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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


All Welcome - hymns of salt and terror;
Amaroq — Night Court Citizen Signos: 535
▶ Played by griffin [PM] Posts: 32 — Threads: 3
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 13
▶ 8 [Year 495 Summer] Active Magic: Ice Manipulation
▶ 17 hh Bonded: N/A
#1

in his own country
Death can be kind


For many days Amaroq keeps to the sea. 

Like a seal he spends the daylight hours idling in the shallows, occasionally diving deep to twine himself in the kelp, to wander across the seagrass without touching a hoof to the ocean bed. Only once the sun has set does he drift in with the tide, surging pale and quick as a wave and fading like a glimmer of moonlight into the forest to hunt. 

Though he loves the moonlight hours, though he suffers under the hot glare of the summer sun this far from his frigid home, it eats at the kelpie that it must be so. He should not be the one in hiding. But this place is still too new to him, and Amaroq can be as patient as a glacier until he understands if there is danger, and where it lies. 

It is a rare day that drives him further inland at last. 

A summer storm has swept in from the sea, a wailing wind that lashes the waves up against the coast. If it were not for the rain that came along with it Amaroq might have kept to the depths, but the downpour is cool against his shoulders and along his back as he stands amid the stones of shore, and he is ready to taste something other than salt on his tongue. 

There is no sound but the rain against the leaves as he disappears into the darkness of the forest, the air heavy with the smell of brine and petrichor and pine. He moves pale as a ghost beneath their boughs, silver as the rain and white as the foam of the waves. Despite the cool rain on his back, frost draws patterns on his skin, and his breath is a mist. 

No part of him blends in here, and yet he hunts. 

His prey do not know he is a predator; they smell only a horse, and only the sea. The saltwater washes the blood from his skin like a mother’s tongue. To the hare and the foxes and the deer he is only another unicorn - 

and oh, how the beasts of the forest love unicorns. 

So he can already taste the copper on his tongue when a doe crosses his path. She pauses midstep, uncertain in the rain, and turns her dark and liquid eyes on him. Amaroq arches his neck like a prince; the tip of his horn dips graceful as a saber. Her wariness falters, and she flicks her large ears at him. Between them, in the little current of rainwater washing back to the sea, ice begins to form filaments like pale cracks. 

“Come,” he says in a voice like new snow, “let me see you,” and she bobs her head but takes a step toward him. Still Amaroq does not smile, but regards her with his pale and empty eyes, and she halves the distance that separates them. Oh, he is ravenous now, and his teeth are sharp as he runs his tongue across them, waiting, patient. She is near enough he can make out her eyelashes, even in the rain. Overhead the wind is moaning still and if they had shadows they would soon meet - 

There is a crackling of limbs, the snap of a branch. The doe flinches and bounds away, her tail a flag behind her, never looking back with those dark-moon eyes, and Amaroq snarls like thunder and lashes his tail even as he turns toward the source of the noise. 

A figure stands there, equine, dark with the rain and the shadow of the trees. Though frustration and hunger flex leonine claws within him he only stands, silent and pale, as ice crackles around his feet. 




@Euryale if you want, otherwise open!

amaroq



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Euryale — Dusk Court Soldier Signos: 65
▶ Played by aurora [PM] Posts: 30 — Threads: 5
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10
▶ 4 [Year 499 Winter] Active Magic: Aerokinesis
▶ 16.1 hh Bonded: Lilith (Timber Wolf)
#2

sun's last breath of aureate light, pools, through the lavished, summer canopy; golden embers, lace wickedly  through the forest canopy in a filigree of immaculate shadows. the sun's golden moans, drips from the beachside banks of a stormy, terminus sea; drawing, the fiery sun to sigh its last breath and kiss its last kiss. breathing, a sweet lover's caress, against the gilded approach of dusk, that so ravages the forests and the oceans in a violent fire-color. the sky becomes a sudden floodlight of throbbing hues. splintering, the skyline in thick, flowing blades of red, orange, yellow, as they dance sharp as razors. flickering, eeriely, in the pagan light. piercing, the sky with the sudden hunger of angels and demons. stormy clouds, bursts in heavenly seas of malevolent orange, so that every live and dead thing, smothers so, so hotly beneath the last rays of unyielding heat. the final kiss, that ravages the land in a red, violent color of war and death and passion.

