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 Dec 5, 2017 10:59:46 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
he borrows the tacit quietude of the twilight to erase his presence; he cloaks himself in shifting white-grey-black fabric of a liminal time to remove himself from the laden materiality of the physical world; he spins himself in fibres drawn from the dusk itself to craft a phantom of silence and solitude; but it is not enough. none of it is enough. moths with their silken scaled wings brush by to nibble on his mind, unravelling the bright-patterned weave to reveal loose strands of insomnia wrapped in remembrance. pain. death.
is it better to say that he cannot sleep, or that he will not sleep?
he gives up. the deepening shadows lend him their tenebrous folds to travel within as he slips through the streets, bare few stragglers hurrying along the cobblestoned streets. not night, not day, he has lost himself in the turn of the clock hands, a step outside the normal flow of time, half a turn away from the vivacity of reality. a blink; he finds himself outside a familiar shop; another blink; he is inside.
there is no one present. he knows not where taylan is. admittedly, given that kasimir had entered via window on the side of the plantshaper's personal quarters, that may be understandable. he does not know what he is doing here. he has no idea why he is here.
kasimir does not leave. there is a couch - fairly comfortable, all things considered - in the lounge area. he eyes it. sits down. stands. flops down face first. better.
he is looking at an old book through the distorted amber prism of a glass of whisky, and in his defence, there is no way he’d want to decipher this while sober. it is an old plantshaping tome, its pages are yellowed with age, black ink turned brown over the years, diagrams near illegible. probably one of the few items he has carried with him since leaving mirrorlight, though he has never once quite touched it since then. he wants nothing more but to call it a day and try to sleep, but iris is a remarkably persuasive speaker even though he ought to be immune to his familiar’s pestering after all this time.
unfortunately, he is not, so he stays up late into the night ( and perhaps early into the morning ), only half-sober and regretting ever agreeing to this. it’s not as if he has had any problems living a life without using his affinity. in fact, he has scraped by just fine.
somewhere between the fifth and sixth chapters detailing the nature of animating plantlife, he begins to drift in and out of sleep, at least until a brief noise startles him back into wakefulness. for a moment, he is not sure if he has simply imagined it ( wouldn’t be the first time, really ), but then he hears it again. sleep deprivation does wonderful things to a sense of caution: he wanders towards the source of the noise armed with nothing but an empty glass, still blinking sleep from his eyes.
first observation: the source of the noise is someone on his couch.
secondary consideration: the person is, oddly enough, not quite desmond-shaped enough to be desmond.
final conclusion, with iris gently providing a name: kasimir burovski is, for reasons unknown, lying facedown on his couch.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 10, 2018 12:20:52 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
as comfortable as taylan's couch is, as exhausted as kasimir might be, sleep is still far an elusive spectre dressed in tacit greys that slip out from between the cracks of his eyelashes to taunt him with murmured promises. were he to reach up, to grasp at it, it would dance out of his fingers leaving the ghost of a feathersoft kiss behind. although, perhaps that is for the best, given the shadows of needle-sharp fangs and too many mouths and pain dressed in ichor and blood that lurks at the edges of his conscious mind.
but that is thinking too much, that is extending awareness far too much within himself for his fractured composure to yet withstand; instead, instead kasimir studies the tight weave of fabric currently squished up against his face, trailing the threads with a studiously single-minded gaze.
even when a stirring of footsteps spill across the hardwood floor, kasimir does not look up. does not even move; his limbs, it suddenly feels like, are beyond the capability of manoeuvring.
“hey,” he hears, “you look terrible.”
kasimir considers this. considers the squishy fabric of taylan's couch again. takes a brief moment to contemplate his place in the universe. "i feel terrible," he decides on at last, still not lifting his face up from the couch. unsurprisingly, his words come out muffled.
for a moment, there is so little reaction that taylan is half-certain that he is not talking to kasimir but a static illusion, or perhaps kasimir had simply transcended the physical plane in his exhaustion. he is patient, though, or perhaps time just moves oddly at this hour. regardless, there is a response, and he cannot help but to huff in mild amusement.
no reply comes just yet. for a moment, he studies the occupant of the couch silently, considering. then he leaves, footsteps quiet on the wooden floor. when he returns, it is with a bottle of whisky. he pours another glass without prompt and sets it on the corner of the coffee table closest to kasimir before refilling his own.
“do you need to talk about it?” he asks, slumping down into an armchair opposite the couch. taylan is no counsellor by any means, the now half-empty bottle before him a monument to every reason why he shouldn’t be, but he reckons that listening to the woes of a friend is one of the better ways he could spend the night.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 11, 2018 12:50:42 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
there is a softly amused huff, and kasimir considers responding before giving it up as a lost cause. at least someone is finding some modicum of levity with his situation.
unmoving, his field of view is limited to the fine threads and seams of fabric right before his eyes; the following stretch of silence almost has him convinced that he had merely hallucinated the other witch's presence. perhaps he had even hallucinated the entire journey itself; in these dim half-lit hours of night where the world seems to blur into the vast void above, anything seems possible - and kasimir is not exactly in his most coherent state of mind.
but quiet footsteps ( soft enough that there is still a part of him uncertain if these are hallucinations also ) assure him otherwise, and soon after there is the sound of liquid being poured and the soft 'clink' of a glass set against a table. the distinct smell of alcohol holds a vaguely woody tint.
he considers this.
"is that whiskey?" he asks, ignoring taylan's question for now. no, kasimir really, really does not wish to talk about it, or even think about it, but he recognises that he would have to confront it at some point in time, and that there are very few people in the world that he could talk to.
“is that whiskey?” is the response he gets, not answering his question but giving another instead. he doesn’t mind, exactly. it’s a smart move to keep secrets in this line of work. ( and again, this is where he looks quietly contemplative, as though he might be considering how secrets have helped him over the course of his life and not. the truth is, he is running through a mental inventory of what sort of drinks he has. )
he understands, though, somewhat. that’s not to say he has the slightest clue to what kasimir is going through, and he feels like that is a conversation that would take longer than one night.
‘should i ask him?’
‘if he wants to talk, he will,’ iris advises, soft and soothing. the familiar is better at this than taylan ever will be; a surge of wordless gratitude brushes against their bond, and iris recedes once more, falling silent.
“yes,” he says instead, fingers drumming on the armrest, “prefer something else?” a pause. “tea?”
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 12, 2018 13:59:23 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
another long stretch of silence, quiet stretched out like wispy threads of gossamer moonlight woven between them in a spell of the night's hush; it is not uncomfortable, though, and kasimir takes a long moment to appreciate taylan's absolute lack of expectation for his conversation. words do not always come easy, and tonight perhaps even less so than normal - he truly is grateful for the option of silence without requisite judgement.
...but he did not come here for silence ( though he is still uncertain as to what he did come here for ); kasimir stirs, finally convinces his uncooperative limbs to move ( with the incentive of alcohol ), and slowly rolls over towards the edge of the couch till gravity asserts itself and drags him down to the ground with a muffled thump. he stares blankly up at the ceiling for a long moment.
a hand slowly reaches for the glass, green eyes blinking once, twice. "whiskey is fine," he says, fingers curling around cool glass as amber liquid sloshes perilously close to the rim. an uncharacteristic answer for him, but for tonight, he thinks, for this situation, alcohol is far more appropriate.
silence stretches slow and soothing, and he leans back into the chair, quietly contemplating whether this old sofa has a charm that pulls others towards it -- the first being a dark-haired acquaintance, presently absent; and the second, a covenmate who holds secrets like a second skin.
he waits, patient, the slightest crease appearing between his brows as kasimir rolls off the couch. thud. ( even so, that is probably the loudest sound that has passed between them. neither are particularly conversational people. )
“don’t drink lying down,” is all he says, words murmured over the rim of his glass as he lowers his gaze to observe his guest, who has forgone the delight of the old sofa for the carpet before it. wonders when was the last time he swept the place. hopes it wasn’t too long ago. the front of the shop is always flawlessly kept, but the residential area is considerably less so.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Mar 29, 2018 10:31:43 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
here is the secret to good conversation: do not.
the floorboards are cool against his back, awkward and hard against his shoulder blades, against the small of his back. quiet chill seeps into the tips of his fingers; the cool night air brushes crimson back in a spill of ink-dark blood across palewood floor. from his half-sprawled position, kasimir can see a sliver of starsilver moonlight darting through the curtains to press its face against his glass and grin.
he contemplates it, twists the glass slowly in his hands and lets the pale light refract off the panes in spray of selenite shards; amber glows like muted hearthfire from within. green eyes flicker to the indistinct figure of taylan outlined in shadow on the couch above as the sole acknowledgement of the quiet words. for a moment, kasimir is entirely tempted to ignore the advice completely - whether of sheer desire to some, to any measure of disobedience, or simply because he cannot muster the energy to rise, he knows not.
but the urge passes like sand through his fingers; an arm flops up onto the couch to heave its owner upright. sitting on the floor feels surprisingly right.
he drinks. all of it. the whiskey burns pleasantly on its way down and alights his oesophagus in smokey gold. it is… annoyingly unhelpful to his turbulent thoughts.
kasimir eyes the doorway through which taylan had come, the doorway through which more whiskey presumably lies, then reluctantly decides another glass of alcohol is probably not the answer. not to mention, it would be rather impolite to drink his host out of hearth and home, no matter how terrible he feels.
that breaking into taylan’s house without warning and situating himself within it is considerably less polite is studiously ignored.
the hush of night settles around them, soft and still and undisturbed. like pristine snow, there is an instinctive, so-very-human desire to both preserve it in its purity, and to destroy it. there are no words, though, for the latter: how does one tell another that ’i was retrieved from the embrace of death today / i drowned in my blood / felt the fragility of paper-thin ribs crumpling under fangs / it has been too long since the last time the stuttering beat of my heart faltered out / i woke / almost against expectation / and for a moment, regretted’.
one does not say as such, not him, not kasimir; he finds himself staring at taylan with a silent tongue and too many words in his eyes.
he waits. he watches. then kasimir drags himself upright like he is not only pulling himself up but the burden of the whole world with him, and taylan keeps watching, the slightest of frowns hidden in the shadows of this room. he realises then, that he has not turned on the lights in this room, and that everything is illuminated only by the dim yellow glow of the reading light in his bedroom, and the silver trickle of moonlight through curtains he has forgotten to drawn. he considers turning the lights on. it is a notion that is thought of only for the sake of politeness.
taylan examines the drink in his cup, wondering if kasimir is using the shadow to hide any sort of mortal wound because god knows what that boy gets himself into. he decides that he will know only if he is told. the lights stay off.
he takes a drink, and remembers that he has left a three day old baked potato in the fridge and that he should probably find a way to eat that in an upcoming meal lest it slips his mind completely. then he watches kasimir down the whole glass and wonders if he is promoting unhealthy alcoholism in lives far too young. if the answer is yes, he does not have the energy at this point to consider any social ramifications, nor does he foresee himself ever having enough energy for that.
if words are a river then the silence is an ocean, stretching between them vast and wide. he does not know whatever kasimir may be trying to say; whether he will ever know, this too is uncertain. taylan can only gaze on, silent, watchful, hoping that there is some way that kasimir senses support in the wordlessness. "if you do not know what to say," he begins, finding the figure crumpled on his floor, "you do not have to say anything. it's okay."
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on May 26, 2018 13:50:49 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
taylan is an elusive figure in the dusty half-light of ambient night and flimsy moonbeams, dark hair and dark skin and dark eyes and shadows draped around his form and pooling around his feet; but he is drawn with solid strokes too, steady and unwavering and so very real. there are two spaces here: there is the liminal eve where the world is hushed and the air is still and every shade of grey-black-blue seems ethereal and gossamer and dreamlike, two and a half steps away from reality where nightmares and fears share space with truth; then, there is the space that taylan occupies, hardwood floors and the warm burn of whiskey and an immovable presence. material, where everything else is suspect.
kasimir wonders if he is going mad.
( would it be so bad? )
he draws his legs up to his chest, folds his arms around them and rests his gaze on the floor by his feet. curls up, small, like the world might deign to take mercy on him if he makes himself insignificant enough. something like defeat rests betwixt his shoulders. something like resignation, too. fear and shame and a world's worth of self loathing. he closes his eyes.
"i died, today." he does not mean to speak, not really, but the words tumble out, soft and quiet and shattered. "or, i should have." he looks up again, gaze finding taylan's, and it is not fear that makes itself home in the green, but a crushing despair. "so why didn't i?" he whispers, desperate and hopeless and anguished.
the shadows wrap around them like a cradle; moonlight filters through half-drawn day curtains shifting ever so slightly, silver cascading over the wooden floor like the surface of a lake at midnight. taylan looks into his glass and finds it empty. he considers refilling it, then figures, his full attention is the least he can offer to kasimir. so, he pours just a little bit more, and waits for the scarlet witch to say something.
though perhaps 'say' is hardly the right expression here; they are both creatures more fond of action than words, and the silence continues to lie still over them like a shroud. it isn't a bad thing, really, this pocket of stillness in sundial's urban sprawl. it is quiet, so very quiet, darkness stretching out infinitesimal in the corners of the room unlit. in these moments, he feels like he finally has space enough to breathe freely. in these moments, truth unfurls itself without ceremony. facades crumble under moonlight.
"i am not a seer," he says, after a moment of pause, meeting the gaze unflinching. "i cannot speak for fate nor the gods, but perhaps they have plans for you yet."
perhaps they had plans for him too, plans of which involved nameless flower shops and unqualified advice. he doesn't know. he's not sure if he still cares.
"perhaps you are in a story, and you deserve a softer epilogue." he takes a breath, eyes narrowed. "forgive me for my assumptions, but i believe you are stronger than you give yourself credit for."
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on May 26, 2018 15:26:59 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
his lips twist at the mention of seers; unbidden, a shudder crawls down his spine, and he tucks into himself even tighter. kasimir looks away from taylan, drops his eyes from that unflinching gaze, eyes that are too deep, too unwavering, too kind. and he curls in tighter still at gods and plans and fate - too much do they bring into sharp focus his conversation with kirean bernhardt after waking from near death, too much do they bring to mind the dark and forsaken path he has damned himself to.
taylan's words are painful for the hope they could perhaps have offered to a creature less loathsome than kasimir, but still he cannot help but sit and listen. want.
he laughs, quietly, at the end of taylan's speech, but there is no mirth to be found within the broken sound and it quickly trails off into the beginnings of a hastily muffled sob. "i don't think i have any strength left," he whispers, despairing. "i don't think i had any strength in the first place." if he had any, he would have- would have saved saskia. saved krystian. saved himself from becoming this monstrous being soaked in red and sin, saved ju, saved all the victims and misery he has inflicted by his hand. but he does not have the strength, and the world is this much worse for it.
if he had any strength, he would end this conversation right here and now, and save taylan from this selfish burden of want and hate and fear and all of kasimir's mess of self; but he does not, not even this little bit, and he hates himself even more.
kasimir's fingers dig into his arms. "what story am i in?" he asks, lifting his head and meeting taylan's gaze with green eyes far too shiny with tears, no he will not cry, he will not. "what kind of story is this? why won't it- why can't i-"
despair hangs over kasimir like a funeral shroud and taylan can’t blame him. because for all the advice he can try to offer, taylan karga / atlan demir / the heir who had the stars at his feet and walked away -- he is nothing more than a mass of mangled memories and poor decisions who thinks that he may be able to help, and knows these for truths:
( needs them to be true because if not, then what about himself? )
( one ) he does not know kasimir’s suffering, but he knows that the boy is unfair unto himself; the boy takes the weight of the world on his shoulders and multiplies it tenfold and folds it over and over upon himself, like he’s trying to drain the grief of every loved one and hold it within himself.
( two ) he knows that that method will fail; he knows that one day that shell will crumble and shatter and he will find himself torn asunder into a million microscopic pieces.
( three ) he knows that it is not the end. he knows that this will not be the end. he knows there’s an art to breaking and rebuilding and that there will be healing; there will be a day where the sun shines bright and birds will sing-
he disregards the glass and settles onto the rug next to kasimir; takes the throw draped over the sofa arm and lets it drop lightly around the boy’s shoulders. he murmurs, softly, barely more than a whisper, “it’s going to be alright. it gets better. you’re going to be alright.”
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Dec 15, 2018 12:28:02 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
the outburst explodes from his chest in a sudden, unexpected sunflare, sparks and spacedust and embers spilling from between his teeth. he is ashamed of the words as soon as they leave his lips - to spill forth such a deluge of uncensored desperation, it is wrong. and to taylan, who does not deserve to bear witness to the mess that names itself kasimir burovski; he regrets fiercely, immediately.
there is a rustle as taylan drops next to him, the warm weight of his arm draping around his shoulders. kasimir does not flinch. tension wires his posture rigid even with ( especially with ) the soft words of reassurance ( false promise ) shading the air.
( he wants to lean into the arm, tuck himself against the solid warmth of a body he trusts and forget himself for a beautiful moment ) he should move, apologise, distance himself, run. this was a bad idea, coming here was a bad idea.
he does not move.
"sorry," he whispers, soft as a moth-wing flutter. the night-shroud is much louder than the two of them combined. "i shouldn't have come here."
