For Toro, I think 3-5 posts is most likely per month - I do have three other characters but will prioritize him should he gain this position (he’s my first character, though, and is always growing and changing and keeping my writing).
* Would you be willing to contribute plot ideas, lore, and court events? If so, do you have any existing ideas?
* Yes! I love doing lore and event ideas. Currently I don’t have much offhand except for a “sand-kelpie” lore bit for the Solterran desert, but I’d love to contribute more, rank or no.
* How would you like to see Solterra "rebuilt" post-Raum? What kind of events would you like seen, and multi-Court relationships?
* Solterra really could use a big fcking party. But also some community-oriented events - I think it’d help to get Solterrans to meet each other as they help to rebuild their community, perhaps in ways that would disturb the old nobility, some kind of equalizing rebuilding. Gonna echo that it’d be great to see some faction interactions with politics and rippling through the courts as Solterra tries to associate with other courts but has some underground drama going on ;)
* Is there anything else you would like to add?
* I’m excited to see where Orestes and the new regime go with Solterra!
That alone is enough to make her hope, thought the sound of them still makes her flinch - a reaction she hates as much as she can’t help, like a hound shivering when it hears the jingle of its hunting-collar. But after one black moment, or two, she hears the difference in the tone.
Of course she comes.
It is a hot day, and the people are wary. All the colors are flat and the shadows are hardly suggestions of shapes. In the sunlight the marble gleams almost too bright to look at, and beside it stands Orestes.
He is beautiful. She thinks it even before the markings across his body begin to glow like seams of sunlight from between the clouds, and there is an almost childish wonder that blooms in her at the shapes they make - things recognizable and things unknown. And the suns, of course. She wonders at all of them.
He speaks with eloquence, in a voice like beaten gold; soft but not weak. He makes a promise, and he makes an offer, and one by one the people answer (or do not, but that is an answer in itself).
Like a tail-twitching cat, Elif only watches and waits. Her gaze is sharp and hard on Jahin - had he been there, during the little-rebellion, when the Davke attacked the city and the library was burned? Had he buried a spear-head in Solterran bodies?
There are others. Some she knows (her heart beats harder in her chest when El Toro steps forward, a magnificent white lion beside him, and she wonders at all she does not know of him) and others she does not (she stares openly as Aghavni speaks). And then there is a lull, a small quiet, and she thinks of how simple it would be to just...not fill it. To remain silent, and in silence do the work of rebuilding.
But then she thinks of the long walk down the throne-room to where Raum waited, cloaked in the sunlight like it loved him, like he’d earned it, like he wasn’t the silver of knife-blades and moonlight and lies. She thinks of Caine, bleeding on another slab of white marble, and looking up-up-up into the eyes of a giant stallion as immovable as stone.
She does not step forward, but her voice when she speaks cracks over the crowd like a whip.
“My name is Elif,” she says, too loud, harsh even to her own ears. She takes a breath then adds, lower, “Of house Erdogan, although I am the last of them. I do not have pretty words for you, nor will I name myself anything other than a citizen of Solterra.” She is tempted to look at the unicorn who called herself Aghavni; a stranger, but for the rest of her name - a title neither Elif nor any other noble born could forget. She decides better of it; she is never at her best when bristling with suspicion, as she was often reminded as a girl. Instead she tries only to keep her eyes on his, though she is far enough she can only guess at the color of them (like the oasis, she thinks, or the sea).
“Solis may have chosen you, but I am slower than I was to trust his will.” And now she is a public blasphemer; oh, how distraught her mother would be! Her father would surely have slapped her, but Altan - Altan would smile. Elif swallows and feels the alaja where it always is, snug against her throat, as much a part of her as her wings or her lungs or her sharp green eyes. Unlike these things, it makes her braver.
“I wish to give you a warning, Prince of the Sun. We have been forced down by madmen and monsters, it is true. We have suffered at the hands of those within our own court more than once. For years we have seen more blood than water.” Now it is El Toro her gaze wants to stray to, to say have we not, and more besides? But still she doesn’t allow herself to waver, though her mouth is going dry, though her skin feels too tight with so many eyes upon it, and dusty and slat-ribbed besides. Instead she tilts her chin further up (you would drown if it ever rained here, girl), as though she is taller than she is, and has a name with many titles, and a destiny with it.
“But it is not the city who changes, in the end. Our tyrants have been so varied - but they have something in common.” She wears her smile like a sickle-shaped blade. “They are all dead.” And satisfaction is a dark, fierce gladness in her tone.
Now she bows - or dips her head, at least. The sunlight is sharp on the angles of her face; no one need know that the breeze that whispers through then had been called up to cool the sweat from her neck. When she looks up she wears a different smile, something softer, more subtle in its warning. Something the woman she was a month before, or a year, would not have been able to produce.
