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 Sept 29, 2017 3:35:12 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
green and verdant hills, windfall rising from a grassland sea to where sunbeams stolen from the gods come to crown the sky in gold; where winter dilutes itself into a watercolour spring, where daydream clouds come to rest in peace; where civilisation is but a whisper upon a careless breeze, where 'solitary' is a place and feeling and a state of being. where the real world does not seem real, where fantasies of peace outlined in pinks and pale pastel blues exist for a single timeless heartbeat, where daybreak comes to die.
thoughts in stuttered phrases broken by commas and wordless concepts, silence spilling out behind his teeth in glimmers of silver and white; rough paper beneath his charcoal-coated fingers smearing monochrome seas into existence. the flutter of hair like snow in the corner of his eye is a quiet reminder of his company, kept in comfortable tranquility; kasimir smiles, small and soft like daybreak, and continues to sketch.
Post by lynnelia arnett on Jan 17, 2018 7:36:02 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
The horizon rolled over the river banks, easing glowing color into the water, cascading over expired frost, dew clung to lashes of evergreen coating the soil; her pale gaze succumbed to the honey of heaven, glare of the day dancing behind her pupils, the death of nightfall cracked through strands of clouded hair as the breeze shifted locks tripping over each other to make sense of their state. She walked with a faint imprint of contentedness ghosting beneath her blooming cheeks, shoulder snagged heavy with the press of her easel digging pictures to her flesh. Medea glided beside her, cooled prints shattering the warming Earth with their chill, the handle of a carefully weaved basket delicately cradled in the secure hold of her incisors, holding within it the things her witch held dear; things of art and vibrancy and expression being the only constant in the summoner’s life. [break][break] Lynnelia continued along the path she’d begun to etch to her mind, a silence felling her lips closed, her thoughts stilled in the moments of daybreak, the moments in which she could feel the world awakening the further she walked. Eventually she broke from her lull, milken eyes returning as a flash of crimson colored the air, and her gaze softened slightly from its instinctual alarm, though her arm tensed. [break][break] Lips parting to breathe a word could not move quickly enough, as her easel was down before her throat could catch what she wanted to say; instead, a soft hum left, and then a flick of her gaze and a turn of her smile to something less implied and more certain overtook her; Medea eased the basket down beside her witch, pushing her cool nose against Lynnelia’s thigh. Slender fingers reached forward, smoothing over the iced fur of the fox’s muzzle before the creature took its leave, only the hint of its frozen prints enticing their presence.
315 WORDS FOR kasimir burovski ✨ ― this took way too long and i apologize rip
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 26, 2018 5:17:37 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
the faint swish of grass parting beneath light feet and a whisper of cool air announces the new arrivals; kasimir does not look up, not yet. beneath the dream-coloured clouds and the lazy spiral of sunbeams down from sky-high temples, there is little need for the frantic rush that characterises human existence - 'i must do this and accomplish this and become this' in a perpetual cycle ad infinitum - a race against the golden second hand ticking down their ever-so-transient lives.
but not here.
he rolls his stick of charcoal between his fingers, coating them in the dark pigment before smearing them against his paper in soft streaks of grey; then he looks up and offers a smile in greeting to one of the few people he calls friends. wordless, because how could letters and clauses and clumsy punctuation ever express his sentiments with any semblance of clarity? some things need no words, and that is why they are beautiful.
from the formless, nebulous realm of thought and dreams, kirjava coalesces herself into material reality, sunlight rippling along her coat such that it paints her gold. she pads forwards, gently nuzzling lynnelia in greeting before turning to do the same to medea. she needs no words either.