euryale calantha is their violent crimson song. the deep red of her toned flesh, singing through the wicked forests, sprawling in thick, luscious shadows. she moves with silent, predatory ease - the eternal grace of her feral bodice, twisting with lupine restlessness; feeling, the coarse, caressive ferns and loamy mangroves, brush warmly the curvature of her spine and flanks in sighs of hot, summer surrender. thick foliages of verdant green, sways hushed and hallowed breaths, against the passionate red of her body. the she-wolf prowls more upon stealthy paws than hooves, moving through the oiled sweat of ravenous, and salivating shadows. she weaves through the thick spell of the hungering blackness that so encompassed the dangerous forests, in a shroud of penetrative, blue-tinged veil. the sing-song tales of the approaching moon, glows, in fervid promise against the slim curve of her backline. lavishing, trails of soon-to-be silverlight, against every slender crimson inch of her. every arching, purring angle of her sleek, feral figure, that curls with lithe grace and glimmers in wolven supremacy.

she is out here, purring against the darkness of the forest. combing its ruins, with hungry eyes. but even after consuming several rabbits, euryale is still ravenous. betwixt, rough rows of CALIGINOUS, mighty trees; beneath the tangled lengths of curling, swarming ferns, our fiery euryale calantha, dances, dances, dances. an ephemeral demon, drenched in red light and voluptuous webs of arachnid ivory. and it is naught until the silver song of him, captivates the wild glint in her khol-lined, ruby eyes. till the silver song of threat, rings malevolently through the trees. the rough, masculine growl caressing her ears in a wild noise of hunger and delicious aggression. the she-wolf pauses as a doe from afar jumps, scattering deeper into the woodlands. the she-wolf gazes at him who stalks the forest along the oceanside.

it is the deathly, chilling silver of him, she spots first through the gilded whistle of a violent summer storm; a violent summer storm, that pours, and pours. singing a torrential shower of crystalline liquid, as the heavens open from up above, to drip below with thunderous fervency.  his muscles were thick. powerful. graceful. he moves with all that hunger of a silvery anaconda. his fur, sleek and leonine and wrathful, glows in the deathly pale of frost grey. as the air around them swells with liquid; euryale feels the heat of his chilling gaze, throbbing and metal and full of copper taste and feral promise. rain, pours through her damp, lilac curls; rainwater, streaming down her flanks in a gilded, watery hiss of violent deluge. euryale's voice is a soft murmur against the thrumming violence of raindance; her voice, a song of fire and ice, against the arctic shadows of him.

"you almost had her."



Reply
Amaroq — Night Court Citizen Signos: 535
▶ Played by griffin [PM] Posts: 32 — Threads: 3
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 13
▶ 8 [Year 495 Summer] Active Magic: Ice Manipulation
▶ 17 hh Bonded: N/A
#3

in his own country
Death can be kind


The storm rages in earnest now, rain in sheets and lightning arcing overhead, only visible as a flash through the canopy of trees. The leaves shudder and twist in the wind, flashing silver and green, and as the doe vanishes in the brambles Amaroq wishes, for a moment, that he had kept to the sea. There is little he can claim to love, but to wait below the waves while a storm roils overhead, to watch the lightning split the sky, to feel the turbulence sing in his blood -

that he can appreciate.

But he is not in the sea. And he puts away that wanting as he studies the mare, bright and vital against the dark forest. There is too much distance between them for him to scent the blood on her; the rain lashing has washed clean her sins. But the kelpie regards her plainly, the way she stands, the tilt of her head, the storm-soaked sleekness of her skin.

When she speaks he flicks an ear forward, but if he is surprised at what she says nothing of it registers on his face. His expression remains as impassible as ice, the rise and fall of his breathing as even as the tide.

Oh, Amaroq is still hungry. But the doe is forgotten, like a seal below the ice. At last he lowers his head a fraction, his horn pointing at her like a blaming finger, a challenging sword.

“Almost does nothing to fill my belly,” he says, low. Where the rain touches him it begins to turn to ice; a raindrop is frozen midway as it slides down his ivory horn. For a moment he only breathes out another breath of mist, as though he stands in midwinter and not a summer storm, and then he adds, “Won’t you come closer?” There is an echo of the command he had used on the doe, but only an echo; there in his voice, mingled with the hunger, is a curiosity just as sharp.

Like any beast of tooth and claw, Amaroq can sense the difference between predator and prey.




@Euryale <3

amaroq



Reply
Euryale — Dusk Court Soldier Signos: 65
▶ Played by aurora [PM] Posts: 30 — Threads: 5
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10
▶ 4 [Year 499 Winter] Active Magic: Aerokinesis
▶ 16.1 hh Bonded: Lilith (Timber Wolf)
#4
worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins & you can sharpen your knife

beneath the waning moon, the forest sings with violence. with sharp sleets of rainwater, and the deep gloaming of trees. songs of armageddon. songs of the storm. the pounding lullaby of rain. the harsh cries of thunder. all shattering summer's gentle reprieve, with the stormy violence of its kiss. how long ago had she heard such music? how long ago had she danced in the rain? tasting the raw midnight air, and devouring storms, with each breath of feral wanting? to feel the ravenous breeze weave like fingertips through her hair? or to taste sweet moonlight, as it runs with hot desire and wild abandon upon her flesh?