She has lost so much since the day Seraphina fell in battle - but she has learned so much, too.
“I hope that you are different, my king. And I will work beside you, with all the others here. But you should hope so more.”
A bell tolls somewhere in the distance and Avdotya pauses to listen. It is a familiar sound, one she has heard many times before - but today it does not ring with ominous purpose. Today it rings not with the promise of death or looming destruction, instead it births a new and fragile hope for a nation plagued by misfortune as its new king gains his crown. The viper frowns.
Begrudgingly, she follows that calling bell. She winds through barren alleys until the citadel is before her, and with it a crowd of citizens whose expressions are painted many a colour; some look on with joy and relief, while others remain skeptical of the speck of a man who stands before them. Orestes, he says is his name. Prince of the Sun, he claims, chosen by Solis. Avdotya cannot stifle the poisonous chuckle that falls from her cracked lips, the very sound of which clears the space around her when others realize who stands beside them. Many a man have deemed themselves chosen, and many a man have found themselves dead just as fast.
But perhaps Orestes, Prince of the Sun is different.
Perhaps he is not.
Regardless of what he is, he goes on to make his case to the people, speaking of fairness and servitude and other pieces of typical political blabber, then asks those who may think they are worthy enough to step forward. It is at this point that the woman turns to leave, only to stop suddenly when Jahin’s name - spoken by his own voice - echoes from the front of the crowd. Her ears fall back against the curve of her neck and she tilts her head just so, enough to better hear what the stallion has to say... but in truth, Avdotya does not care to know what else it is the man will say.
And now the Davke Khan lingers only to hear what will come of Jahin, but the smoldering look of condemnation in her fire-lit eyes is enough to illustrate what now brews within her. It is anger, burning disappointment and yet there remains a touch of curiosity in the back of her mind. What sort of mettle does Orestes bear, to take a rogue Davke under his wing when he knows not of the beast that awaits him should he slip so early on in his young tenor.
AND WHEN THEY SEEK TO OPPRESS YOU, AND TRY TO DESTROY YOU, RISE AND RISE AGAIN, LIKE THE PHOENIX FROM THE ASHES UNTIL THE LAMBS HAVE BECOME LIONS AND THE RULE OF DARKNESS IS NO MORE
They come, the desolate, the resolute, the aching—
Many are like ghosts. Some wear the impassioned eyes of the wronged.
He listens the wind as it whispers through the streets, and feels a bead of sweat slick its way down his neck.
Orestes hopes it will reveal something to him; some great and terrible wisdom, but when he is struck with no new profoundness or resonance, he only continues to wait. Orestes wishes, with poignant ferocity, he could hear the sea—oh yes, he wishes that his old mother would whisper to him wisdom that he has forgotten in his moment, colt-legged and nervous before his new people. He wants to ask, oh, mother, will they love me?
And even thinking it he knows she is laughing. No, she would say, in the only way the sea does: with vicious currents, flotsam, a myriad of dark hunting creatures. No, but they need you. It would have been enough to hear; it would have been enough to feel the salt and water against his flesh and feel, utterly, as if he were not alone. Solis is not the same guardian. Solis is only a sigil in the sky, beading sweat on Orestes’ flanks, filling him with bright, burning magic. Solis is the way the desert breaths out, and breaths out, but does not share words.
In his aloneness, Orestes feels vast.
He feels endless.
And their words, their judgement, it means
nothing.
Yet.
Yet.
It means everything.
They are his people, and he does not deserve them. His mind’s eye is full of a flaming lion, a gods’ voice resounding through an empty citadel. He thinks of a white stallion wearing a crown of ridged, jagged gold wire on an angry black beach, rearing—and where the crown touches him he bleeds, and burns, and stares through the streaming blood. There are warriors dancing around him, painted silver and gold and bright crimson. In Orestes’s memory, it is a dance. In his memory, the gleaming wire-threaded ropes are almost beautiful. Orestes thinks of his father; a priest, but not a Prince, and how his devotion had been the devotion of a man that was flesh and blood, a man that wanted, a man that believed he could overcome. A man who sacrificed more than Orestes could.
Orestes thinks of his father.
Orestes thinks of his father, as a man he had never been, because always the gods had chosen him, always the gods had whispered sweet nothings in his ears and told him the end of things. Always, he had known, he could not save them.
In that, and in that alone, the silence of the desert is a blessing. His peoples’ voices are loud; they resound in the empty, deathless air. He thinks of eternity. He thinks of forever. He thinks—yes he thinks—I don’t know the end of this story.
