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IC Event  - the law of club and fang (teryr attack)

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Played by Offline Orestes [PM] Posts: 3 — Threads: 2
Signos: 15
#1

THE DESERT KING


-- -- --
It has been a harder season than usual. The desert, always barren, parched and infertile, had become nearly sterile. The elder teryr, who had spent many years in the canyon, had grown restless. He had been outcompeted by younger, fiercer teryr; some of them were his own offspring. The resources of the canyon, spread so thin, would no longer support him. And so he had flown; first to the oasis and then beyond, beneath a star-heavy sky. The desert spread before him like an offering, but it remained barren, and empty of life. If he were not a purely wild thing, the injustice of it, the cruel and visceral fact of his expulsion from his home, would have deeply troubled him. Instead, the old king begins to hunger. 

The hunger grows, and grows, and grows. He quenches his thirst at the oasis and feels a desperation that only wild creatures know, on the precipice of an age past their prime. The end, infinite and scathing, stares at him as he looks into the water of the oasis and his own reflection ripples back. His beak is scarred and cracked; one eye is blind; and although he is old, there is still a lusciousness to his feathers, a prominence to the mane of them about his neck that suggestions his nobility. He stares a moment longer before taking flight, restless and uncertain with nowhere to roost. 

Beneath him sandwyrms surface screech at his shadow as he passes overhead. Years ago he would have roared back; he would have dove toward them and scratched at their faces, challenging them to a battle of beasts, until he emerged the victor. The cool air in his face reminds him that was a different lifetime; the winter has brought with it the strife of not only age and lack of resources, but reminders of old injuries. His joints creak and tighten; and as he flies his muscles grow fatigued in a way they never have before. 

But he is not a creature to go by idly on the wayside. It is against his nature. On the horizon, he sees the lights of the City. The City no greater teryr has attacked in recent memory. The City that his mother had shown him once when had been a hatchling; she had shown him screaming, squawking, brandishing her wings until she drove all her young back. The message had been clear: you do not go there. But he is old now; and there is something that protests within him at the idea of flying further and further from the canyon he had defended and fought for for many years, only to be ousted by his own sons.

The old king tips his left wing and begins a gradual turn toward the stark sandstone walls, made silver in the moonlight. He is at an altitude where he knows he must look like nothing but a bird to the unpracticed eye. He has hunted as this height many times before. Then, the greater teryr tucks his wings and descends in a sharp dive. He knows there is prey in the city, and an enemy that is more suited to battle him than that of a sandwyrm. Do they not worship him, those mortals behind the strange walls, not so unlike his own canyon? 

He lands on the parapet of the city, and with two taloned feet knocks the armoured guard from his station. The greater teryr lands there, on that parapet above Solterra’s closed gates, and releases a roar for the ages. It echoes across the sleeping city and into the desert beyond.

For a land of warriors and survivors that worship the lord of the sun, the terrifying sound signifies something beyond the mortal realm. The greater teryr’s appearance suggests Solis’s favour on the sun kingdom, as the great beast takes from the ramparts with another cry and descends into the streets. The old king is not the type of beast that will go off to the desert and die; no, he roars for blood and battle, for recognition and worship. He wants a worthy death. 

RULES 
This thread is open to ANY member of Day Court. This is open to replies until Jan 20th, at which point it will be CLOSED.

The greater teryr will reply three more times after this post on the 20th, 27th, and 3rd regardless of whether all participants have replied in time. There is no posting order, but if a post is not completed within the time limit the character is considered out of the event. (Extensions can be granted in 

The next time the greater teryr replies, characters will be given three options to choose from. 

The success of future attacks will be determined by a randomised roll between 1 and 10, with the higher numbers being more effective. Similarly, some choices may result in character injury (1-10) although mortality or being seriously maimed is up to the player's discretion. 

All characters who enter will receive 50 signos for participation. Characters that complete all four rounds will be given an additional 100 signos. All characters who participate in the final round receive 1 additional roll between 1-100, where the character that receives the highest number will receive 300 signos. (A reminder that all characters who post 4+ times IC for this event can claim IC Event EXP)






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Played by Offline Katherine [PM] Posts: 50 — Threads: 2
Signos: 5
Day Court Soldier
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 7 [Year 497 Fall] // 14.1 hh // Hth: 7 — Atk: 13 — Exp: 16 // Active Magic: // Bonded:
#2

“Grace is just weakness, or so I've been told”
The nature of the desert is that it is always changing.

Teiran has learned more about surviving in the Mors than she, perhaps, ever thought was necessary. She has learned more, perhaps, about surviving than even as a young girl thrown to the wolves. It took a lot to turn her back on the court she has been loyal to her entire life, to smash open those gossamer cracks spiderwebbing all over the surface of her skin and admit that she could not protect them the way she was made to.

There is black tar leaking from those delicate fissures, all of the things inside of her dripping out across the desert with every day that passes. Teiran spends a long time pushing down the feelings of guilt, and regret, that are so unfamiiar to her. She pushes them down and buries them in the golden sand until the wind sweeps them free another day.

