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 saoirse ó floinn on Sept 28, 2018 4:55:24 GMT
[attr="class","saobody"]
[attr="class","saohead"]
[attr="class","saoheadtext"]saoirse // ó floinn
[attr="class","saotext"]It's a little surreal, she thinks with a slight smile, to be back in Sundial. Having been away for so many months, she had nearly forgotten where she lived. Silly really, but upon arriving in the city, she did blank out at where to go. It was embarrassing, but some wandering quickly stirred her memories and the familiarity sunk in soon after. The stone path leading up to her block is a nostalgic sight and she cannot help but notice that very little has changed.
The buildings still have the same atmosphere of class and history, their stories still told by the cracks in their walls. Some windows open outwards with the day's laundry hanging from a string and others have inaudible mutterings of conversations flowing out, carried away by the wind. She passes several strangers as they walk by in the opposite direction, no doubt off to the market for some morning grocery shopping, smiling to herself knowing that that would be her in the following day
She arrives at her home, eagerly placing a hand on the wooden door and breathing out a sigh of relief. Brushing her palm over the surface, she cannot contain the sheer excitement of being back. Marchosias materialises upon her shoulders, nose twitching at the familiar scent of the house and chitters wildly.
I've missed this. He says with a pleased chirp.
Nodding in agreement, she takes a deep breath to calm herself and places a hand on the doorknob. She's finally home.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Sept 28, 2018 6:19:07 GMT
routine is what he needs -- something that doesn’t involve slaying giant spiders or investigating strange disturbances or worrying himself sick over coven politics. he needs something that doesn’t need him to be maddox rothscus, leviathan acolyte, purifier and athenian; he needs something that just calls for maddox, that tall guy with the grey hoodie and worn out red sneakers, ink-stained fingers and a pencil shoved through his hair pulled back into a messy bun, manuscripts cradled in his arms.
he lets habit take him down a street too fancy and too pleasant for people like him, quiet daytime chatter washing over him gently. he walks, thoughts adrift, his attention meandering from the pale pastels of someone’s laundry, to the cheery pinks and whites of potted plants on a windowsill, to the clear cloudless blue of the sky above and the mild morning breeze. today is a good day, he tells himself; he wants it to be a good day.
and so he walks, and walks, and finds himself before a familiar house that is not his own. he has been visiting sporadically over the past few months or so, dusting off the shelves and stealing snacks from the pantry, doing some general house-sitting duties. admittedly, it has taken a bit of a backseat in light of recent events ( understandably, losing a limb throws one off-balance for some time ), and maddox has every intention of resuming his duty of being a good friend today. except, today isn’t quite like every other time that he’s come by. he stops in his tracks at the foot of the steps.
sunrise-pink hair and a dark grey sable curled around her shoulders-
Post by heath ambroise on Sept 28, 2018 7:10:48 GMT
It’s been weeks, on and off that he’d been pursuing this author. Wait- weeks? Or was it months? Whatever the length of time, it was far beyond anything his coworkers thought was worth a simple story. As lucrative an exclusive interview with some popular author would’ve been, the man power and hours poured into this endeavor of dead ends was simply not worth 800 words on page 2. Heath has slowed down, focusing on other endeavors. He’d changed his hair after receiving an inane compliment for it and kept it pink. He’d made friends, kind of, that he now went out spelunking with. Though nothing substantial had come from the adventures, he had at least enjoyed himself. His investigations were at least thorough. Without any content of his own he had freelanced, being passed around again to assist editors, help other journalists with research. He particularly spent a lot of time asking librarians for tips on his aetheneum, a new affinity that came in handy for academia and reporters alike.
But every so often, he’d sprinkle in a visit to his last dead end: that fancy house in a neighborhood he didn’t belong to. It was empty, always empty. It mocked him really. He was sure someone lived here. He was sure they lived here. Heath glared tiredly at the two-story house, two grand for just one person but he was so sure. He’d caught the briefest of glimpses of maybe someone entering the home. He’d knocked, multiple times. He’d left written messages with his name and contact information. He tried coming back multiple times too and had checked in at different times. No answer. But the house seemed pristine. Someone was taking care of it.
