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.
crisscrossing stitches of red. imprints of fresh blood folded over old scabs. the punching bag is wildly laden with these stamps of red ink, marred with white smears of spittle. dull echoes of each impact reverberate through the empty room. it's well past midnight. about an hour ago she'd been joined by another sleepless nobody, but they'd paid each other no mind, spoke in their own separate languages of grunts and wheezes, bones jarring.
she sees faces in the red stitching, finds her footing, lunges forward. bruised knuckles find impact again and she grits her teeth through the pain, rears back and wipes sweat-laden hair from her forehead.
more faces, gravelly voices in her ear--thud, thud, thud. the bag swings back. there are pings as some of the plastic beads in it tumble from a small hole in its side. she catches her breath, examines the fire licking at her palm. then she shakes out her hand, wills the fire extinguished, and raises her fists again. her muscles ache in protest, but she half-closes her eyes and resumes the trance.
sleep will come when she's worn herself thin enough to disband the nightmares. when she's covered herself in enough sweat that she can no longer feel, smell, hear strangers' hands running down the length of her body.
the gym has been empty for so long that she feels another presence before she hears one. she bends down, grabs a roll of gauze from the bag she'd brought with her, and starts wrapping it around her knuckles, gaze raising curiously at the newcomer.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Nov 15, 2018 3:09:04 GMT
it's a day after the dunewurm hunt -- sleep eludes him as the sun goes down; he naps fitfully throughout the day, and when night comes around again, he finds himself sleepless once more. his familiar has fallen silent again: with the immediate physical danger of being killed having passed, it seems that the moose still has something against him, refusing adamantly to respond to the witch's calls.
he's too tired to deal with this right now. all he wants to do is sleep properly and recover his mana, sink under warm covers and save the pressing matters for another day. but he can't, so he finds himself somewhere else instead, eyes narrowed and focused as he pummels a worn-out punching bag instead. he's not using his fists -- fist, singular -- but his legs, light in his feet with his arm held behind his back, chains rattling in whatever rhythm he finds eventually. new circumstances call for quick adaptation, after all.
the gym isn't empty, though. he typically doesn't come to this one; the black widow has its own ample supply of training facilities but today isn't really a day where he wants to run into covenmates, not when he's like this.
there's a lapse in the thuds behind him just as he begins to feel a familiar burn work its way up his calf, and he pauses to steady the punching bag and take a small breather. ends up resting his forehead against it and letting his gaze slide sideways, curious.
realises, with a blink of mild surprise, that she's looking as well. “uh. hi.”
the rattle of chains reminds her of ghosts. and maybe that's all they are. in the early hours of the morning, slaked with thirst, skin hot, heart pumping, it's hard to tell the difference between what's real enough to matter. and she keeps thinking of those in between spaces while she's not-really looking at this stranger, but she comes back into focus, back to haggard breathing through cracked lips, to the pain in her knuckles, when he blunders out an impossible greeting.
she laughs. she actually laughs. what time is it? two? maybe three at this point? she's lost track of time here before, spent long enough beating her hands to nothing by the time early risers walked through the gym doors.
still winded, she yanks the leather cord holding most of her hair together and snatches the pieces that had escaped, takes her time readjusting before wiping her brows and allowing her curiosity to wash over her features. normally she starts most conversations in here with, 'fuck off,' or 'not today, asshole,' but his genuine surprise and genuine confusion doesn't give her the feeling that he isn't really looking for an excuse to get her to leave the gym with him for a different kind of workout.
"can't sleep," she says--both a question and an explanation. she cracks her knuckles without thinking (a nervous tick) and winces, looks down at the rustic splotches that have already formed on her weathered hands. she gestures to the bag, notably the small tear in its side, laughs breathily (nervously).
and then, not knowing what else to say or do, she turns back to her stagnant adversary, raises her hands. and then she stops, still stares straight forward when she says, "ever hit something for so long you kinda wish it would hit you back?"