Post by lynnelia arnett on Feb 2, 2018 9:48:25 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
Kasimir’s smile warmed Lynnelia further, a reminder, perhaps, that a gesture was not to be grand to be appreciated— that despite hardship there did exist those she was capable of caring for, those she could allow herself to find comfort and solace, even in the most delicate shift of a breeze. She did not know too many others, an inherent disease following her path since the ocean tide etched deliverance to her skin, brought her cradled in her mother’s arms and her father’s lap. It was a thing to be cherished — cupped and preserved, enjoyed languidly for she teetered with unsurity of how the water would leak through her fingers, of how it would escape her thirst for connection. [break][break] You cannot, of course, be ripped of everything to refuse any sort of substitution for the ache. [break][break] The basket felt heavy against her palm as her fingers eased over the handle; her paints were ordered and set aside, and her brushes lay, meticulous, against their holder. Lynnelia’s eyes fluttered shy for a moment, hiding away from the light as her chest expanded with the early air of the banks, a look of almost naive content dancing across her before leaving, again, in fear of its reception. She peered again at Kasimir — a friend, a comfort — before her gaze drew to his own familiar; Kirjava. [break][break] Medea, beside her, glowed against the reflective light on the ice of her fur, a cheering sun coating her white in gold; her ears perked, and her eyes mellowed, and the pair greeted the feline with evident fondness in their movements. Lynnelia greeted the creature with a pleased sigh, and Medea leaned into Kirjava, a show of affection— of welcome. [break][break] It was this which she cherished — the simplicity of comfort, the grandeur of silence, the understanding that not all was destined to be wrong for her. [break][break] As Medea left, for a moment— a moment for Lynnelia to settle into color — a brush slipped between her grasp and dipped itself in pigment before touching canvas, kissing into white a part of the holder she hardly ever bared.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Feb 3, 2018 9:13:03 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
time passes in strokes of charcoal and colour and the slow waltz of clouds, drifting through the expanse of grass in the lazy luminosity of a sunbeam-dance. wind stirs as a ripple of green flowing down the hills in a race to the horizon down, and as long fingers carding through hair, tossing them back in a banner of crimson and white. slowly, ideas coalesce in a rough sketch, greyscale to the blurry concept within his mind; it matters not that the germination of thought blossoms into something new, something entirely different - this is art.
this is art, and this is peace, and this is a time to live in graphite and carbon and smudges of black as opposed to blood, pain, and fear.
for her part, kirjava stretches out under the warmth of day, luxuriating in the play of sunsparks along her spine; she opens an eye more gold in the light than amber, flicks her tail in an invitation to medea.
it is rather odd, kasimir muses with half a glance at the familiar pair, tawny fur with marbled ink pressed against pure white glittering with iridescence and silver; it is rather odd how there are such similarities between lynnelia and xuan jin, between medea and xue mei - yet they could not be more different. it is a sheer insult to compare the two, and yet. he cannot help it.
unbidden, his thoughts stray outwards from the frigid figure of his tormenter and towards his newest acquaintance. or rather, an old.... friend? lover? associate? there are no easy conventions to his previous relationship with maddox - if that even is his real name - and it is a fact made more complex by the knowledge that the witch himself does not know of it. though, somewhat ironically, aeris likely does. not to mention kasimir's budding suspicions about a certain rumoured coven and the purifier's allegiance.
unaware that he had stopping sketching in favour of staring blankly at the paper in his hands, a soft sigh escapes his lips, quickly lost to the breeze that sweeps past.
Post by lynnelia arnett on Feb 3, 2018 18:57:23 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
Strokes of color smear along the canvas, fingers pressed to exquisite brushwork to blend the water to the farmland scattered along the banks; Lynnelia released a contented, happy breath— these were the rare moments in which she allowed herself to blossom under the weight of her tragedy, of the world she was thrust into which showed her no semblance of amnesty. [break][break] The day’s wake painted its own beauty— coating water with cold, Midas’ touch cascading over the pebbles lining the under of the energy; perhaps the gods intended for this, though Lynnelia could hardly call herself any sort of believer. Perhaps there was a great beyond, a life after life, a rise from ash and fire, bathing ones skin in the heat of sin and salvation; she drove the notion from her chest, now heavy and difficult; instead, she painted until the river became a nursery for the dead and the running blood catching the jagged rocks taken up warning sign of the lost. [break][break] Medea, her keen eyes instead of twinging her bonded’s work, took cue of Kirjava’s invitation and for once the cold of the fox lowered its temperature, even if the smallest bit— an establishment of her trust and her comfort as she neared the feline, resting easily beside her and nudging the press of her neck in warm greeting before her frosted gaze moved once more over the shy horizon. [break][break] Lynnelia, growing frustrated with a particular dot of paint disrupting the rhythm of her image, flit her eyes to Kasimir— he was lost in thought, perhaps something beyond what Lynnelia could imagine, before she toyed with the idea of offering a small word to him [break][break] Might as well, she resigned, another soft, though almost hesitant breath passing over her tongue. [break][break] “Something on your mind?” she inquired, her eyes soothing and kind; she cared, of course, for her companion; she would like to offer her own presence as a source of comfort and trust, though she remained unsure of his own stance on whatever relationship they were nurturing. Perhaps she was circumstantially welcome to him, or perhaps he simply looked for someone to share his own muse with, though whatever it may be, she was not deterred from trying.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Feb 4, 2018 13:20:05 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
without warning, the stormborn clouds of his troubled thoughts are interrupted by soft words. kasimir looks up, blinks with the mild bemusement of one abruptly bought back into reality; his companion looks back with kind grey eyes, a quiet grace in her posture and presence.
