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Current
Beautifully drawn by Sid (Erasvita@DA)!
Current Novus date and time is
... currently in progress!

 Year || 503
 Season || Winter
 Temp || -10℉ (-23℃) to 55℉ (12℃)
 Weather || Winter has left a blanket of pristine white snow in many parts of Novus. Only Solterra remains mostly untouched by the season's frosted hold, but even the desert may feel a cold breath of wind now and then. With Winter now settled across the continent, dreams of Spring dance in the minds of many.

Spotlight
Character of the Season
Seraphina

Member of the Season
E-cho

Thread of the Season
Coloring outside the lines

Pair of the Season
Moira Asterion

Quote of the Season
"There is something to be said for how soothing habit could be, when one was trying to avoid words they shouldn’t say." — Theodosia in
Cinderblock gardens

see here for nominations


Private - claw marks and clouds
Marisol — Dusk Court Soldier Signos: 105
▶ Played by RB [pm] Posts: 96 — Threads: 12
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 19
▶ 5 [Year 498 Fall] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 16 hh Bonded: N/A
#11


heaven talks
but not to me











Right, Marisol says. Not yet. And if the timber of her voice shakes a little it’s not enough to be merited for discussion. She thinks he would know better, anyway, than to make a point of it, but Asterion has surprised her before, and so she feels a little pinprick of relief in her gut that he has taken her place as confidant, at least for today: it is a weight lifted off her shoulders.

Around them the wind sings of chill and the smell of rain, and the Commander braces herself for only a moment when Asterion’s shoulder meets hers and she hears his request. Her step does not falter at the pressure, but she does cut a dry sideways glance at the petition. It is a foolish question; his wish is by definition her command, nevermind her own reservations. But the way he asks it, like a real query, like she could say no, brings a fleeting smile to her dark lips. 

The whole thing makes her feel more human. For once she does not struggle against it.

I would hope not, Mari grumbles, and narrows her gaze at him in mock offense. A soft-hearted commander would make you look bad too, I’m sure. And that is true, too: she cannot imagine what the other courts would think of a warrior who spills more words than she does blood, and how weak it might make Terrastella look to the whole of the country. There is a reason, after all, that she keeps every part of her sheltered.

But Asterion is not an enemy. Time and time again she forgets this, wants to guard her heart, wants to wear her warpaint like a suit of armor, wants to look away from the dark softness of his gaze. But he is not an enemy. He may, in fact, be the closest thing she has to a friend. And so it is with not too much trepidation that she launches into a new line as they walk down the moonlit streets, silver and onyx and beautiful: The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of Night, as a feather is wafted downward from an eagle in his flight - 


credits
"a burnt child loves a fire."


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