this is Salem, a land filled with magic and maladies. It is a place where witches and their elemental familiars gather, a home to legend and
lore that predates time itself. Yet of all the wicked and wonderful stories the past can tell us of, the most magical are the ones yet to happen.
This is Salem - this is the start of your very own journey. Welcome to starfall
Starfall is an animaga witch roleplay set in mostly modern times. Members play as witches in a world plagued by monsters, where the only safe spots are walled cities. Starfall strives to be a character-driven roleplay with expansive lore and a highly interactive plotline. We want to allow members to
create and look back on a magical journey, and mold the site and its plot as their characters grow.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jul 26, 2017 9:28:19 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
there is a flowershop located on the corner of lygon's street, tucked in the folds and crevices of an old city with history embedded in its very stones, where the quiet tenebrosity of things hidden in plain sight reign. it is not ancient as some of the neighbouring buildings are, it is not ramshackle with a decrepit heart, nor grand nor commanding; it simply is, as most things are, a peaceful contentment unburdened by the weight of the extraordinary.
kasimir does not find the flowershop on purpose; ( neither do most of its customers, he thinks ).
it is the aftermath of a mission successfully completed, a bone-deep exhaustion dwelling in his chest that cannot be eased by mere sleep; he finds himself wandering the streets of downtown sundial with no location nor aim in mind save for the need to be away from people, from demands and orders and smiles so sharp they shred his skin and cold so chilling he barely believes he can ever be warm again. the cobblestones beneath his feet are uneven, coloured in watercolour shades of grey and brown and earthen-red-
-a blink, and he finds himself at the doorstep of a small shop, the sweet smell of blossoms in the air. the walls are dark and wooden and there are flowers of all hues peeking out from behind verdant leaves; petunias and trailing ivy cascading from tiny hanging flowerpots framing an open door, inviting anyone to enter. it is not a place like any he frequents - too clean, too untainted, too quietly serene - and he has no purpose for being here. he has no use for flowers, after all. he should leave.
in the moment the dust motes are whirling, quick pirouettes slowed to a lazy waltz. the sun is golden; he can't quite pinpoint how the light has seeped in between the drawn curtains of the backroom -- flecks of white, bare hints, yellow grows softer towards the edges. the room is cool, comfortable; the sun is warm, the air slow, the plants stretch towards the light. the lazy afternoon claims all.
he likes the peace. the flower shop is quiet ( as it always is. it is not an establishment for profit, rather, tucked into a corner. call it indulgent, if you will. ) and taylan makes his way around slowly, a still-warm mug of coffee in hand. absently, he trails a finger along the leaves, his eyes not simply for the greenness of the leaves but beyond; the plants are content, and thus, so is he. he scarcely has to think, if he thinks at all, when he weaves his way around the shop. perhaps it is more cluttered than some would appreciate -- he prefers 'quaint' -- but homely nonetheless.
a footstep at the door; visitors are rare. the face he sees is even more unexpected. still, his expression softens, gentle and welcoming -- a stark difference from the bodyguard as previously seen. maybe it's the lighting. "how may i help?"
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jul 26, 2017 13:59:25 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
it is cooler inside, a comfortable dip in the temperature afforded by the shelter from the sun - not too cold, not even for a fire-born such as he; the air is shaded gold, mellow, soft and ambient in a quiet reflection of the peaceful atmosphere. the room is draped in greens of all shades, detailed with flowers tiny like saxifrages and glorious like casablancas; it is a tiny piece of heaven's garden tucked away in quiet.
he likes it immediately.
perhaps it is a testament to the relaxing ambience that kasimir does not pay much mind to the other occupant until he speaks. "how may i help?" said soft-voiced but comfortable, a deference to the serenity rather than a show of meekness. green eyes look up; he is surprised to see a familiar face, though a thoroughly unfamiliar expression - gentle, he thinks, and is suddenly reminded of the first impression he had had of the man.
it is... not an unpleasant surprise, however, unexpected as that realisation comes. kasimir thinks he would not mind the company of karga in this moment, despite his usual avoidance of his fellow coven members; somehow, it feels almost right.