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Nov 15, 2018 5:34:44 GMT
he half-expects her to snap at him -- it's a common theme in gyms past midnight, since not everyone takes too kindly to spontaneous greetings at a time like this. maybe he should have just stayed silent and minded his own business, but then she laughs, and he gives her the sort of puzzled gaze you'd give to someone gone mad. so he stays frozen a little longer, sleep-deprived mind working too slow to formulate an adequate response to whatever that was.
in the end, he just says, ”oh, same,” and loosens his grip on the punching bag just a little, relaxing ever so slightly. it's probably a poor decision on his part because it swings back towards him and bumps him on the nose.
for a moment silence falls between them, and he thinks that their brief interaction has come to an end. he returns his focus to the battered punching bag once more. the poor thing's definitely seen better days. he picks idly at a fraying corner, straightens up and-
he pauses, half-turned to regard her over his shoulder. ”sometimes,” he agrees lightly, an eyebrow arched in question. ”why?”
for the love of god, parker, quit picking fights with strangers! her mother's words echo. words from what must have been over a decade ago now. she stops herself from smiling and tells herself that this is different. past parker started fights with strangers because she was angry and had no idea how else to deal with that; present parker starts fights with strangers because, well--maybe things hadn't changed.
she bends over with a huff to grab her water bottle from her bag. and as she takes a sip, she walks past her new companion. she skirts neatly around weight racks, mats that had been left out by less courteous attendees, and over some type of ab-working machine. her destination becomes apparent rather quickly by the direction of her gait.
a shoddy boxing ring identifiable only by the slightly upraised platform and the fraying cords that make its boundaries stands near the center of the gym. parker ducks through the sagging cords and shuffles her way to the center of the ring. now that her body has had time to cool off, it begs for mercy, but her mind whirs.
over her shoulder, she says, "it's an invitation," she says. "no questions, no answers, just a chance to hit something that wants to hit you back." she stops, tightens the ties on her bruised knuckles, and rolls her shoulders.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Nov 17, 2018 4:50:18 GMT
he watches with a mildly perplexed frown, wondering absently what on earth he’s gotten himself into this time. he isn’t opposed to spontaneous spars at unholy hours ( god knows he’s all too used to them ) but his schedule has left little time for such lately. combined with the entire ‘missing an arm’ shtick going on, maddox is probably a little rusty with good ol’ magic-less fisticuffs. he thinks he hears the faintest of chuckles in the back of his mind.
it isn’t until she enters the ring -- of which is so bare-boned and worn out that it can barely be called one -- that he moves towards the boxing ring as well, grabbing his own water bottle and a ( surprisingly ) white towel as he does. there’s that burning sensation working its way up his legs, and the dark circles under his eyes probably make him look godawful, and logically speaking the best course of action is to decline and go back home and try to fall asleep.
but maddox rothscus has never quite been one for logic, and even less so when there’s the promise of a fight on the horizon.
he sets the bottle and towel on the edge of the platform and slips through the rope, straightening up to face his opponent. there’s something about her that is dangerous, in the same way that wildfire is ferocious and the way the sun burns its imprint into the back of your eyes -- there’s something that says caution, step back; he steps forward and smiles knife-sharp.
a brief nod, and he responds airily as he settles into a defensive stance, “i’d be honoured.”
she's been here before, in this prelude dance of strangers. but the deja vu she feels crawling up her spine casts a shadow from a time since passed, removed from the here and now. because now her blood is aflame and there is a wild light in her eyes and a will in her bones that keeps her upright, that will stop her from being knocked down. and though nyla rests, she feels her--a beating heart, a sleeping shield, ready to awaken and brandish herself as parker's claws, as her will.
funny how the ghosts seem that much realer when the sun is furthest away, when the night is long and there are but two souls standing amidst so much empty space. there is nothing he can do to pretend to distract himself with so that he may not look at her, and he doesn't try to. he regards her steadily. she lifts her chin higher, straightens her back, and narrows her eyes as she watches him watching her.
like two predators questioning which is the prey (the answer is neither), they regard each other. parker sees trauma in those eyes; after all, he must be running from something if he's come running here. he's seen better days, she imagines, but there is a compulsive power that lies under muscle and sinew. there is a ruthlessness there, twining within him, displayed with calculation, with calmness.
she settles into her own stance, finds the root of her balance. and she walks slowly towards him, tries to get a feel for his movement, the weak points in his rooting to the ground.