his first instinct is to deny, to deflect. no no, he is fine, there is no need for concern. no need to open his mouth and let loose the torrent of confused half-thought and emotion that have not even a coherent thread to draw them into clarity. there is no need to unload his troubles and affairs onto lynnelia, not when he is well capable of dealing with it on his own - what kind of friend would be be, otherwise, to take such needless liberties?
but he does not wish to lie, either, especially not to one whom he actually likes and values. does not wish to give her the same politely distant response he would give to anyone else who asks. and there is a part of him, selfish and egotistical and inconsiderate and thoughtless, that does not want to run anymore, that wants the comfort of a friend's perspective, a friend's advice.
( well, he hopes they are friends. perhaps another item of selfishness to add onto his miles-long list, but kasimir cannot help but enjoy every moment spent with the snow-kissed girl )
in the end, he settles on a compromise. "perhaps," he admits, rolling his stick of charcoal between his fingers partially as an excuse to look down. "i... may have found myself reacquainted with someone who i had not expected to ever meet again." that, he thinks wryly, is both truth and very much understatement. kasimir glances up with wry humour in the green of his eyes, the ghost of self-depreciating amusement hovering at his lips. "it has been... an experience."
Post by lynnelia arnett on Feb 4, 2018 20:50:03 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
He seemed almost bewildered that she’d asked; perhaps it was the wrong moment, a shift in breeze wholly unwelcome, though receding back into the cold shards of her chest, she supposed, would far lack any sort of ideal. She remained soft, hinting at concerned— worried, perhaps, but undeniably supportive. He is my friend, she mused. It’s natural to care. [break][break] The idea of care had long lost its place in the witch’s palm; receding back into the crevices of her skin before it finally left, leaving her with nothing more than the pang of stardust she could not bare to see. Where had it gone? When had she learned the absence of love? When had she become the wrong she had kept under her flesh as Hades would cup in a pomegranate’s promise of a life planted in the harvest of damnation. [break][break] She averted her gaze for a moment, a timid upturn of her lips; open, though restrained all the same— vulnerability eluded her, no matter how she cherished her company; she would like to say self-preservation ran through her blood as naturally as her restrained love; she could not submit to fear of hurting yet another person she cared for. [break][break] Looking back at Kasimir, her eyes returned to their fond glow, the light of the sky casting golden shadow against the ashen pigment, her brush still clutched firmly in her hand— a way of comfort, for her, though not something she would allow herself to say. [break][break] “A good someone?” she murmured, tone soft but not at all demanding. She didn’t have to continue her sentence to understand her train of thought— or a bad someone. [break][break] She looked away again, a picture of reflection daunting her features; she took a moment, mulling over what to say, before her brushed touched canvas once more. [break][break] “People seem to come and go when you least suspect it,” she said, at last, eyes momentarily leaving her piece to glance once more at her companion. “Sometimes it’s needed; sometimes it can help you grow. It took me a long time to realize that— it’s difficult, or at least it was for me— to navigate the waters. But I am here; an ear for you, even if you would prefer I don’t say much at all.” [break][break] She smiled, a reassuring, serene curl of her lips; she did not mention how she was alone all those years— how she had engaged in more destruction of self than she would care to admit. [break][break] Perhaps now all she could offer to him was herself— her help and support; her kindness.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Feb 5, 2018 10:43:01 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
he notices the slight withdrawal, the tiny indicators of perhaps something wrong; for an instant, he fears he has made a mistake in sharing, in depositing this mess of feelings upon a friend who surely has more problems to deal with than the mess he is. but then her eyes are warm again, and she looks back at him and speaks of soft, kind words - but not demanding, not pitying - and he smiles back, a small uptilt of lips that is none the less truly genuine.