But she has gone, because a boy with amethsyt eyes had asked her too; and she has been trapped inside the screams of the pained and the breaths of the dying, and eyes that were blue, and then gold, and then black, following her everywhere. In the Mors, things have been more distant. She can convince herself that it was only the wind, howling over the dunes.

The nature of the desert is that it is always changing, and so too, does Solterra change.

The snake on the throne and his pet add their breaths to the ones suffocating her thoughts and the boy with the Amethyst eyes goes to the court. For awhile, Teiran stays. For awhile, she isn’t sure that she can go back. But it’s hard to ignore the urge of duty, the call of purpose, that almost seems to drift lazily across the Mors like breeze.

She goes. One step at a time, pushing down all of the things inside of her that have been leaking out of her like lifeblood. She goes, because the thing tethering her to the desert is gone, and she has only ever known how to be alone and now she isn’t quite sure what that means anymore.  She goes because, through it all, she has always been and will always be one of Solterra’s soldiers.

Teiran isn’t expecting to see the Teryr, perched upon the wall of the court like some terrible divine death. But she also isn’t sure what she expected, because all Solterra knows is suffering and death. She wonders if it is all the court will ever know, no matter who sits on the throne, who walks the streets, who calls it home.

But when the beast launches itself down from the parapet, landing among the streets. Among her streets, the streets of the people she is meant to protect, something in the soldier shifts. It’s like a cog, or a wheel, fitting back into place after being jammed for too long. She draws her twin, serpentine daggers from their sheaths at her sides. The sounds of the wind whistling against their obsidian blades seals all of the cracks in her.

Something drops behind her sage eyes, some curtain, drawing them dark and blank. There is only a tunnel, from her to the Teryr, whose call is still echoing down every empty and dark alley in the court. There is a wild thing in her streets, calling for blood, and she is a predator again on the hunt.

Somewhere lurks the memory of a young girl with scared green eyes and protruding ribs, but she is lost among the thoughts of protect, guard, fight.

“Speaking.”
| And Tei is officially back! Feel free to include her in your posts c;





[Image: teiranicon_by_aim_by_nocturnalowlet-dcfm9xa.png]
this is a wild
game of survival






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Played by Offline pres [PM] Posts: 28 — Threads: 7
Signos: 130
Day Court Regent
Male [He/his/him] // 7 [Year 497 Summer] // 16.1 hh // Hth: 7 — Atk: 13 — Exp: 18 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#3



eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone


Jahin has always been drawn to the idea of peace. In his years of constant raiding and fighting for the Davke horde, he’s grown weary of war and the never ending casualties war brings with it. He wishes he wasn’t this way--introspective and dabbling with philosophical concepts far beyond his meager level of Davke education--it would be far easier if he was simply content to live his life as he always had: on the fight and tempting death. This line of thinking is what had ultimately earned him exile from his people and Avdotya’s timeless scorn, but fighting has never been enough for him and he would be lying to himself if he continued to pretend otherwise.

Now that he’s left the blood-stained sands of Davke battles behind, he can’t help but feel restless and uncomfortable in this shiny, new Capitol skin he wears. What business does he have, parading about the Capitol as Regent, when he’s participated and lead countless raids on Capitol caravans and spilled his fair share of Capitol soldier blood? His head ought to be lodged on a pike, displayed for the entire city so citizens can launch rotten fruit and vegetables at his remains and curse his name.

Instead, he is free and living a relatively peaceful life. Peaceful, albeit empty. Makeda is gone, bones crumbling to sand in the desert, and he no longer dreams of a domestic life surrounded by their children in a house he built for his family. While Avdotya lives, Jahin is as dead to her as her own sister. He’s not sure the trade was worth forfeiting his relationship with Avdotya. Can anything be worth losing Avdotya’s respect? But self-pity rarely achieves anything worthwhile, so he tries not to dwell too much on the fact that he doesn’t belong anywhere anymore. Instead, he attempts to make the most of what he is here and now, knowing the only way to ease the pain and guilt plaguing in his heart is to ensure that it is all worth it in the end.

He patrols in his spare time with his spear secured to his back. Pacing the Capitol walls and manning the watchtower makes him feel useful; a feeling he has sorely missed. When he hears the blood-curdling scream of a Teyr, he can hardly believe it. He freezes in his tracks, his own blood pounding almost joyfully in his ears as he frantically scans the sky for a glimpse of the winged creature. Why would a Teryr be hunting so far outside of its normal range, and so near civilization to boot? He doesn’t have time to dwell on the abnormality of the situation, catching sight of the beast perched on the gate parapet screaming its rage and promising death.

Fortunately, Jahin is near one of the alarm bells that is situated in one of the flanking towers near the entrance. “Ring the bell!” he shouts over the Teryr cries at the stationed guard. The guard leaps to attention, ringing the massive bell with all her might. The bell’s warning rings out clear across the city. It’s too late to gather an organized attack; he can only hope the bell provides enough warning for unarmed citizens to take cover before the Teryr carries out its promise of destruction.

