Novus
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Novus closed 10/31/2022, after The Gentle Exodus

Private  - salt in our wounds

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Played by Offline Karma [PM] Posts: 53 — Threads: 11
Signos: 760
Day Court Warden
Male [He/Him/His]  |  14 [Year 496 Winter]  |  19.2 hh  |  Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 14  |    Active Magic: N/A  |    Bonded: Kerauno (Blue Swallow)
#1



ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ sᴘɪʟʟs ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ

Off the coast of perhaps one of the most northerly points of Novus, a little boat was being carelessly tossed around by the ocean. It rose up above the waves, visible for a few seconds, only to be plunged back down once again obstructed by the surf. The deep blue waters were angry today, and as they raged down below, the sun joined in the aggressive attack with its blazing rays. 

The occupant of the boat, with furrowed eyebrows, was attempting to steer it towards the land that had been assured to be in this direction. "South west", he had been told. "Keep sailing till you see it." And that he had, though nature had not been kind to him -- when the storm had begun, the remnants of his water barrel had spilled over the side. He had gloomily watched as his lifeline mixed with the salted waters he had been traversing. Of course, there had been a few curse words thrown to the sky after that moment.

Galileo Kodarki had never been one for sea travel. He was, and always had been, a tank on land, and he could never quite understand the obsession with the sea. To him it screamed danger and when it waved its frothy tides, he had been sure to keep on the right side of it. 

Now (and thankfully), a golden coastline was visible, though the storm's blackened clouds were a sharp contrast to the orange cliffs ahead. Grabbing hold of a rope flying astray, he tugged at it in his teeth, correcting the course of his boat towards what he hoped would be a place he could land. Approaching the cliffs at an alarming speed, the equine struggled to control the vessel and the whites of his eyes flashed as they realised what was ahead.

 “Shit.
 
With a grunt, he threw his weight to one side, the bow of the ship lurching wildly to the right. The incoming rocks jutting out of the water offered no mercy, and they dragged along the side of the wood with a harrowing screech. Unsteady on his hooves, the stallion could do nothing but sit and hope that whichever gods watched over the lands he was crashing into were benevolent enough to let this day not be his last.

The next thing he felt was a huge thud which, once again, sent him flying backwards towards the stern of his small vessel. Dazed, he gave himself a moment of recovery -- he was seemingly alive and uninjured, bar a few scratches that didn't run deep. The smell of salt drifted into his nose and he pulled a face. There were definitely better smells than the sea. Slowly rising, the Kodarki son's thick tree trunk legs pulled him up with one motion. Ungraceful as ever, he stepped on a half broken plank and it splintered underneath his weight. Taking one look at the boat, he could see it needed intense repairs -- the whole port side had been ripped open (he was grateful he had launched himself away or he too could have a hole in his side), and some of the wood had already been ripped away by the ebbing tide.

When he looked up, he was surprised to see that the bright gold he had expected was actually a darker shade, much like what he was used to from the Red Waste, his desert home in Elysium. That brought a small amount of comfort to the stallion. Now he just had to work out where he was.

Starting up towards the desert itself, Galileo left the little boat behind, letting it rot in its watery grave.
~
@Seraphina






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Played by Offline Jeanne [PM] Posts: 399 — Threads: 81
Signos: 100
Inactive Character
#2

☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼

I MOUTH her name to a god / whose language I don't speak.
I make metaphor for the empty / she is becoming - a trench opening / from the outside in, the inside of a fist, / decay-dark socket in the head / of a bleached cow skull --

The days pass by her like the dunes on the Mors. She knows that they change from day to day, shift in shape with each passing wind; she knows that the dunes that she sees each morning are not the same that she will see the next, but, if you asked her how they differ, she could not answer. If you ask her how the days differ, she could not tell you. She is sure that they do, but they blend together like smeared watercolors. Sometimes they feel horrifyingly real. (Sometimes, when she finds herself staring at the shards of some broken thing, and she knows that she has lost control of her magic again; sometimes, when Alshamtueur is slick with someone’s blood.) Most of the time, they don’t feel real at all. Most of the time, although she knows that it is, nothing does.