As he glowered at the mysterious home a thought occurred to him. A horrible, dark thought. The author that lived here, secretive as them may have been was perhaps not someone in their youth but someone quite old. A senior citizen living out their career in solitude. But solitude also meant there was probably no one around to catch them when they fell, to assist them when they were laying on the ground hurt. Heath panicked at the thought. There was a corpse in the author’s home! The pinkette waste no time making his way around the property, hopping the fence and checking for an unlocked back door. A basement perhaps?? He fiddled with a sliding door for a brief moment and the thing slide right open. Oh god. That poor, gardening old witch.
Without hesitation he moved in, summoning Sinclair to follow. While the coati grumbled about him being dramatic, Heath search for the corpse, inhaling deeply for that familiar scent of death. Nothing. He touched countertops and moved quickly through the kitchen, while Sinclair went downwards towards a basement. The place felt clean, lived in. He made his way upstairs checking into bedrooms and carefully looking into bathrooms for bathtubs or cracked skulls. Nothing. Sinclair echoed the sentiment not quite seeing anything. Heath frowned. IF there was no dead person, where were the people, and for that matter why had the door been unlock-
Muffled voices. The creak of the front door. IS someone…entering? He is trespassing. Panic flares in his chest and he turns around and heads back to the stairs praying for an alternate way into the kitchen so he can lean. As he surveys the steps, the reporter slips and slams down the stairs, suffering the very fate he’d imagined earlier. The witch crashes down one flight, the landing doesn’t even slow him down before he continued down landing roughly on the floor. His vision is dizzy and Sinclair’s voice is muffled but he knows he’s angry and cursing at him. He can only lay on the floor briefly before forcing himself into a sitting position. He hisses as everything aches and stares at a woman at the front door, blinking slowly. “N…No one’s dead. Here.” He reports, finding it hard to articulate his innocence. Sinclair has long since returned to the astral plane. Heath then held out a shaky hand for a shake. His mouth moved as if her were talking, but he didn’t quite realize he wasn’t actually greeting anyone out loud, stupefied at the moment.
Post by saoirse ó floinn on Sept 28, 2018 7:53:44 GMT
[attr="class","saobody"]
[attr="class","saohead"]
[attr="class","saoheadtext"]saoirse // ó floinn
[attr="class","saotext"]Her heart thuds excitedly in her chest. She's about to open the door to her home for the first time in months. She is so incredibly ready to breathe in the comforting air, to sit on her squishy couch and to make a cup of warm tea. Squealing internally, her hand just manages to twist the doorknob before an awfully familiar voice gasps her name. Pausing, she blinks for a moment as her mind slowly clicks to the owner of said voice. Her breath hitches in recognisance and with a flourish, she spins on her heel to look at her covenmate.
He's...quite a sight. The first thing she sees is that he's missing an arm and it has alarm bells flaring in her mind. Who did this to him? Her eyes flash dangerously at the thought for a split second before she drags her eyes away. (She will find them, mark her words.) She takes a moment to stare at the man's face, his shocked expression bringing forth a smug smile to her lips. Well, it certainly isn't every day that she gets to pull a look like that from him. Dragging her gaze downwards, she finds that he still dresses in that hipster fashion that she both appreciates and finds obnoxious. Honestly, he should care about his appearance a little more.
Marchosias, too, spins around to look at the witch that had worked for Saoirse and while he's still not convinced about the man's intentions, he finds himself pleased to see Maddox nonetheless. Grinning in a manner that made him look deceptively cute, he manages a little wave from his perch upon Saoirse's shoulder.
Inhaling, Saoirse's eyes glitter with mischief and no small amount of fondness and her smile grows wider. "Madrid." She breathes triumphantly with barely concealed passion.
What a lovely coincidence for him to arrive just as she had, although goodness knows what he had been planning had she not been here. Jerking her head to beckon him over, she pushes her door open to let them both inside.