Readying his spear, Jahin bounds to the top of the overlooking watchtower, adrenaline sending a thrill unlike any other through his veins. How I have missed this... 

The Teryr has already initiated the fight and is making a low, soaring dive through the streets. Something below the rampart walls catches the light of the sun, flashing in his eyes like a desperate signal mirror. Wincing, he struggles to identify the source amid the throng of scrabbling bodies below. Two silver daggers and a collar flash in the sun. Teiran? What is she doing back? Another shriek from the Teryr and he loses sight of her in the mass of hysterical citizens. He focuses on the Teryr as it swoops through the streets, steadying his pounding heart with focused, deliberate breaths. He's not in a good enough position to make a throw yet, so he waits, holding his spear ready in case the Teryr should made another pass close enough to do some damage. If there is one thing Jahin can do in this world without a shadow of a doubt, it is throwing his spear true and strait.   



J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known





OOC: Jahin didn't actually throw his spear, I edited it to make that clearer. Sorry for any confusion!








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Played by Offline Zireael [PM] Posts: 9 — Threads: 3
Signos: 250
Day Court Merchant
Male [He/Him/His] // 3 [Year 501 Summer] // 16.3 hh // Hth: 13 — Atk: 7 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A
#4

Salt. Sand. Dried Grain. It swirled in his mind like a so mellowing tune, while the noises of a waking city picked up the higher notes to start the upward spiral of a winter burdened city. It wasn't his favorite time of day to slip through the town, but he had to admit to some twisted sense of humor at watching the stumbling drunk nobles and prodigal sons come from the lower dregs of the town. They tried to be quite, to slip through the shadows unrecognized, but their tense, uncomfortable faces told the tales just as well. Here in a quite back alley he could see them drag themselves along the street against the outside walls, hoping to hide from the busier city center.

Poor blind bastards. Their idiocy was a nice morning elixir. Then, like spiking his orange juice with vodka, came those from the lower quarter travelling up who bore a rather different air. Those one or two nobles, dripping in their wealth or wearing simpily hundreds like it was a sack of grain, did not shrink at the light of the sun beginning to burn out the morning. They cared nothing for the wandering eyes, they welcomed them- no dared them. That was who Locke took note of, who he watched with curious eyes. In his new city, where he had slipped through for several weeks before taking a break to become a corporal figure on a south jaunt, he wanted to know those people. The ones who took the shame of the lower as well as the gold of the upper. The ones who ruled the whole city. Those he was find-

A roar, bestial, primal, and vibrating the muscle holding in his heart. That was not a mate catching one of the wanders returning from the lower. Locke picks himself up from the side of his alley watch with a growing suspicion. It could be normal. He'd only been in the city a month, it could be a seasonal mating call of some natural creature. Normal- The teryr lands with all the grace of a hurricane on the city walls, crashing stone, wood, and life to the street below. Right. He doubted that was normal.

Feathers on his back stood, as his heart flutters in his chest. His soft morning melody of the city began spinning wildly into sounds of screams, cracking stone, battle cries, and scents of blood and death. It wasn't his usual scene. Locke was not a hero. Not a warrior. He was a shadow slipping thief. Knight in shining armor was never even in the realm of possibilities. Nor did he want it to be. Several Solterrans, with authority of rank radiating off of their movements and commands, rush to the creature. The caution in the youth's eyes turns hard. Cold and calculating. He should go. He had no weapon, no armor, and little skill. Every brilliant brain cell in his head told him this wasn't his place, his time, or his fight.

Oh but all those reasons began to boil and simmer in his head, stewing into an elixir of adrenaline, daring, and cunning. It was a dare. When the teryr roared, it was a siren. He wasn't a warrior no, but he was a weapon on his own. A weapon made even more deadly by the williful ignorance of it gave towards common sense. Locke moves forward, mind speeding up to time with the battle. Glint metal- a spear readies under a warrior strengthened touch. The smirk flashes for only a second before he moves.

A piece of rubble, small and near useless is picked up by the youth and hurled with full force at the raging desert king. "City tours are closed, birdy!" Cried the lanky thief as he let his gold body flash into the sun (circling wide the beast, away from the spear brandishing warrior), hoping to steal the collosial's attention from the death tipped weapon that aimed its way. Hoping to turn its head, to lay bare its defenses. Then the boy looked, really looked. Good god. It was massive...Breath catches in the boy's throat for a moment. It was a magnificent creature, bristling in death and demanding reverence for its age, size, and the marks of experience it bore along its body. Shit- Locke didn't even have the breath to speak it as he grabbed another stone. It would be a shame... (The mutual respect rising like the dust in the battle.) Yet it had begun, and ever nerve in his body pushed him to end it, thrumming with the pulsating beats of a mortal body not ready to fall. Bells begin to ring. To scream. Locke let the second rock fly, but did not send any more insults with it..


OOC:: Apologies for the low quality here. Typed this up on the phone!
Recap:: Locke steps into the scene from an alley and throws a stone to try and get the teryr's attention away from Jahin. He begins to circle, and throws another.

Edited to reflect @Jahin 's clarification. Apologies!





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