"good afternoon," he says, nodding a small greeting. kasimir does not smile, but he does allow the iron wall of his defences to fall somewhat, easing the tense line of his shoulders. it is not as stark a difference as his fellow witch, but it is noticeable nonetheless. "i am just... looking."
he is still, body held in a manner loose and almost tranquil; taylan seems to blend right in, against dark wood and the green curtains of indolent ivy. if he takes a few steps backwards, he's likely to vanish completely amid chrysanthemums and asters. if he so chooses to retreat to the greenhouse, perhaps it is unlikely he will reappear for hours to come -- the tiny door at the back of the flower shop, green paint faded and peeling at the corners, is an entrance into a separate dimension.
he neither speaks nor moves for a moment, simply inclines his head slightly and does not push. his attention drifts back to the plants, unbidden; their leaves whisper as an idle breeze wafts through an open window. taylan stares down at the coffee in hand, then back up, considering quietly. he's not sure why he feels the need to help, or do anything, really. there's a perfectly good book sitting on the counter that he has yet to finish ( even though the first half is dogeared and thoroughly perused, the second half is verfiably untouched -- the product of constant interruptions every time he sits down for a read ). instead, an offer is made. calm he may be, but there's no mistaking that characteristic gracelessness or abruptness of his tone. he tilts the cup towards the boy; kasimir, his memory supplies.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jul 27, 2017 12:48:29 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
quiet once again settles around them like a featherlight veil of dust motes, soft and gentle and natural in the afternoon warmth; kasimir's gaze drifts from the dark eyes of his fellow witch to wander the shop once more. his steps are meandering, drifting aimlessly like the florets of a dandelion swept up by the wind; faint footsteps against wooden floorboards and tentative fingers barely brushing delicate petals.
the exhaustion he carries as iron shackles and a damning sentence tattooed on his ribs almost seems to ease. not vanish - not ever, he thinks, would that be possible - but the foliage and the atmosphere and the layers of ivy seem to exude acceptance, an implicit embrace draped around his shoulders in sunlight and pollen. it is as if the trappings of reality have faded back in favour of this tangible present, for this moment outside of the inexorable march of time.
karga's voice breaks through the introspective haze descendent onto his thoughts. "would you like some?" he asks, gruff and abrupt but not unwelcoming. kasimir looks up; blinks in surprise at the proffered coffee. "i've brewed extra."
for a moment, a fleeting, electric moment, suspicion flashes through the conduit of his veins - what has karga to gain from his offer? what does he want for in response? - but it fades as swiftly as it had dawned. paranoia has long since carved its sigil into kasimir's instincts and mind, but... he is too tired, now, to care. and there is a part of him, impulsive and insistent and bright like fire, that likes karga, that urges him to take a chance.
"thank you," he says quietly, a hint of bemusement in his voice. an awkward duck of head in gratitude; he steps out from behind the drapes of fuchsias and pretty little sweet alyssums half-hiding him from view and makes his way back towards the counter.
he watches suspicion flicker across kasimir's face -- barely perceptible, a twitch of the muscle there and how, for a moment, his eyes sharpen like the edge of a blade. taylan is patient, lifting the mug to his lips as he waits for a response. when it comes, he blinks in acknowledgement, turning to face a selection of mugs on the shelf -- ceramic mugs, identical in shape and make, yet each bearing various designs of flowers. he selects one without really thinking ( pale yellow chrysanthemums wind around the handle ), pours in the coffee, and returns to the counter.
"here," he says, setting it down on the counter; he gestures to the seats ( neatly tucked to the side of the counter, in the rare occasion of guests ) in an open invitation, and takes his place behind the counter, elbows propped up on the dark wood surface. he watches a wisp of steam float upwards, then his gaze returns to the still surface of the coffee, mind working sluggishly in the afternoon heat. ( but it's still not hot enough to dissuade him from the joy that is a warm drink. )
a statement, breathed out over a cup of coffee, and he catches himself only after he's said it. "you look tired." a mild crease between the brows; he averts his gaze. "sorry. don't mean to pry."
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Sept 2, 2017 6:39:29 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
karga is quiet, kasimir notes, watching the man turn to select a mug. quiet like like the dawning of morn over misted hills, quiet like dusk slowly settling across the land, quiet like the steady flow of an autumn river. quiet, but steadfast; stable, kasimir thinks, picturing the soft sweep of silent silver rain in comparison to fire, wild and furious and untamed as lightning. perhaps he is projecting, or perhaps he is romanticising from the diaphanous breath of an illusionary facade, but kasimir looks at karga and thinks, i like you.