"You're just in-" She stops in her tracks to stare at the body sitting at the foot of the stairs, looking rather obviously like he's taken a tumble. "-time..." What on earth is this?
Leaping off her shoulders, her familiar approaches the stranger with a vicious frown on his face, undeterred that the man might be dangerous. Confused and yet curious, she steps closer to the male and leans forward to take a better look at him. While he doesn't look to be any kind of danger, the fact that he's evidently broken into her house does set her on edge. Readjusting her backpack straps, she straightens her posture as she looks down at him.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Sept 28, 2018 13:15:46 GMT
he’d like to say that he keeps his emotions fairly under wraps, but in this instant, shock and delight alike are clear as day on his features, eyes bright and a megawatt grin on full display. he notes -- as he has come to do, in the recent days and weeks that have passed -- the brief instant her eyes linger on an empty sleeve, and he dreads the explanation he will have to muster up at some later date, but there is very little that can detract from the joy of seeing an old friend once more. he gives marchosias a wave in return too, for good measure.
madrid, she says, and he lets loose a bark of laughter. “god, it’s good to have you back,” he says, warm and happy and wow, today really is a good day. fate is, at last, finally here to balance out the no-good, very-bad week that he’s had thus far.
he’s about to launch into a disclaimer about how he hasn’t been able to drop by the house lately due to obvious arm-losing circumstances and the potential that it might be a tad dustier than usual though he did try, when he notes ( belatedly ) a thud, a crash, and then a voice that shouldn’t really be there.
what?
he watches the sable leap down and approach the blond stranger, and instinctively reaches for his familiar -- finds moosely’s presence, but! no response. typical.
maddox tries to fold his arms, remembers he can’t quite do that anymore, and instead settles for saying mildly, “you’re trespassing.”
Post by heath ambroise on Sept 29, 2018 1:35:46 GMT
Heath does not quite follow what is going on, his previous hurry momentarily forgotten. His swimming vision finally settles, and he blinks away spots caused by the harsh light of the open door. A furry creature, and its witch he assumes, show up and he slowly lifts his hand waiting for a hand shake. She doesn’t take it and he slowly lowers his hand to help steady himself on the ground. “I- I’m Heath.” He managed before beginning to stand up. He felt a throb on his ankle as he stood upright. It hurt. He’d rolled it on his way down, or well, it had been the reason he’d fallen down in the first place. The writer had stepped too carelessly and taken a harsh tumble. The walk/run home would be incredibly slow and painful now.
The crime hung over his head ominously. He’d been caught. Trespassing. A crime he was ashamed to admit he’d done a few times before, but he hadn’t been caught then. “Yes, well, I….I thought the old person in this house had…you know… fallen.” He explained. Though now that he put it to words himself it sounded a little farfetched. “And died.” He concluded. The death part was important, very important.
“I was only investigating the- the death.” The pinkette added, clarifying he was not a thief. To be honest, a death would make sense? If this truly was that author’s house if they had died, that would explain the lack of updates on new books. “Sorry. I was mistaken.” He added slowly putting his hands in the air to show he really wanted no trouble. “Uh, by the way, the back door’s unlocked…I didn’t break anything…to get in I mean.”
Post by saoirse ó floinn on Sept 29, 2018 6:13:33 GMT
[attr="class","saobody"]
[attr="class","saohead"]
[attr="class","saoheadtext"]saoirse // ó floinn
[attr="class","saotext"]The boy—Heath as he calls himself, stutters an explanation for his being in her house. Raising an eyebrow at the rather ridiculous story, she's about to respond when he moves to stand. Wincing at the wounded manner in which he picks himself with, she has half the mind to assist him, but common sense reminds her that this man has just broken into her house. She doesn't move anyhow when Marchosias hisses at how much taller he is (certainly, at least, half a head taller than herself), how she couldn't fight back if he tried anything funny.
