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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.


Character of the Season

Member of the Season

Thread of the Season
Coloring outside the lines

Pair of the Season
Moira and 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 - distortion of space and time
Andras — Dawn Court Scholar Signos: 230
▶ Played by Cannon [pm] Posts: 1 — Threads: 1
▶ Male [He/Him/His] Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10
▶ 3 [Year 500 Fall] Active Magic: N/A
▶ 14 hh Bonded: N/A
"My heart is not in my throat.
It is pounding too hard,
secure in my chest,
no, the weight at the back of my throat
is not my heart."
Tell me your bad dreams and I will build you a man.

Tell me the things you love and hate and I will build you a man.

Tell me how all this, and everything else, matters very little when you are screaming at the void so hard your lungs pop and deflate like so many balloons on so many birthdays.

Paint him in like a thing out of a time, like a thing with a heavy head.
Paint him in like a falling star.

Paint him back out so you can forget his name and his wolf smile, his wild eyes like a trapped animal. Try to remember what it was. Try to forget what it was. None of it matters when you're screaming at the void.

He is the falling star, a thing out of time, a thing displaced. Andras is not conscious or at least not lucid. He has not been--conscious or lucid--since before... well, before. This does not change just because the crust of some other strange planet is rushing up to take him, to kiss his bones into dust and answer all of his impossibly morbid questions about death and dying with one clear, clangorous sentence: it is going to hurt.

He wakes just before the broken bones, tumbling and aching and he can't pinpoint what direction up is, just knows he has to find it. All the animal instinct Andras has left is begging him to live, live, live, here at the end. It does not need to yell for long.

There is the distinct sensation of suction, the loud crack of thunder as the air around him is suddenly pushed out of place. And then: light and color and silence. All around him is a black so dark it sings and the distinct, awful smell of stars expanding and collapsing and being born over and over again just as he is sure he is being born over and over and over again. Andras doesn't remember losing consciousness a second time but it must have happened.

Or, at the very least, he knows that he closes and opens his eyes and nothing happens. He closes and opens his eyes again, and is standing in a snowy plain surrounded by the stink of buffalo far older than he is, and a pounding in his head that he can hear over the meager but milling crowd. His first thought is "fuck this."

Paint in the bruises, paint in the seething and sizzling under his skin. Paint in the stern frown like your father used to give you and you have made some abomination that calls itself a man but not a man itself.

Andras takes off his glasses and brushes them gently with the tip of one ink-black feather.
His second thought, one that he says aloud: "Fine, I guess."

Ooc: feel free to pester him at will. or hug him. he could use both.
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.

Sabine — Vagabond Youth Signos: 0
▶ Played by Kezz [PM] Posts: 22 — Threads: 4
▶ Female [She/Her/Hers] Hth: 15 — Atk: 5 — Exp: 15
▶ 1 [Year 502 Spring] Active Magic: Medium
▶ 15.2 hh Bonded: N/A

s a b i n e
better the wind, the sea, the salt in your eyes than this, this, this

If things had been abnormal before, they were positively fucked up now. The world is headless and skinless and altogether sick. 

Or, she is going mad. 

And she doesn't know what is worse. 

Four nights have passed since Him. Four nights spent fitful in sleep and restless once awake. She sits on a carousel permitting no exodus; so round and round and round she spins, unable to dismount, until she could no longer recall the feeling of solid ground.

There are too many teeth in her mouth, too many images of Him in her left eye and Sabine knows that if she does not start to walk in a line that is straight, her mind will eat itself whole.

The dawn breaks like a gun, shooting bullets of atomic violet and blood-orange across the sky. It is with a hasty stroke of luck that there is nothing in this new day that reminds Sabine of His sunrise -- it is too fast, the colours too loud and she has never been so grateful for the snow that sings in blinding white.

So she marches across the cocaine-shroud like a bird without wings, white powder swallowing her feet with a hunger that is echoed in the very lowest rind of her stomach. She is starving for shelter, aching for reprieve; her shoulders feel like waning titanium beneath the great albatross of suffering she has carried since the first time her father slipped a noose about her mother's neck. 

And she does not know how to shake it loose.

The girl is warm by the time Eluetheria slips the shadow of a stranger into her peripheral vision, like a confession it is desperate to purge, though the flush on her breast does not feel like heat; no, it feels like danger, and she does not falter as at a good distance she passes him by.

For it is a warning of what might happen if she does not keep putting one small, shaking foot in front of the other. An omen to hail her fear. 

Because the world is headless, and skinless and altogether sick. 

Or, she is going mad. Remember?

ooc: @Andras !!

art created by katherine | table by kezz
[Image: dbnivdi-4dcf9461-8e04-49e8-966c-3f4599c0...KvnIBGQKn8]


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