( for this moment, this afternoon, he can almost forget that they are both a part of coven silvertongue, both a part of darkness and death and blood forged into a sibilant name )
a soft clink on the dark wooden counter as a mug is laid before him - flowers again, chrysanthemums coloured like pale winter's sun ( even the mugs match with the flower shop's general aesthetic, kasimir notes with mild amusement ) - and he seats himself opposite karga, carefully wrapping his fingers around the proffered coffee.
steam rises in wispy curls, bringing with it the rich, dark scent of good coffee. the porcelain is beautifully, deliciously warm, heat seeping into his skin and warding off the exhaustion settled into his bones with its mere presence. he does not drink yet, though - subconscious instinct has him wait for karga to drink first before even contemplating to do so himself, despite his acceptance.
"you look tired." three syllables, three words - a short sentence quietly voiced that breaks the undisturbed air between them. kasimir's eyes snap to karga, automatic wariness drawing a stiff line across his shoulders. he catches the crease in the older man's brow though, and pauses.
it is so tiring to stay wary, stay paranoid at the entire world. "i suppose i am," he says after a long silence, staring into the depths of his drink. for a moment, his facade crumbles and exhaustion sags across his posture like the universe rests upon his shoulders; then, with more effort than he would like, he pulls neutrality back across his features.
for a fleeting moment, he is worried that he has said too much -- too many words, too much feeling that shatters an otherwise peaceful afternoon. for a fleeting moment, he allows himself to think of how ignacio had always been better at handling such issues, silvered words and skillful diplomacy. then he is once more watching steam curl upwards and disappear into nothingness, and considering the ephemeral nature of falling stars, which hurtle towards the earth at terminal velocity. for that fraction of a breath, they are radiant beauty lined in a white trail across a night sky ( only to find that the corollary for such incandescence is only self-destruction ).
then, he is considering the man before him, wreathed in carnation-red hair ( carnations, he thinks unwillingly, like those that had peppered the arrangement he had done not long ago, red against white lilies like sabotage on a white wedding dress ). but he will not allow himself to think of such -- there is fire to kasimir's eyes, a burn almost tragic in one so much younger ( and one absent in himself ). taylan doesn't know whether he ought to be proud or mournful, sentiments eddying like the dark coffee in the mug, though one thing is for certain. he will not be arranging funeral flowers for this one.
"i suppose i am," says kasimir, and for a moment -- and it takes just one moment -- taylan spies the fractures, the fault-lines of exhaustion latticed across his expression. he lets the words hang between them, continues to sip his coffee in silence.
he hesitates. then, wonders what on earth he is doing, because he knows nothing except for the fact that he wants to help, but he's not sure how; he never was good at these things.
"you're welcome to drop by whenever you want," he ends up saying, quietly, though he is looking down and possibly extending to his hospitality to the coffee mug instead of the witch before him. perhaps someone else would find the flower shop a refuge from the world -- kasimir looks like he deserves a break, anyway. ( unlike himself, who runs from his past at every given opportunity, and now, finally, masks himself with daffodils and calla lilies and lies easily about new beginnings. )
"i heard flowers are good for your health, anyway."
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Sept 9, 2017 13:33:16 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
a hairsbreadth second after his words fade into the air, kasimir... regrets. a display of vulnerability - any vulnerability - is practically a gilded invitation to being taken advantage of, a map with directions clearly inked to the heart of his weakness. kind or not, pleasant or not, karga is still silvertongue.
there is a long moment of silence, broken only by the soft clink of mugs against the darkwood counter and the muted passage of people outside. kasimir dares not look up; he traces the woodgrains that swirl like eddies of wind and milk chocolate on the table top, fingertips resting against porcelain and watercolour flowers. the quiet hazy gold of lazy afternoon air settles silk-soft in their hair; if he tilts his head, if he banishes his thoughts, he can almost pretend this is a content moment spent with a close companion, an indolent day spent in idle murmurings of whatever thoughts come to mind, of ink and graphite and rough paper, flowers vibrant against verdant leaves and the wind threading beneath his feet.
it is a nice thought, a nice fantasy. kasimir allows himself to indulge in it for a few aureate moments before reality intercedes.
karga's voice is quiet. "you're welcome to drop by whenever you want," he says; kasimir looks up, startled. the man's gaze is firmly fixed on the dark liquid in his hands, his expression giving away nothing at all. "i heard flowers are good for your health, anyway."
