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.
he had not intended for the conversation to go in the way it did; when it does, when kasimir’s voice suddenly goes bleak, even he stifles a wince. it’s really not right, he thinks, for someone so young to carry so much on their shoulders, for their voice to sound akin to some barren desolate wasteland. he’s not quite sure he understands. ( atlan demir had been born with the stars at his feet, yet renounced the constellations for a soul lost at sea. his demise had been rapid and voluntary. ) he sympathises, though, and he wishes he could help.
but then again, fate had never quite looked down upon them. wishful thinking is but a merciless jailer. taylan takes a drink of the coffee, and momentarily wishes he were drinking something else instead.
“i don’t do anything of note, so that’s probably why they don’t care,” he offers helplessly, as though proclaiming his uselessness to the coven as a reason for their nonchalance is a fact that offers any aid whatsoever ( it does not ). it is hardly a piece of advice he should give -- after all, what does that say? the stars cannot help but burn. he sighs then, wanting things to be simpler, knowing that they will never be.
“you’ll be okay,” he ends up saying, a half-smile awkward and uncomfortable. “don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 12, 2018 13:17:29 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
he makes a deliberate attempt to avoid the possibility of catching karga's gaze, staring down into the eddies of his coffee as if it contained the answers to all of the universe's secrets; but the following silence is long, and the length of the silence is telling. movement stirs in the otherwise still drape of air - from the peripheries of his vision he recognises the motions of his companion taking a sip from his mug; and kasimir follows suit, eyes still trained on the countertop as he wonders if he should simply leave.
perhaps this is his cue to go.
but something stays his feet, and a moment later karga speaks, a somewhat stilted attempt at comfort that is appreciated, but evidently edges on awkward for both of them. a pause, as kasimir desperately searches for words that will not come. "perhaps," he echoes, equally as self-conscious as the older witch appears to feel. karga is... a fledgling, if he is remembering correctly ( or an apprentice, but certainly not a novice or higher ), so perhaps there are certain freedoms associated with a lower ranking - but it has been a long time since he himself were a fledgling, and his promotions had been rather too quick for him to notice a significant difference in the expectations of his behaviour; how he wishes that were not the case, though.
but this is his life, and kasimir has long since learned that life plays merciless and hard with his desires, and he has similarly learned to accept reality.
he bows his head, gaze falling to his hands. "thank you," he says for the third time this day, and perhaps it is not quite a whisper, but it is something very very close. then he looks up again, customary quiet neutrality beginning to settle across his face once more. "i apologise for burdening you with my troubles," kasimir says, and this time his bow is one of an apology. "and once again thank you for your hospitality and patience."
silence has a tendency to stretch long between their words, as it often does when taylan comes into play. yet somehow, they are not half as awkward as they are in other conversations ( and taylan knows, truly, that he is a terrible companion when he doesn’t try ). perhaps it is the flower shop, with its soft hues and the way the flowers curl around the shop, the peony-dotted walls of a haven.
perhaps it is kasimir, with his pensive reticence, tranquil like a still lake’s surface that belies the currents beneath. perhaps, says kasimir himself, and taylan thinks that, in the end, it is all that they can hope for -- the possibility of something, as fleeting or as trivial as it is. not necessarily in the moment, nor tomorrow, nor the day after.
his gaze is mild as kasimir bows, apologizing, and that soft sad air is quietly ushered away, leaving practiced neutrality in its wake. “it’s not a problem at all,” he says, and inclines his head in a slight nod of acknowledgement. “the door is always open, should you wish to come back.”
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 13, 2018 14:16:33 GMT
plainsight
saxifrages in your hair
the offer is startling, even given the portrait of karga's personality he has sketched out over the course of this brief yet quietly momentous interaction; kasimir looks up, green eyes wide and almost luminous with surprise. immediately spring to his tongue fragments of confusion, protest, gratitude - cup his hands and they would fill with broken clauses and unfinished words and commas stuttered even within his mind - but nothing makes it past the speechlessness that holds his vocal chords tight. holds his throat tight, for there is an odd sort of breathless sensation constricting his oesophagus that he knows not of why.
in lieu of speech that will not come, kasimir rises to his feet, setting down the empty mug on the counter with a soft clink that proclaims finality, and offers karga one last bow. a thank you in action if not in word ( perhaps, though, he will find a way to fully express his gratitude later ). and it is on silent feet that he slips out of the quiet haven of karga's flower shop, rejoining the too-quick too-harsh too-loud flow of reality to take part within its frantic symphony once more, a supplicant to the grand orchestra of the slowly-spinning universe.
( and if he thinks of karga later, he paints him in soft strokes of wordless kindness, a thoughtfully perceptive gaze and concern for complete strangers wrapped up in the aesthetic of pale afternoon's sunlight / saxifrages dressed in delicate whites / wild ivy trailing across the lattice of their frame, all the while with a streak of shamelessness expressed so unrepentantly that it does not feel like shamelessness at all; nothing that paper and charcoal could ever capture but everything that mind and memory detail vividly. )
taylan knows the silence better than any speech. there is some measure of understanding in a steady gaze, some expression of solace as he collects the coffee cups and returns them to the sink. above the sound of the running tap, he hears the sound of the flower shop door swing shut. he does not hear anything of the world outside, nor does he particularly care for it.
he leaves the mugs on the rack to dry, takes to wandering the flower shop once more; considers the life of one with tornadoes strewn in his path. wonders if he could help. wonders if he should. wonders how. hopes he is not making the same mistakes.
he thinks of a girl who burned too bright and got a knife between her ribs for the effort. he thinks he could have stopped it.
he thinks of kasimir burovski and what little he knows of him. and he knows, then, for what an old fool’s hopes are worth, he will not be arranging funeral flowers for this one.