Novus
Hello, Guest! Register

All Welcome  - Cold nights, Warm hearths

Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)



Played by Offline Darkrise [PM] Posts: 11 — Threads: 3
Signos: 15
Inactive Character
#1

Thaeron could always trust that wherever he went, there would always be a tavern. No matter how different each land was, how far away he was from home, every tavern had the same familiar odour of alcohol and wood smoke, the comforting harmony of conversation and even music. And one could always trust that wherever the fallen god went, he would find such a tavern.

The night outside was cold and dark, the sky heavy with thick, threatening cloud. As winter drew nearer, the mornings became freezing, the shadowed hours lasting longer as a biting wind raked its away across Novus. Yet the merry glow of buildings in Delumine’s capital chased away the bitterness of the weather, or perhaps it was simply the liquor. But spirits were high as voice arose in an oddly harmonious barrage of noise as warmth emanated from the pale, brick building.

With the feeling of one returning home, Thaeron pushes open the wooden door with little aplomb, pausing only briefly in the entrance. Framed by the shadows curling in the night outside, his breath misting in the air with the frigid cold, the steed locates the bar. Ambling forward with an amicable gait, he makes a beeline for the bar, weaving oddly skilfully for an equine of his musculature between the tables and crowds. A number of eyes are turned to him, noting Bloodbane strapped across his back and frowning. But he plastered a jovial smile upon his lips, ignoring their glances and seating himself at the chipped, wooden bar. The oak smelt like ale and liquor, sticky to the touch but Thaeron only grinned at the familiar sensation and caught the tender’s eye.

A single shot of whiskey was slid across the counter-top toward him, the amber liquid swirling as Thaeron stopped it with a single tendril of his mind. Knocking it unceremoniously he relished the burn of the alcohol in his throat as he swallowed. From the uproarious din of voices and music, Thaeron could tell few eyes lingered on him and the fire-lit axe.

THERON
this is who we are, a product of war










Played by Offline Syndicate [PM] Posts: 42 — Threads: 14
Signos: 145
Vagabond Soldier
Male [He/his/him] // 9 [Year 496 Fall] // 18 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: Damascus (Tartarosian Dragon)
#2


THERE IS NO SOLACE IN IDLE CONVICTION, NOT HERE; AMONGST THE RUINS OF A CRIPPLED EMPIRE, WE SCRAMBLED FOR REDEMPTION WITH GAWKISH, GHOSTLY FINGERS WAXING APOLOGIES TO LIMPID, LISTLESS SKIES. NOT HEROES ANY LONGER. 


I feel dead but—like a soul tethered by some unfinished task—I cannot move on to the afterlife.

There is only this purgatory; there are only long nights looking out toward the splinter moon, trying not to dream of the dark sea.

Yet I still dream of the dead sea., and how salt tastes the same if it is from my skin or the ocean.

When I wander, I hope I do not see her. Through Denocte, through the markets, smelling bonfires and sea I think of war and… and I hope I do not see her, phantom-like and ghastly, red as blood is. 

And I hope I do. I hope she finds me, corners me, demands answers and justice. I hope she says something terrible. 

There is a sharp, hardened part of me that also hopes that she has found the absence of her new life, carved out as if with a skinning knife. Does she know he’s dead?

Amaroq

Does she know?

I killed him. 
 
He fought well. Like the lions we chased from our hills behind our estate when I was a boy. He fought like a feral thing, all anger and teeth and ice. I have never met a water horse capable of ice; but it did not save him. It will not save her; and I think of all the gossip I have heard on all the streets of all the cities in Novus, how there was a water horse turning people. Marisam—Marisol… something. That was one. But not the one I care for. 

Boudika. That is the one he changed. The one I care for. That is the mistake he made. He touched something that belongs to me—and even as I think it, I feel sick, and there is a poet on the opposite side of the bar, signing of love.

Put out my eyes, and I can see you still,
Slam my ears to, and I can hear you yet;
And without any feet can go to you;
And tongueless, I can conjure you at will.


I listen and watch, quietly. There are many patrons in the bar and they clamour about the band drunkenly, echoing the lyrics. A dark man walks through the crowd and eyes follow him. So do mine.