for so long has she loved the moon. for so long has she loved the forest. she so coveted the storms, as well. the storms that lit the forest floor in a brazen dance of thunder. the beautiful dissonance of its electrifying form. o, she devours it all up. the lights. the sounds. the taste. the smell. the pitter-patter of wet soil. curling moist and heavy against the pungently-damp air. the ambiance of the storm. the deep, wracking shivers of molten white. that flashes across the woods, in violent spells of silver. the pounding bullets of rain. the feral breath, that pools into arctic mists. descending his lips, like smoke spilled from a cigarette.  the silhouette of his form. ever deadly. a hungering blade. all of it weaves like silver madness. like a primal predator unfurling great talons before the blood-red fire of her gaze.

"i could help you hunt."

into a delicate smirk, her lips curves. her fangs bared into a playful smile. she feels the rain dancing sharply upon her skin, and she sighs with a feral hiss; somewhere between a growl and a righteous purr of wildcat thrill. she should feel wary. and yet, curiosity unfurls like a serpent within her. slithering, coldly. coyly. her voice, floats to reach him. curling like blue fingertips through the air. her azure trails about her form. dancing beneath the feral curves of her; now drenched in misty rain. she should feel leery beneath the frigid stare of this predator. should be cautious of strangers painted in death's design, glowing beneath a cannibal moon.

yet she is fearless; perhaps, even wickedly playful. the lupine fur of her tail lashing the curve of her hips; waving thru and fro. swaying with all the daring hunger of a she-wolf. he beckons to her, and she follows. waltzing, towards him in a SHASHAY of visceral red curves. who is he? this man dripping of silver soot, painted in the acid-white of ocean's carnage. how sharp his fangs. how perfectly sculpted his horn. every edge of him, laced in killing elegance; she wonders then, if the gods crafted him with a leopard seal in mind. a wolf of the sea. an orca. a predator. a killer. he reminds her of someone she knows; someone that sings of gold, instead of silver.

"close enough?"

she draws nearer. she stands close enough to hear his breathing. close enough to taste the would-be-ocean upon his breath. close enough to touch, but touch she doesn't; content to let their breathing, mingle hotly into the darkness. content to watch from beneath the languid sigh of his shadow's caress.

the only heaven i'll be sent to
is when i'm alone with you



Reply
Amaroq — Night Court Citizen Signos: 535
▶ Played by griffin [PM] Posts: 32 — Threads: 3
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 13
▶ 8 [Year 495 Summer] Active Magic: Ice Manipulation
▶ 17 hh Bonded: N/A
#5

in his own country
Death can be kind


I could help you hunt, she says, and it is not the sight of her fangs alone, small and pale and almost hidden in the rain-drenched shadows of the forest, that makes him think yes, she could.

It is the way she watches him, the way she moves, the way her fearlessness is not borne of ignorance. It is clear that she knows some of the same lessons as he - the old things, the blood-and-bone things. He only wonders how, for he has never seen anything of her like before.

Amaroq says nothing in response to it, but his eyes like ice-chips flicker to her smiling mouth, to her curving body, to the ribbons that trail her like bubbles below the ice. The kelpie does not have a tale to ascribe to her; all his stories are born of the ice and cold and black black sea. There is no name for a color like hers in his world.

But he is not in his world anymore. And at last he tilts his head, not quite a nod, and feels the raindrops turn to ice and stutter like pricks along his skin instead of sliding, smooth and warm. Only his tail moves as she at last steps nearer, each step releasing the scent of damp green forest, of rich black earth. Everything in the forest is luscious and strange, nothing like the world of starkness and cruelty he has known, and curiosity is only another kind of hunger in him now.

When she is near enough for their breaths to mingle (hers summer-warm, his rimed in frost) he shows his teeth, but it is something other than warning. One wolf to another, a more primal testing. As he does it he tests the scent of her, puts it against what else he knows of this warm strange world. She is not like the unicorn queen, and he wonders - he wonders - if she is alone, too. They are alike, but oh! in how many ways?

“For now,” he says, and still he does not smile. He has stood long enough now that the rainwater collecting beneath him is beginning to freeze, a skein of ice so delicate in this summer storm; as soon as he moves again it will be gone, melted to nothing but a cool wet kiss on the path.

What are you? he wants to ask, and his tail twists, leonine, straying so near one of her trailing, sinuous bits of cloth. The trees groan in the wind, the rain drowns out the sound of the nearby sea.

“What is your prey?” He thinks she might name anything, a creature such as this - it is so easy to picture her with blood on her jaws.



@Euryale late and meh but I love her!

amaroq



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