this. this is unexpected.
he stares for a speechless moment, looks down hastily when he catches himself; his traitorous eyes drift back up to fix upon the older witch. did he just...?
rare are the people who want kasimir's company - saskia aside - but perhaps he is reading too deep into this. perhaps he is overthinking, presuming; a standard reassurance, no doubt, with perhaps a secondary motive of business. ( but, but- what if )
"thank you," he manages, and if his voice comes out slightly rougher than normal, well. it is not as if karga knows him well enough to notice, he tells himself.
his eyes dart around the flower shop, searching. "your flowers are lovely," kasimir says, awkwardly sincere. it is perhaps one of the worst and most obvious change of topics ever, but his eagerness to switch to less uncertain, unfamiliar conversational grounds far outweighs what worry he might have of his transparency. he takes another sip of coffee; small, because regardless of the quality, kasimir will always be a tea person first and foremost.
Post by taylan karga on Sept 16, 2017 13:55:34 GMT
he can feel the stare, and out of the corner of his vision -- focused on the swirl of dark coffee in a ceramic mug -- there's a waver of red hair as kasimir moves, and taylan wonders, unable to quite perceive the thoughts of the other, and unsettled by that. the silence stretches, and there's an almost suffocating tension to it that he normally wouldn't associate with silence; his lips part on the thought to say, "you know what, it's okay, you don't have to," because he's suddenly afraid that he'll push too much and end up shattering what fragile congeniality has been built in the shelter of the flower shop.
but then it comes -- an unexpected "thank you" -- and taylan softly sighs out a breath, relief curling in the steam above the coffee. it's not outright acceptance, but neither is it a blatant refusal, and he finds himself more content in that ambiguity than anything else, the knowledge that an olive branch had been recognised.
there isn't quite anything resembling a grin ( it takes precious little interaction with taylan to know he is not one for such ) but there is some semblance of pride in his expression as he follows kasimir's gaze towards the plants. he lets out the lightest of huffs, and this is unmistakably tinged with amusement, and perhaps, perhaps, for a brief moment there is the slightest hint of a smile before it vanishes.
"thank you," he says softly, and this time it is his turn to embrace the abrupt subject change fully. "i grow them myself."
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Sept 16, 2017 15:58:21 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
karga lets out a soft sigh of a breath at kasimir's response; he tries not to think too deeply into it - disappointment? relief? perhaps he regrets already the invitation extended, if so, kasimir cannot fault him for that - but he does not quite succeed. it is a strange dance between the two of them, he thinks as he watches steam curl into wisps that dissolve into intangibility; a strange dance of half-steps and stilted words, implications and assumptions and a universe of undertones held in a balance delicate like dragonfly wings and paper-thin petals. he likes the witch, but wariness deep as bone-marrow instinct is not so easily unlearned.
another huff, but this time even he cannot mistake the amusement shading it gold. his eyes flicker back to the older witch's face in time to catch faint pride soft in dark eyes and the ghost of something even softer at his lips. "thank you," karga says, and kasimir's thoughts wound wire-tense with worry unspool into silver-soft strands. "i grow them myself."
he blinks, quirks a brow. glances around at the flowers draped around the shop in an overflowing curtain of colour and verdant leaves. "all of them?" he asks. but no, looking back at karga, he thinks, i can believe that'. and he thinks, 'i like that.'
the tension from before seems to melt away, dispersed into negligible particles of the air, the plants once more a point of peace between them. taylan is content with that. they have offered him respite all these years, ivy curtains and waving fronds a viridescent shield against the world, and it hurts a little less to simply breathe; he is happy to share it.
"yes," is the simple answer, and it is the truth, weight to a single word; frankly, he hadn't planned on opening a shop at all, and it came more so as an afterthought, or the realisation that he couldn't just keep living off savings. had that not been a factor, it's likely he might have just been content living in a small apartment overflowing with flowers, for no particular purpose.
there is a pause as his gaze turns to regard the pale pink camellias at the corner of the counter. "well, except those. i took them from the gala." the confession is shameless, and punctuated only by a slight shrug of the shoulders.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Sept 20, 2017 12:07:53 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
"yes," karga replies. a single word, a simple word and quiet pride steady syllable - and kasimir looks around and believes. it is life that saturates the air, life in the vibrancy of colours, in the gentle sway of broad-leaved ivy - the very antithesis of his blue-edged blades and warmthless shadows - is that why the atmosphere is so peaceful? why are you a silvertongue? he wonders briefly, thoughts like half-formed stars dissolving back into mist; the world is not so simple, he knows.