when she's an arm's length away, she lunges forward with a tight fist, elbow half-cocked--a defensive strike, not meant to hit, and she flashes a smile as she awaits his reaction.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Nov 19, 2018 6:12:29 GMT
it is silence and cacophony all at once. silence: in the dead of the night ( morning ), they are the only two living souls in this space that absorbs sound and light alike. outside, the city sleeps quiet under a silver wraith-like moon. cacophony: the rattle of breath in his lungs and the wardrum heartbeat he hears between his ears, the ache of a red-yellow bruise high up on his cheek.
it’s almost comfortable, though, how quickly they slip into this stance; there’s familiarity there in the motions of the fight, like bruised pit-fighters, all jagged edges and calculated brutality. he circles slow and steady, movement smooth and light as he unhooks exhaustion from his shoulders and lets it f a l l-
( and sure, a witch is only ever at half their strength at best without their familiar’s cooperation, but he’s spent half his life now fighting for the familiar’s goddamned approval, so the stubborn silence is nothing new. )
the reaction is swift. not a dodge, as would have been the easier route, but a stubborn block as he lets it connect with his forearm. and promptly, he twists his arm to go for a grab, weight shifting simultaneously as he aims a kick.
and then it's like the rubber band has finally snapped. she has been working the bag for hours now and her rhythm has been the same--thud, thud, thud, pull back, pant, catch breath, hammer down again. and yes, she'd come here for that very reason; it requires no thinking, just the ever-swinging motion of her arms as the burn rises throughout her body. but still, her muscles had clenches, wound, prepared for the return fire that had never come.
and now, now the bleary sleepiness she'd been lulled into skitters, cloudy haze lifting over her thoughts as she throws herself against this stranger. the rubber band snaps when her fist connects with his arm; shrewd eyes dart towards his arm and she dips her shoulder, auburn hair swinging just under his outstretched hand. and then she grunts, winces as he nearly knocks her knee out. her breath sharpens as she gathers herself.
she rolls with the momentum, goes to hook her arm around his side, angles her head to the side, and shoves her body weight against him with her shoulder. her shoes squeak against the ground. she aims to set him off balance so she follow up with a swift uppercut to the ribs.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Nov 19, 2018 7:20:28 GMT
his hand closes on empty air, but there’s no hiss of frustration of hurried change of tactics; he continues with a swift and decisive follow-through of a kick to the knee, never once faltering in his momentum. it is not quite hard enough to cause any lasting damage, but a decent spar-worthy kick. he thinks, anyway. it has been some time since his fights weren’t a life-or-death affair, or something to that effect.
the shove comes as somewhat of a surprise, though he really ought not to be at this point. for a moment he is knocked off-kilter, a swipe with the leg interrupted without warning, and there’s a realisation that he has inevitably left himself open to attack. not that it strikes much alarm into him, though. he takes the hit with a stifled grunt, the wind temporarily knocked out of him.
he finds his balance mid-step, wrangles his breathing back under control; adrenaline curls in his stomach and time slows. he waits for a fraction of a second, makes as though to attempt another kick, but his hand shoots out towards her shoulder instead. he gathers himself with energy like a coiled spring, and luck be willing, takes a step into her space and pivots neatly on his heel, crouching with practiced precision to flip her over his shoulder.
< 25: misses completely 25-75: grapples but parker resists the flip > 75: flip succeeds, parker falls
she's won her fair share of fights, lost even more, but that's just how the world works. odds are you're gonna get beat more times than you're gonna win, and she's not here to win. the only thing she wants to lose is herself right now; she wants to step out of her body, meditate through pain. the adrenaline rises through the soles of her feet, fills her body as she continues to wake up, as she becomes sharper, and yet more distant.
but she's not quick enough, nor is she strong enough. he finds his center before she can take the advantage and when she split-second panics, one palm coming down to block his next kick, her world is suddenly shifting. she narrowly avoids biting her tongue as her teeth chatter together, bones jarring as he throws her over his shoulder.
she goes up and over and tries her best to tuck, but she over-corrects and the floor slides out from under her heels. there's a heavy thud as she lands on her back and she gasps as the air gets knocked out of her. pain lances up her spine and she bites her lip hard, eyes glistening as she winces through the fire.
the floor sizzles. her splayed fingers leave scorch marks on the ground as she presses her palms down, commanding her body to flip, knees tucked so she can spring upright and lashing out wildly should he try to take advantage of her vulnerable position.