Orestes greets each and every one of them with an affirmative nod of his head; and he listens to their words, their promises, their warnings, their judgements. He receives them without a word. Instead, Orestes bears it quietly, resolutely. Many remain nameless. Many smouldering eyes raise to meet his own; and in them he sees distrust, foreboding, the somber expressions of those accustomed to bearing pain. They believe the desert will have its way with him, and he does not blame them. He begins, “Thank you all for answering the summons. It is always a choice.”
If Orestes were another kind of man, their contempt would have angered him. If he were another kind of man, he would have paused a moment to wonder if perhaps the people provoked the tyrant. Orestes is not that kind of man. And so he smiles sadly at Elif’s warning and to her and her alone, he says: “Bold words for a woman who only claims citizenship. I do not doubt you, Elif of Erdogan, but I am disappointed to hear you have no ambition to pursue a position in the court beyond somber threats. Yours is the type of passion that could make a change in a changeless kingdom.” He feels the wisdom of her words echoed in the silences of others, and he thinks, it is true, all your tyrants are dead. Yet who had risen? Who would rise?
“For those of you who have not spoken, there will be a time and a place. The citadel’s doors are open to all the citizens; and if today is not the day for you to share your thoughts, there will be another day, and another.”I am here to earn everything I have been given. Orestes does not say that. He only continues, “For those of you who have risen… I hope we can work together to build a stronger kingdom.” Orestes steps forward. His eyes seek out Jahin’s, with a child’s earnestness. In him, he sees a young man ignited by the wrongs of the past; a young man capable of change. “Jahin, son of Davke. I would be honoured to serve our court alongside you as my Regent. I can think of no one better to humble my foreign origins, then someone born wild in the desert, with a clear love of country and cause. Thank you. And Baphomet…” Orestes eyes become alight mischief. “You are as bold a newcomer as myself, and I admire it. I can think of nothing better than for you to serve as our Champion of Community; there is a distinct need for new blood in Solterra, and someone must ignite that fire in others… we are in need of many Champions.”
Then, there is Aghavni. He had noticed her when she first arrived, with the same nobility and elegance he had found so striking in the Denoctian marketplace. And those eyes. He had not noticed until now they belonged so thoroughly in the desert, if only to give contrast to the barrenness of sand and heat.
Orestes thinks of her in the darkness of Denocte, with the smell of rain and magic in the air. He smiles, and it is the same boyish smile he had offered in another setting.
You have been honest with us…
Had he not?
Was he not also a man?
We will talk.
“You ask to become an Emissary, and an Emissary you shall be, Aghavni, Sol the Fourth, House of Hajakha. Solterran born. Denoctian raised.” It is a breathless number of titles and he wonders, if he had not just named them, some Regent or Champion would not have warned him against such a decision. She is old blood. She has a claim to the throne. Orestes is no fool. He learned enough of Solterran history from Ra and Tut to recognise the title; to understand she is money, royalty, dynastic. Perhaps he is a fool for believing in the best of her; in hoping that she does not share her relatives poor rulership. “There would be no more valuable Emissary to have, than one with alliances to our historic enemies; than one who knows the Old Blood of Solterra. Unconventional though it may be.”
What would the sea say, he wonders. But he cannot dwell. He steps forward, and forward still. Orestes is nothing among them but a man; he is glowing and sun-gold and the warmth of summer. There is a brilliant white stallion with bull horns, and a gleaming net of gemstones. Besides him stands a lion, and Orestes has rarely seen something so beautiful as the two beings side by side. He smiles, perhaps even wider than before, because Yes, the people care. Yes. They are rising.
“El Toro.” Orestes tests the name on his tongue. It is reverent. “You will become our Champion of Battle then,” Orestes pauses, for a moment. But there is something too right about it. “The White Knight of Solterra.” Perhaps it is his love for romantics; for nuances. He lingers a little on that title, too, before moving on to assess the group.
They are a myriad of colours; of backgrounds; of people. It is not as it had been among the water horses, where one of them practically streamed into the other. It is not as among them, where thoughts were nearly symbiotic. There is dissent, and a hunger for something more that is nearly tangible. “I know I am not what you expected, or perhaps even wanted.”But I can be what you need. He clears his throat. “Either way, I intend to do everything in my power to earn—“ he does not know how to finish the sentence. What I have been given? What I have been chosen for?
Orestes does not. He clears his throat. “Citizens, Solterra will become a better kingdom than it has ever been. Those of you who have chosen to rise… please, follow me.”
That is when he turns; he shows them his back, and spends just a moment to look at the memorial. There is something starkly missing and after a long moment he realises—fire. An undying torch. Now, is not the time. But it waivers in the back of his mind for a moment, before he begins the long and quiet walk back toward the citadel.
I am Orestes, Prince of the Sun,” he says.