"wise of you," he says lightly, intending for the words to come out gently teasing. but they leave his mouth several degrees more serious than he had intended - for the simple reason that they are the truth. lynnelia is wisdom, is kindness, is world experience heavy on her shoulders, and kasimir cannot help but admire her for the person she has grown to be.
he considers another attempt at levity, but discards the thought knowing it will fall flat. he opts for genuine feeling instead. "thank you," he says, green eyes unwavering and warm as they meet grey. kasimir automatically reaches out to touch her shoulder, then falters in uncertainty, and lets his hand drop. "for listening, and being here. i really appreciate it." i really appreciate you, he does not say, though the words tremble on the tip of his tongue.
a quiet moment drifts by on lazy sunbeams and daydream clouds. kasimir gives up on the possibility of continuing his sketch and sets his charcoal and paper aside, choosing instead to flop down onto the grass and stare up into the endlessly blue sky. it is a surprisingly comfortable position.
"i hope he is," he says at last, then clarifies. "a good someone, i mean."
Post by lynnelia arnett on Feb 6, 2018 20:50:41 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
A smile returns from the moment of disparity, of colliding poles— she brightens, a peach bloomed look overtaking her; she likes to think they are real, not a figment of her own hopeful desperation, not a well-crafted echo of a life she once knew. Lynnelia, smoothing her eyes to gently rest back upon mosaic crafted onto pearl-coated canvas, the waning horizon kissing the banks a farewell: a soft touch, a whisper of comfort she had learned to nurture. [break][break] Her gaze breaks again, fingers curled delicately upon her brush as they ached to color the air, and a turn of her lip betrays a wry curve before she turns her attention away once more, wetting her lips before her voice carried above the flow of water; unlike her expression, they carried weight— almost as though a deflection of emotion had involuntarily masked her truth, though her tone gave her up, did not allow for the uncertainty of her sincerity. [break][break] “That’s very kind of you,” she murmured, head dipping down as she glided paint across canvas, her gaze occasionally lifting to the beauty stretched before her; a beauty she had not visited for a while yet. “To say, I mean.” [break][break] As Kasimir’s voice carried further through the wind, Lynnelia’s brush faltered, stare settling tenderly on the younger ( not by much at all though, she reminds herself ) witch; her lips parted, as though she was unsure of what to say, though her demeanor seemed to lighten— as a mockingbird trapped in her ribcage ached to sing. [break][break] It was, Lynnelia mused, one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her— perhaps appreciation was more foreign than she would ever care to admit. [break][break] “Of course,” she breathes, yet another smile — reassuring, calm, decidedly gentle — took her over. “Always— I… appreciate you, too, you know. Even if I don’t say it very often,” she continued, and though she hesitated, it was more out of fear of coming off wrong than anything else; something evident in her language and the sudden flush of her cheeks; a rose blooming from a type of vulnerable she rarely got to know. [break][break] Paranoia, she surmised, was a horrendous disease; a plague she had yet to cure. [break][break] She watches, idly, a curious look now plastered upon her, as Kasimir shifts— one moment the flame flashes through the sky, and the next it burns the grass. Lynnelia couldn’t help but find it rather poetic. [break][break] “You deserve a good someone,” she supplied, eyes fluttered closed as her chin lifted, the slight breeze drifting over her pale skin as she lost herself, for a mere moment— a beat of the heart, a simple joy of life. One eye peered at him, an almost shy glint playing in the ash; “what’s he like?” she implored, though her voice gave Kasimir a choice, to speak or not to speak; to give or to keep.
481 WORDS FOR kasimir burovski ✨ ― i've been awake for far longer than 24 hours so if this is shit & confusing I APOLOGIZE
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Feb 11, 2018 8:37:24 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
"kind?" he repeats, quirking an eyebrow and as slants a warm green gaze at her from where he is sprawled across the grass. "it is but the truth," he teases gently, but the sincerity behind the statement is undeniably true.
the smile that breaks across her face like daylily light spilling over the horizon to gild the land gold is as warming as the sun, the flush trailing the slant of her cheekbones like peonies in spring softens the green-gold of his eyes. he smiles at her in return, a commodity not afforded to anyone but those that have carved themselves into the beat of his heart - freely and gladly given to this precious friend of his. he wants to see lynn smile more, kasimir decides, thoughts tranquil and dreamy like the high summer sky. it suits her.
her words, he knows, he will treasure; glittering jewels carefully placed and guarded within the vaults of his ivory ribs.
grass tickles his ear while he watches the rolling green shift and stir in the peripheries of his vision, sunlight playing across the bridge of his nose and splashing into the fire of his hair. "what's he like?" lynn asks, and he cannot help the automatic rejoinder that springs to his tongue. "what is he not like?" kasimir says wryly, quiet amusement dancing in his eyes. maddox is, after all, not one whom can be easily drawn in words and labels.