"impressive," he says instead, soft as the dawn. genuine, though, because this, nurturing life instead of ending it is something kasimir truly, deeply admires.
he follows karga's gaze to a pot of camellias in the corner, pale pretty pink and delicate like silk ribbons stitched into petals. pretty, kasimir thinks, but not extraordinary, not eye-catching like the tiger lillies or beautiful like the classic red roses. so what-
"i took them from the gala," karga says with a slight shrug, absolutely no hint of shame in his demeanour; and kasimir stares. "no flowers were harmed in the process."
he laughs, sudden and startled- and then he realises- he silences himself swiftly, slamming composure back onto his face and eyeing karga warily. a breath, guarded; forcibly relax. "they let you take them?" he asks lightly. he knows the answer already of course - the man has quite clearly implied it so - but he needs to change the topic, needs to pretend. and he is not fool enough to believe that karga has remained oblivious, but perhaps, perhaps the man will take pity on him and comment not on kasimir's slip.
he likes it here, this alcove and little part of the world carved away from the chaos he can never quite escape. though maybe it’s an issue of never really trying to outrun it. taylan tends to dance away, feeling like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, between standing and falling, the world both monochromatic and vibrant all at once. but, inevitably, inexplicably, he comes back; a moth drawn to the flame. it’s always been like that. his family, ignacio, the mafia, the brutality of it all.
naturally, it has bred in him a certain devil-may-care attitude, a nonchalance that governs his actions, blatant in the face of any danger. particularly, especially so when it comes to matters regarding silvertongue. taylan shrugs, looking to the flowers and turning his face away momentarily ( if only to hide an involuntary quirk of the lips at the boy’s sudden laugh ). “i mean, i’m still alive after taking them, aren’t i?”
surely, if silvertongue had any objections to his stealing away of a single vase of flowers, they would have made their objection known, quite explicitly and clearly. probably with the involvement of some blood or bruising. or perhaps more subtle. who knew, these days. he brushes aside idle musings of how a coven could potentially exact revenge on him for the abduction of some pink camellias. “i don’t think they really care what i do,” he says, “as long as it’s not too stupid.” a flimsy explanation if anything, but it is the only one he can think of.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Nov 28, 2017 14:31:53 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
karga offers him a small, nonchalant shrug, his gaze drifting away to settle on his flowers before returning to kasimir. “i mean, i’m still alive after taking them, aren’t i?” he says with beautifully dry humour, and kasimir finds himself relaxing again, slumping fractionally back into his seat and fingers loosening from their previously tightened grip on his mug - even uncoiling enough to offer the older man the ghost of a smile.
"true," he agrees, eyes lightening in amusement.
there is something about karga, some quality about him, that makes kasimir want to loosen up, makes kasimir want to trust. makes kasimir want to lower his carefully constructed barriers to let the man in with his plant-twined soul and his unexpected kindness and his unique sense of humour and shamelessness. it is not that the older witch is not dangerous - he highly doubts karga has not had previous blood on his hands ( in fact, kasimir highly doubts there is a silvertongue that exists that is not, in some way or other, dangerous - not even his beloved saskia ) - but so far there has not been a single threatening move made, not even one so insinuated; the fact that kasimir believes in karga's disinclination to manipulate him in any way makes karga more dangerous than even xuan jin could be. which, paradoxically, makes kasimir wish to trust him more.
feelings are complicated.
said feelings take a turn for the morose as the conversation ( if it can be called a conversation ) shifts to the topic of what their coven cares of their behaviour. karga's explanation is flimsy at best, but kasimir cannot find it within himself to care. "if only that were true," he says, quiet enough that even he himself is not sure if he had meant for the older witch to overhear, bleak enough that even he himself winces. he shakes his head, attempts a smile at karga. he is not sure he succeeds. "you are fortunate, then," he tries again, and it is better, he thinks, this time. maybe.
deliberately staring down into the dark depths of his coffee, kasimir tries very hard not to think of how much he has revealed, how idiotic he is being, how selfish he is being - maybe he should excuse himself before he does anything even more stupid.