Miffed at the height card just pulled, she clicks her tongue and watches as Marchosias gives her a withering look before dematerialising. They had talked about how height means nothing—just look at Maddox! (Although she can't deny that the man could probably snap a tree with his hands-hand if he tried.)
Anyway, she's getting distracted.
As she reviews Heath's story, she's a little bemused at the old lady who had unfortunately died and warranted a rescue. As far she knows, she's the only—Ah. It clicks rather quickly and the situation suddenly becomes hilarious. A hand comes up to her mouth and she smothers a laugh beneath a throat-clear. Failing to hide a smile, she nods sagely and murmurs light-heartedly, doing her best to sound serious. "I..I see. You-You had good intentions, but poor execution."
(Another laugh is expelled through a deep exhale.)
Now far less tense, it would seem that Heath here isn't as dangerous as she feared. Turning to Maddox, she lightly grips his wrist and tugs a little to pull him down so she can talk to him. "So, you didn't lock the back door, hm?" She whispers with a slow smile, daring him to lie to her.
Letting go of her friend, she steps up to Heath and offers him a sympathetic expression. "You've...taken quite a tumble. I should have some ice left, if you'd like some to help with bruising."
Marchosias grumbles why she doesn't just throw the man to the curb since he's not here to hurt anyone, not to mention that her house is a sacred location. Honestly, she's not quite sure either, but it's the first time in a long while since she's last seen her home, she might as well share the experience with some company.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Oct 21, 2018 11:53:10 GMT
the more he hears of this explanation, the more he tries to understand, the more his eyebrows climb towards his hairline in undisguised incredulity and amusement. it is certainly a novel explanation, though he makes no move to respond until saoirse tugs lightly at his wrist -- he obliges without question, attention shifting from the trespasser to his friend, before a brief grin ( decidedly sheepish ) flickers across his lips. “apparently not.” a pause. “but hey, at least it didn’t get broken down or anything.”
he watches, now, as saoirse steps up to heath with an offer of ice for the bruising. she’s awfully generous towards a stranger who just broke into her house, but then again, he doesn’t think that their past history offers him a leg to stand on for that point. it isn’t as if his own entrance was any less rude. ( thinking about it makes him wince internally, really. ) maddox gives heath a pointed once-over, vaguely considers helping him out with a quick episkey -- knows that he is fully capable of helping alleviate the pain, at the very least -- and decides against it.
just in case heath tries anything sketchy, it’s always better knowing you have the upper hand already.
“try not to move around too much,” he advises. “you might hurt yourself more.”
Post by heath ambroise on Oct 22, 2018 2:55:41 GMT
He’s happy that his honesty seemed to at least convince the female witch, though he does feel a bit of nervousness creep back up when she tugs her companion to speak with him. She offered ice and he perks up to supply more information about himself, to show he was willing to be honest. “Oh! That would be nice however, I can ice it myself.” He explained as Sinclair materialized by his feet sitting on his hind legs like a person. Without much effort the coati created a few shards that floated just about his head, swirling in a vague pattern before the ice vanished, recalled form existence. “If you’re low I wouldn’t mind supplying some.” He added.
Heath felt a little sheepish at the once over, diverting his gaze but the appearance of the man, disheveled, dirty sneakers, scruffy, it sets off some tingle of recollection in the back of his mind that he can’t quite place. A name. Name. Something with an M. And Slowly, but surely, he feels a sense of deep irritation with the man before him visible in the way his eyes slanted aggressively at the man and how he adjusted his grip on his bag. The pinkette diverted his attention not quite sure but the surge of emotion is palpable, and Sinclair made a note of it, prodding his witch for an explanation Heath could not provide.
He needed to think it over. Better not punch a man that had just witnessed him break into a stranger’s home either. “It’s fine. I’ve dealt with worse.” Heath returned before he turned to the homeowner. “IS there…something I can do to help right now as an apology for…breaking and entering?” he asked as he fixed his hair while pushing aside his annoyance. He was still reeling from the instinctive irritated exhaustion.