She leaves no tracks when she passes across the sands like a shadow cast by the dark overhang of clouds, no disturbance to mark her passage. She moves like a ghost; she moves like something dead. She passes through the world without touching it, white hair unbound and floating behind her just as she floats several centimeters off the ground. Ereshkigal circles up high, high in the sky above her head, a mere speck of black against the clouds. They are rare, in the heart of the Mors, but not so rare where it borders the sea, and she is moving towards the ocean. She cannot say why.

(Sometimes the siren-song of hungry, black waves calls to her at night, when she wakes and sees the moon and cannot believe again that she is alive. She isn’t sure if it is a challenge or a threat. She isn’t sure which she hopes for – she does not know what she wants to find.)

Golden dunes give way to bleached beach-sand. She picks her way across dark, mottled rock, run slick with the tides, and she does not pause in her wandering until she finds the corpse of a ship, run horribly against a crop of jagged rocks. Ereshkigal comes spiraling down, dark wings extended and talons outstretched, and she lands on a jutting, jagged board, craning her neck to peer down into the waterlogged body of the ship.

Seraphina has a feeling that she is searching for corpses. She hopes that she does not find any, but, when she looks at the damage on the ship, she cannot help but feel a cruel certainty that the demon will.

Ereshkigal makes a sound of annoyance, then springs back up into the air; Seraphina is not sure if it is a relief or not. (She has to bury plenty of corpses, in the desert – she has buried plenty of corpses, out in the desert or in the city or in the canyons or by the oasis. Lost travelers. Fools who fought a sandwyrm, or a terror, or a simple rattlesnake, or a pack of jackals. Poor souls caught by slavers or Davke. Solterrans, caught up in the reign of- but that doesn’t matter now.) If there is no body, at least she does not have to bury whoever crashed on the rocks. A watery grave would take them.

That is when she notices the hoofprints, leading away from the wreckage. A survivor – though, perhaps, not for long. The Mors are cruel to strangers and friends alike, and she cannot imagine anyone walking away from that wholly unscathed.

Without further contemplation, she follows the tracks out into the sands. She can feel Ereshkigal rolling her eyes, but she disregards her entirely.

(She would rather she become cruel, or apathetic; she cannot understand her need to help, much like she cannot understand her need to repent.)

It does not take her long to catch up with the stranger. She approaches him silently, still suspended above the sands, her white mane and tail trailing behind her like they are suspended in water; her mismatched eyes run his frame. He is taller than her by some measure, with a sizeable pair of antlers and a leonine tail, and his build is suggestive of a warrior. He is a stark contrast to the sands, all earthy tones and sharp white stripes. She hovers behind him; she cannot see his face.

He isn’t leaking blood onto the sand. That, at least, is to his benefit. (The scent of it is as good as a beacon, in the Mors.)

“Did you wash up with that shipwreck?” Seraphina asks.

(What she means is: are you unharmed? Do you need help?)







tags | @Galileo
notes | did you ask for some emo I love him, and I'm excited for this thread! <3

poem | jamaal may, "Yes I know She's Dying"
"speech"




@







I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORS
and there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.


please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence




Reply




Played by Offline Karma [PM] Posts: 53 — Threads: 11
Signos: 760
Day Court Warden
Male [He/Him/His]  |  14 [Year 496 Winter]  |  19.2 hh  |  Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 14  |    Active Magic: N/A  |    Bonded: Kerauno (Blue Swallow)
#3



ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ sᴘɪʟʟs ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ

When entering a new land, it was always best to be cautious -- that, Galileo had learned the hard way. Strong legs had pulled him upwards, away from the yellow sands of the beach towards dunes of a different intensity. He paused for a moment to take it in; desert, as far as the eye could see, was hardly a promising sign. 

And yet, part of him had yearned to see red sands again. Allowing his mind to be cast back to the years he spent serving the one true queen of Lyrus, Syrilth, he let out a rumble of a sigh from his velveteen muzzle. Though these particular dunes were not his home, the one he knew like his own soul, they offered a welcome respite from his ocean travels. Thanking the goddess Vega (even though he wasn't convinced her powers stretched to these new lands), he knew his next step would be to find some water. 

Before he could continue, he sensed that someone was approaching. Surprised he hadn't heard them coming, and cursing himself for letting his guard down, he swung his antlered skull round in one fluid motion.

What he was confronted by startled him, and he peered at the horse curiously. He had seen a lot in his time, but never a horse that did that.