Break off my arms, I shall take hold of you
And grasp you with my heart as with a hand;
Arrest my heart, my brain will beat as true;


My mind whirls back to the copper-headed mare. I hope I find her, I think. I hope she stumbles upon me as I stand listening to a poet with a voice as clear and sharp as broken glass. I hope she sees me and remembers all the reasons she fell in love with me, but I know, I know, she will not see the same man. And it does not matter, I think. Because she is a lie. What is more—I have fled Denocte after the deed, and found some other Court. Dawn, I think. Delumine. My eyes return to the dark stranger.

And if you set this brain of mine afire,
Then on my blood-stream I yet will carry you.
 

I finish my drink and close my eyes. It burns all the way down.

I need a distraction, before my thoughts self-sabotage. I stand and saunter to the bar, through the stares. The man is a warrior. I know. I know, because I limp, and bare the same sort of scars. I order a whiskey, because that is what he is drinking. I side-eye him, and then smile, a real smile, a genuine smile. I know only one type of people.

“What war were you in?” I hate myself for how flirtatious my voice is. I hate myself for how, when I taste the whiskey, I think of her, always her, and in my memories she is toasting our last victory and final defeat. "Ey', I haven't ever been in a bar with such bad music." I gesture at them as they transition into another love-song, as if a bar full of drunkards needs another reminder that they are alone. 

WE ARE TRAGEDIES OF FIRELIGHT AND FLESH, UNHOLY SACRAMENTS OF BLOOD AND BROKEN BODIES. AT NIGHT, WE SWALLOW BITTER HERBS AND SHAKE OUR FISTS AT FICKLE, CALLOUS DEITIES. WHAT USE HAVE WE FOR FEEBLE HYMNS OF WASTED FAITH; FOR SORDID SONGS OF GLORY? 
Pimrsi @ deviant art.com










Played by Offline Darkrise [PM] Posts: 11 — Threads: 3
Signos: 15
Inactive Character
#3

A song is belted from the top of drunken lungs, its beauty lost in the alcohol addled tongues of the patrons who yell it. Thaeron does not pay much attention to the lament- if you’ve heard one then you heard them all. Some sing of war- of heroes who survived or died for their people. Of great and terrible villains who cast worlds into the shadows of bloodshed. Some sing of love, lullabies to lament those lost or crooning melodies in worship of those still dear. Others sing of myths and legends, riches and rags and worlds lost. But they are all the same- empty words masked by lilting tunes and merry lutes. Years ago- centuries ago- such tunes sang of him. Before the Fall, before he and his brethren were thrown from their divinity and lost among the monotony of mortality. They sung of his strength, his prowess. Of the armies he had lead, the battles he had won. The blood he had spilled and the dead he had raised. O’ he had been so powerful once. So glorious, so.... Well it didn’t matter now. The past was dead and buried, his brethren scattered all over the world (if they were even still alive) and his wife…she was gone too.

With little ceremony the man ordered a second shot and downed it just as quickly as the first

Thaeron does not see the man, dressed in shades of gold as he saunters through the crowd, his gait marred only slightly by a small limp. It is not until the horned steed takes a seat besides the fallen god, ordering a whiskey too, that the stallion casts him a sideways glance, noticing the smile that lights up his pale lips. Thaeron smiles too, unable to help himself. His is jovial, the corners of his mouth turning up in that little smirk that he always had.

Which war?

Internally Thaeron snorts, though the fallen god’s face bears only a smirk that dances at the tips.

“Must I have been in only one?”

His words are playful, coy even, as smooth as the whiskey gleaming in the low light. It has been a while since he’s done this- spoken fleeting whiskey words, subtle glances in between- but it comes naturally to him. Even if it’s mostly empty pleasure to fill up the hole in his heart with whatever he can. How long are you supposed to mourn for? A year? A decade? Thaeron had been mourning for centuries, but no amount of liquor could wipe out the pain.

“What war were you in?” His eyes gleam. The same question. The same challenge.

“You can’t have been to many bars then,” he adds, his smile melting into a chuckle. At least this singer had a half-way decent voice, even if the words pulled at the strings of his heart that he wished could be cut. Thaeron had severed ties with all true romance decades ago. But why must it still play him so? Hurt him so? At least he might end the night not so alone- there were more than one pairs of eyes casting fleeting glances in their direction. But perhaps it was his new companion that earnt the looks, with his spiralled horns and ocean blue eyes. Scars that glimmered across the faded tan coat. He was certainly handsome, the fallen god noted with a smirk. But knowing him for all of five minutes was not enough to push Thaeron beyond the realm of coy words and upturned smiles.

THERON
this is who we are, a product of war


@Vercingtorix <3










Forum Jump: