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.
The surface of Desmond's makeshift scrying pool ripples with the steadiness of a metronome as it's fed by a leaking waterpipe above. He has been watching it for so long that the liquid tainted by dirt and rust had begun spilling over the bowl's rim, slipping away. People liked to remember the ancient seers of legend as those who could turn the flap of a butterfly's wings into a tornado, or the splash of a fish's tail into a raging wave; as far as Des could tell, though, most ripples were just ripples, and would never become something more. The movement would fade and vanish, forgotten by the world and having changed nothing.
Sometimes Desmond wondered why he even bothered to watch.
The images in the scrying pool blur as he becomes aware of a throbbing pain in his skull and a stinging in his eyes. He has been watching for too long. But the arc of a blade and spilled blood danced in the water for his eyes alone, and he wanted to know when this event would be reflected in the physical world. That vision had gotten more difficult to see over the past few days, causing Desmond to reason that it was getting closer to the time of its happening. After all, water never did enjoy the events of the present -- instead, it meandered around paths of the past and rushed towards the possibilities of the future.
Footfalls approach, and Desmond can no longer see the blade and the blood in the murky pool. The events were tumbling into place.
Despite the bloodshot eyes and sting of alcohol on his breath, the unkempt man is on his feet in mere moments, bare feet silent on the pavement as he hides himself around the corner of a building. This could go one of two ways. The first being that Desmond was about to be attacked. It could have been an old coworker, an old victim, someone working for his old employer or the man looking to be his current employer -- the possibilities counted in the multitudes. But, of course, there would be at least two people in this encounter, so the seer knows that there was a second possibility...
The source of the footfalls passes into Desmond's vision, and he is given his answer. He knows that face, albeit older and more worn, and his decision is instant. Shadows dart outwards and coil into something long and solid and sharp, its tip barely an inch from the man's midsection when it solidifies and thrusts forward. The war scythe shaped staff was just as much a weapon as it was a magical focus.
"Altan," he greets in a steely tone. He knew this man from years ago, a teen and the time who worked for the same man who'd recently threatened Desmond and his daughter, "Been a while. Who's been employing you lately?"
fate is a slippery kind of fellow, you start to realise once you get to this part of a particularly eventful life -- speaking from the perspective of one taylan karga, of course. or, as some still know him as: altan demir, a fragment of a family lost to reckless ambition, but that's an old story. one for another time, maybe.
for now, he contemplates other things, trivial things. like how difficult it is to find textbooks that cover very specific fields of magic, and what the chances had been that his daughter just so happened to be particularly fond of an area of magic he had absolutely no idea about. talking to plants? shaping the forests?
he's lived in a city for the most part of his life, had his path planned out in its urban sprawl; he's about as familiar with the wilderness of a forest as a fish might be with land.
( of course, thea doesn't care about that. she's hardly the type to let anything stop her, reality be damned. )
he lets his mind drift back into blissful nothingness, concerned with nothing more than the silence of nightfall in the city and its cool air. but, of course, because solitary walks at night are a good way to get oneself stabbed and maybe it's karma for constantly ignoring his husband's words of caution, there's a curious thing that happens.
taylan doesn't see it at first. in fact, he doesn't see his assailant until the very last moment, not until his vision comes into focus a second too late and there's a piercing pain somewhere between his ribs, vicious and cold. his eyes follow the wicked blade all the way to the face of its wielder, and there, there is familiarity.
not wholly welcome, given their circumstances, but he recognises this man.
"desmond," he says, voice tight as it is wont to be when stabbed. he tries to take a breath. it's remarkably difficult. he doesn't bother trying any harder. "funny you ask. i've been taking kind of a break, actually."
he figures he should probably try and un-impale himself from this blade, but the war scythe looks like a remarkably cruel weapon that could do more damage if he tried to simply wriggle away. instead, he gestures at it vaguely with a free hand. "do i get to keep this now?"
"A break..." Desmond echoes incredulously. He wasn't sure he believed that it was possible for someone so involved in that world to simply... leave. Even the seer had been hunted down, despite scrying on his enemies and having every inch of skin beneath his clothes marked by runes to make him more elusive.
"So you don't have the slightest clue of where Serik's been hiding?" he asks, unsatisfied with that possibility. Serik had been the man holding Desmond's leash back when he was a teenager; the man who'd organized the young seer's missions and managed his living conditions; the man who'd pushed the mercenary to add to the collection of skulls adorning Grendel's figure; the man who'd sent a representative to Desmond's home to summon him back. And now there were others who knew he was still alive, and wanted his visions on their side to support their own ambitions. The truth of the matter was that the strings of the underworld had pulled him back in. He knew this world and how to live in it. He should have been fine. So then why did the thought of returning cause him to feel like shards of glass were being pulled from his throat?
"I'll take it with me when I leave, but it'll stem the bleeding as long as it stays," Desmond notes, shifting his hands slightly along the shaft of the scythe as if getting ready to pull, "Would you like me to remove it?"
he agrees with a nod, unfazed, raising two fingers to mime a pair of scissors. "i hear moving to a new city and cutting all ties does the trick." he does not mention the first few months and years of avoiding hunters who would seek to reclaim him for the family's hefty bounty, nor does he mention how he finds the most effective way of sending a message back is to not send one at all. ( few who encounter him with the purpose of bringing him back to mirrorlight live to tell the tale. )
"no idea," he says truthfully, and would have attempted a shrug if he weren't apprehensive of accidentally jostling the blade in its place. "haven't really kept track of any of that shit ever since i left, honestly."that is a lie. being in the know of that particular world is an old habit that is hard to break, and he knows that it's bad for him but he can't quite bring himself to stop completely. bad habits are hard to kick, after all. ignacio being ignacio, pirate as he is, hardly helps the matter.
he ignores desmond's questions for now, looking down at the blade briefly with mild distaste. certainly wasn't part of his plan for the evening. it registered to him as more of a minor inconvenience than something truly dangerous. he'd probably had worse before. maybe. he can't remember. "why are you looking for him? you want out too?"
The seer doesn't believe Altan. At least, he doesn't believe that Altan is telling him the whole story. It seems too convenient, and too painless. "That sounds like a pleasant fantasy," Desmond says to express his doubts. Even so, he does not worsen the wound with his blade, holding it steady.
The seer lingers on the question of whether he was planning to get out of that life. It could have been intended to misguide him, of course, but if it was a genuine question, then that meant Altan wasn't aware that he'd already left. Perhaps Serik had been controlling information, or perhaps Altan really was truly ignorant to the current life of Desmond's past employer. Either way, that meant the old acquaintance wouldn't be of any help... if the question was genuine. The seer mulls it over, and after a few dragging seconds, his scythe melts into shadow, reforming outside of Altan's body (still pointed towards him and held in a firm grip, but no longer threatening further immediate damage). "I had a taste of the outside," the seer admits, "It didn't suit me."
He glances down at the pirate's open wound. "Are you able to heal yourself?" he asks as a distinctly secondary concern.
he keeps his focus trained on desmond’s face, acutely aware of the blade between his ribs and trying, in as stoic a manner as he can muster, to pretend that it is not there. the seconds drag on, painfully slow, and taylan momentarily wonders if desmond is purposefully prolonging the suffering. how long does it take to reach a decision anyway? he keeps his breathing shallow, even, controlled. complains silently, with iris being the sole member of his audience, oh my god, i want to die.
her response, lilting and pleasant: ‘no, you don’t.’
he is perhaps mildly distracted by this exchange, and he doesn’t quite notice the retraction of the scythe until the pain in his side subsides -- he lets out an involuntary half-wheeze, half-cough -- and then doubles gracelessly, now open and bleeding quite freely. perhaps, in retrospect, he didn’t quite think this through.
taylan straightens up nonetheless, fixing desmond with a quizzical gaze. “so you...want to go back? you don’t strike me as the sentimental type.” unless, of course, attacking old acquaintances was an expression of nostalgia that he was unaware of. he can’t say he’s a big fan of it. “and from what i remember, he’s not that great of a guy.” now, freed of the scythe previously impairing his movements, he shrugs ( and immediately regrets it ).
self-preservation ( and concern on desmond’s part ) comes secondary. taylan looks down at the open wound, clicks his tongue in annoyance at the growing stain on an otherwise fairly new shirt, and says, blasé, “actually, no. never quite figured out how to heal.”
The ease in which Desmond's dissociation towards suffering returns to him probably should have been concerning, but in the moment the seer simply accepted the hollowness as an old friend. The wound he'd inflicted looked painful, and he was fairly sure that it'd cause Altan to drown in his own blood if it wasn't treated.
"None of us were," Desmond replies with finality to the plantshaper's observation of Serik's immoral nature. Though he does not offer an answer to the initial question, the truth is he doesn't want to go back -- that path is covered in broken glass and regrets. But at least it's a path, which was more he could say about the future he'd previously been reaching for; there was nothing but ashes remaining.
The seer blinks when Altan mentions he's never learned how to heal, expression more disappointed than surprised. He was genuinely starting to believe that the other male had actually just left the underworld entirely, and traveled far enough away to be forgotten. That sort of thing must have been easier for those who didn't have rare and useful affinities, after all. "Where are you staying? I'll take you there." he says, deciding it'd be a tragedy if, of all the people he'd known from his time in the underworld, Altan was the first he killed.
The blade of his weapon glows a gentle blue and begins to seep a crystalline water. The liquid reaches forwards in an unnatural motion, slipping into the pirate's wound and webbing across his skin. The combined Healing Spring and Water Web techniques would both subdue the pain and seal the wound shut as well as physical stitches. It was only a temporary solution, since it would only last as long as Desmond (and Grendel, curled up unseen on the rooftops) were around to maintain the spell.
he is certain he's gone through worse before – he can distinctly recall, now, several instances that have brought him closer to the brink of death than this – but perhaps he’s gotten rusty, because by gods does it hurt. not that he would let anyone see him complain, though. stubborn pride seals his lips shut, even as he considers desmond’s remark. “true.” he hadn’t been a good person then. he isn’t sure he has gotten any better.
there is one thing he knows for certain, though, and it is that he doesn’t miss his old life. ( he thinks he knows this for certain, anyhow. ) he doesn’t miss the spiderweb of political trickery nor the careful dance of tongue and wit on a courtroom floor; he doesn’t miss the necessity to bow and obey, doesn’t miss needing to melt into the shadows as soon as he is no longer needed. he doesn’t miss being used.
( he misses the way magic used to run wild through his veins, ruthless and uncaring like the oil-dark ocean at midnight. he misses the way the garden makes and remakes a maze for his personal perusal, and the way the trees whisper secrets when no one else is listening. but he’s left that behind, now. )
the scythe glows gently, and taylan instinctively braces for impact. it doesn’t come. instead, the seer’s magic seeps into the open wound, the sensation more foreign than uncomfortable, and taylan momentarily considers picking up magic once more. dismisses it instantly. he doesn’t need it, where he’s headed. the pain subsides though, thankfully, and he gives desmond a slight nod, by way of gratitude.
“outskirts of downtown,” he says, after a short moment of hesitation. hopefully, ignacio wouldn’t be home to kick up a fuss about how he always ends up in these situations. “not too far from here.” it is at this point that iris slips into existence, cheery and iridescent, offering a classic cetacean grin as she floats gently a head of them.
‘long time no see,’ she chirps, eyes bright. ‘it’s this way.’
Although he does not intend to use the blade of his scythe a second time today, the pole arm remains material. Not only does he need it to maintain the healing spell's current strength, but he also knows that letting one's guard down around someone whom they've just stabbed moments ago is often a mistake.
"Hello, Iris," the seer greets with a brief bow of his head. It was unfortunate that witches and familiars shared pain, and more unfortunate that Demond couldn't seem to escape this string of violent and self-fulfilling prophesies. It was indeed unfortunate that neither of them likely deserved to feel a scythe through the abdomen today, but if Desmond started worrying about what pain was deserved and what pain was unjust, he would be eaten alive in the web where he planned to return. He does not apologize, and instead follows the familiar, keeping Altan in his peripheral vision as a precaution. From the rooftops, Grendel's shadow slinks alongside their route.
"Will there be anyone able to mend that wound where you're staying?" Desmond asks, after a silence, as his gaze darts to the side to look at Altan. If other people were going to be there, he probably shouldn't linger, especially if they had the type of relationship with Altan which would cause them to be upset upon hearing he's been stabbed.
there’s a bright streak of crimson smeared across the body of the dolphin familiar, marring her typically spotless iridescent sheen, but the familiar gives not a single indication of discomfort nor pain. if taylan is silent in his suffering out of sheer stubbornness alone, iris takes that but does so elegantly. she flicks her tail in greeting and floats gently down the path towards their residence, humming a quiet cheerful tone under her breath as she does so.
taylan follows suit, in a decidedly less jovial manner.
he keeps his spine ramrod straight and his shoulders pushed back, like he’s still that battle-soft arrogant prince in a gold-lit court, though his thoughts are on more present, pressing, matters. specifically the fact that the scythe-shaped hole in his chest is held together by the good graces of a man who has already demonstrated his willingness to cause bodily harm. he is at desmond’s mercy, and frankly, he hates it.
“probably,” he says with a half-hearted shrug. a pause, then a more considered answer comes. “actually, probably not.” as much as taylan adores his partner, he does have to admit that ignacio knows practically nothing when it comes to healing. he turns to regard desmond over his shoulder with deadpan seriousness.
Desmond considers Altan with skepticism; he isn't sure if the lawyer is actually being serious when he asks if he can just sleep it off, or if it's some sort of morbid humor. Did this man really have so little experience with these sorts of wounds? He supposes it could make sense, considering his ex-occupation.
"Only if you don't feel like waking up afterwards," he replies after a pause, deciding he didn't care about Altan's intent one way or the other.
The seer pinches the bridge of his nose. All of this was so inconvenient... "Then whoever you're living with can take you to a hospital to have it fixed." There's only so far he's willing to go to help someone who was only a step away from a stranger. He only assumed that Altan was living with another because of his initial answer. If not... well... he supposed it'd be better to bleed out somewhere comfortable than in the middle of an alleyway.
"You could give him more permanent stitches," Grendel offers, but Desmond doesn't dignify the idea with a reply. He can't remember the last time he'd slept properly, and he didn't trust the alcohol in his system to help him maneuver a needle and thread.