"he can be reckless," kasimir says, thinking back on the missions they have gone on together, then back to the teenage boy he had once loved. "reckless and rather impulsive." here, kirjava offers her input in the form of a scoff, before she stands and pads over to curl up at his side. the corners of his lips tick upwards. "but he is reliable. loyal. much smarter than he initially lets on. a... good person, i think."
Post by lynnelia arnett on Apr 4, 2018 7:35:24 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
“The truth,” the words escaped in the air parting from her throat, soft and inaudible, a whisper known only by the strands of hair barring her lips. She pressed her mouth closed from its subtle movement, foregoing words— lifting, instead, the edges of her face; giving to her companion an answer in the shape of a smile. It said that’s nice, it told no one tells me the truth anymore, it whispered I’m glad you do, without so much as a sound. [break][break] Or, it said all of this to Lynnelia, and showed only gratitude to Kasimir. [break][break] And even though Kasimir did not speak either after her own admissions, he did not need to; she returned her brush to canvas, and she painted into it that which the sunrise could not say— an emotion not even the changing lights above could capture, for what did the sun know of words? of language? of the absence of such? [break][break] She kept painting, even as Kasimir began speaking of the man— this inscrutable, undefinable man, someone of whom she wondered whether he had any sort of inkling of his impact, settling only on a serene settling of her nerves. [break][break] “He sounds like,” — a stream cutting through a mountain with no ocean to drop into — “someone lucky to know. I hope he is good; he seems good.” [break][break] She did not say you need good or you are good, too, but perhaps in the way she spoke, and in the turn of her voice, and in the blank stories hidden in her hair, Kasimir knew what she meant.
264 WORDS FOR kasimir burovski ✨ ― have i gotten my shit together? the answer is no
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Apr 22, 2018 16:09:12 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
he glances up in time to catch the soft smile curving the edges of lynnelia's lips, a whisper of frost-grace and rose that softens her face into something quietly, understatedly awe-inspiring. it looks beautiful on her, more so than any jewels or silks or silver filagree, more so than any material finery or embellishment or artistry. it looks beautiful on her, and he wonders how it can be that he is lucky enough to be permitted to see it.
he wonders if he can cause it to bloom again, because lynnelia for all her solemnity deserves to smile more.
there is the barest hint of brush against canvas audible in the open air as he returns his gaze to the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun's brilliant rays with an arm and a spill of crimson hair. the spirit of a pomelo spring darts through the corners of his vision and giggle in shades of bright blue butterflies. there is a silence, and he wonders, idly, what his companion is thinking, before letting his mind drift with the playful breeze.
the quiet is a companion known and dear to both of them, he is comfortable in presuming.
when she speaks, it is a few simple words laden with more far more meaning that its mere parts; he glimpses quiet and deep and too close to the core of what he would rather not examine, not yet, perhaps not ever, that for an instant, he wants to pull back. pull himself back into smooth stone and docile neutrality and a fortress to hide any potential vulnerabilities-
but this is lynn, and he might not trust her fully, but somehow, somehow he does. how, why, when this came to be, he does not know, but he does, and so the walls quiver but stay down. "i hope he is good, too," kasimir murmurs, and lets shades of hope and vulnerability and tentatively and love fear slip through.
kirjava stays silent, but gently bumps her nose against his leg in quiet support.
Post by lynnelia arnett on Feb 21, 2020 10:01:50 GMT
i know you're unrehearsed, but i see the light in your hands.
lynnelia smiled— goodness begets goodness. kasimir was more deserving than most in her eyes; she could only hope something became of this light before it was overcome by shadow. [break][break] ( but is shadow not born from light? — is light not that which can birth & diminish darkness? ) [break][break] another stretch of silence blanketed the pair, punctuated only by the barest lilt of brush across canvas, the mixing of paint, the drip of swirling water— [break][break] “i’ve finished,” she murmurs, a pleased look to her gaze. there was a certain thrill in creation; in a finished product all by your own hands, born of your own mind, and out to be interpreted, to inspire reflection and to impassion. [break][break] sometimes she wondered if art was her last tether to a lynnelia she could connect to; to the little girl she left behind. but it mattered little now; she was no little girl; and perhaps the last person alive who could remember her beyond now was the person sharing the glen with her. lynnelia wasn’t sure if she was content with that; but she also wasn’t sure if whoever she used to be could be someone she could resume being. [break][break] her supplies were put away; easel tucked under her arm; and with the waning sun to their backs, the two retreated back to the lives they had left behind— back to the masks that hooded their eyes.