 “You're... floating.” He mused simply, barely asking it as a question but more of an acknowledgement, his brow raising slightly at the notion. 

Taking her in with his golden eyes, he steadily raised his head, peering down his roman nose at her. Standing square, he was much taller than her, even if she did hover slightly off the ground. In comparison to his oak-coloured hair, hers was a grey-blue -- quite something, though he had never been one to appreciate beauty when it was before him. Scar-like lines covered her face, however unlike his own scrapes, they were gold filled and likely not scars at all. And he also remarked on something he always noticed in those he met: she had the muscles to match any of his female soldiers that had once served beneath him in his platoon. Safe to say, he was quite impressed with the mare that presented herself to him.

When her voice spoke, he remained guarded, but softened a little as he knew she could be the key to this labyrinth of a desert. 
 
Aye,” he grunted, the hints of a foreign accent shining through.  “The boat. was mine.” With a nod in the direction he came from, he didn't take his gaze off the mare. He wasn't usually one for words, but he also had to admit he needed help. “These lands -- do they have a name?
~
@Seraphina
i love her too she's so heckin adorable i wanna hug her
also sorry he is not very chatty ever haha







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Played by Offline Jeanne [PM] Posts: 399 — Threads: 81
Signos: 100
Inactive Character
#4

☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼

I MOUTH her name to a god / whose language I don't speak.
I make metaphor for the empty / she is becoming - a trench opening / from the outside in, the inside of a fist, / decay-dark socket in the head / of a bleached cow skull --

When he notices her, when she speaks – he swings his antlered head in an arc, the motion of a startled warrior. Seraphina does not move an inch. She does not wince from the way that his dark antlers slice through the air between them; she does not even blink. There is no twitch to her charcoal lips. She simply floats, silver form suspended, unkempt white hair bobbing about her like ocean currents.

You’re….floating, he manages. She is. There is very little that she can do about it, though – the part of her that begs to control the roiling toss of her magic weakens by the day.

Seraphina tilts her head, the white cascade of her mane trailing after the motion. “An effect of my magic,” she says, without much emotion. (She does not stop floating, either.)

Nowadays, an outcast – a perpetual wanderer, or a hermit – she can almost remind herself of her days as a guard. They are a cold comfort, at best. When she traces the old routes that she used to follow, long before she was an Emissary or a collared queen, when she was still scarcely more than a slave, Seraphina can almost feel like she has strangled her aimless mass of a life into a routine.

The illusion never lasts for long. She’s not who she used to be. She often longs to be that Seraphina again, but the longing is half-hearted at best. It would rid her of the persistent ache that trails her like the scent of graves and death wherever she goes, like the smell of burning flesh and newborn stone and blood and night-blooming flowers, but it would not free her. She would simply lapse from one misery to another, replace overflow with emptiness.

The cure for a flood is not a drought. She knows this; she knows it well.

He confirms that the wreckage is his, and he asks if this land has a name. He didn’t arrive on Novus’s shores intentionally, she takes it. (With how badly-damaged his ship was, she couldn’t imagine that this was his destination regardless.) She dips her head in confirmation.

“Yes. The island is Novus – and you are in Solterra, the desert kingdom of the Day Court.” The words drip off her tongue, each one thickly accented by her native tongue; it rolls, deep and rhythmic, like the dunes that stretch out in all directions, each shift in cadence like reaching a crest. "We are in the Mors desert. It is not…safe for travelers who are unfamiliar with it. Would you like me to guide you to the capitol?”

To tell the truth, Seraphina has no desire to go back. To tell the truth, Seraphina can barely stomach it to so much as look at the city – her home, she reminds herself, with a violent pang somewhere deep in the recesses of her chest – without feeling sick.

Regardless. She will do it, if he asks, because it is her duty to serve these sands and whoever happens to wander them; because it is her burden to bear, for now and forever, until the sands finally take her back. (She wonders if she will ever be anything but a servant, if she will ever live her life unbowed and deliberate, and then she dismisses herself immediately for the hubris – for the selfishness – and she reminds herself that this is exactly what she deserves, and, even then, that it will never be enough.)

There is only so far and so long that she can run.








tags | @Galileo
notes | <3

poem | jamaal may, "Yes I know She's Dying"
"speech"




@







I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORS
and there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.


please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence




Reply




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