< 25: not fast enough to turn, leaving her exposed
25-75: gains her footing, but doesn't land a hit
> 75: gains her footing + lands the hit (smol smolder included)
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Nov 19, 2018 8:12:16 GMT
frankly, he’s surprised it works. maddox is very much accustomed to things not going to plan, least of all when in fights. it’s a dreadfully unpredictable thing, sparring. one moment you’re on the top of the world and feeling invincible, and the next, someone has swept your legs out from under you and you’re nursing the world’s worst migraine. it is high risk and high reward, and he would be lying if he wasn’t at his most comfortable with bloodied knuckles and adrenaline running like lightning-current in his veins.
he picks, pivots, and lifts; rolls her over his back in a neat flip, though perhaps with more force than intended. he takes a moment to regain his balance from that, watches as she tucks -- stumbles -- and he seizes the moment, lunges forward with a knee bent for what may have been a devastating kick, but it never comes.
instead, he finds himself wishing there were a way to abort an action mid-execution, but it’s a little too late for that. momentum carries him straight into a harsh hit straight to the sternum, her fingers lit with the embers of a flame and for just a moment, there’s genuine panic in storm-grey eyes as he considers the threat of it blazing brighter. a brief glance around nets him no sight of a familiar, though, and training demands he sheds the fear immediately, and so he does.
he reels back from the hit, gasps for air like a drowning man. someone more cautious may have bided their time, waited out a proper recovery before attacking once more, but he’s never been the type to do that. without warning, he lunges out with another round kick, this time aiming high for her arms.
her lips twinge as she stops him in his tracks. the fight starts to break down in her mind, coming together in these brief flashes, moments of impact. they crash together. her fingers flex, faces inches from his, freckled nose scrunched as her breath whistles through her exposed teeth. snap. a jagged snapshot burned into her memory of his shocked eyes, the shape of his mouth, and then he's reeling away from her, recovering.
there's hope of a quick reprieve, and it's in that flash moment that she dares a glance down, already-flushed cheeks tingeing with red when she sees the light flicker of orange wrapped around her fingertips. the ever-present rage in her belly swells and then quiets as she wills the flames away. and in that breath, she flicks her gaze back up, steels herself.
she's ready for him this time. confidence grounds her. she spreads her feet, digs her heels into the ground, and throws both arms up to her side when his leg comes up. her left side tightens and she slides an inch or so as she absorbs the blow. she grunts, arms coming down to wrap around his thigh. and then she tugs, bends her left knee, and swings out with her right in hopes of catching his ankle.
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Dec 15, 2018 6:24:38 GMT
in another time, his recklessness would have served him well. but there’s a time and place for everything and right now, it does him little good at all. there is force behind the kick ( not a moosely-level kick but a solid one nonetheless ) and it connects with an equally solid defence. no matter, though; he draws back to regain balance but finds that he— can’t.
realisation sets in with the vise-like grip on his thigh and he thinks, in that brief snapshot of time, oh shit. he’s been running on fumes for the last twenty-four hours and it’s starting to show, really.
his ankle doesn’t snap, but it comes dangerously close to — there’s a twinge that arcs up his calf, too, a stifled hiss-turned-gasp as his back hits the ground and the air leaps out of his lungs. then he’s already making a move, the black-spotted world still spinning in his vision, hoping he’s still got some sense of up from down and knows where the ground is beneath his feet.
he kicks out in a explosive motion — lands somewhat shakily on his feet, and before he can second-guess his own poor decisions, lashes out with a swift right hook.
< 25: can't regain his balance completely to land a proper hit 25-75: hits, blocked probs > 75: a good solid whack that idk stuns her slightly
there are stars in her eyes, blood howling in her ears. it has been push-pull so far, dipping in this strange dance of exhaustion and deep-rooted pain. but she finds herself cleansed, catharsis burrowing into her soles, coaxing her back to the real world. the nightmarish haze still lingers on the horizon, but it ebbs with the coming of the blood sunrise.
she catches her breath, asses her stance and makes calculated readjustments while he's down. there's no use taking full advantage of his blundering; they are not here to win. they are here to console each other.
he comes back to her then. her muscles ache and for the first time, she feels it. she allows herself to feel it. he comes at her swinging, but there is less power before; he's getting tired too. she side-steps and wraps her arm around his, attempts to pull him in close.