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 Gryffin Bordeax on Apr 21, 2017 5:40:13 GMT
it's the bitch of living
[attr="class","humour"]The refreshing breeze that blew through the richer and more luxurious parts of the city even found its way to the hovel, cutting through the usual odor of litter and decay in crisp light notes of spring time. The smell alone couldn't make up for the reality of where Gryffin found himself however. The dumps. The slums. Home. Run down buildings with barred and boarded over windows lined the trash ridden streets of The Hovel and the condition seemed to worsen the farther he walked. Gryffin may be the sole survivor of two great magical families but that doesn't mean he inherited anything. The young man was reminded of that throughout his childhood constantly. HIs caretaker often referred to him as "the heir to nothing" usually followed by a wicked cackle. The ashen skinned boy shuddered at the thought of his formative years and pulled his hood even closer around him. There were other things besides his past that were horrible, Gryffin noted as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.
There had been some talk about whether or not Gryffin was truly prepared to go out on his first mission amongst the higher-ups of the coven. Once Gryffin caught wind of the rumor he knew he'd have to figure out a way to bribe them and that meant cooking. Quite a few of the more notable members enjoyed his desserts and on more than one occasion he had used them to bribe his way out of things. To really put things over the top on this specific cake he needed some more exotic ingredients -- for the cheap.
The best place to get that was Mavro's. A jumble of stalls and street vendors, the market place served as many people's first stop for quality and exotic items at a reasonable price, most of the time that is. Gryffin had been visiting a particular vendor for years and almost always got the best deals on his stock. With his black hoodie covering his face in shadows and leather jacket covering the rest of him in black the mysterious figure didn't look a bit out of place amonst the smugglers and scammers of Mavro's. He spotted his goto vendor and began to walk towards him when he bumped into someone. "Oomph, c'est ma faute!" He exclaimed in French before adding, "Mon apulogeez, madame."
This place's disgusting, called the almost comforting voice of Vera's familiar, Fondue. Almost.
The witch was terrified, honestly. It was her first visit to the city's less... fortunate districts. Not even her first visit unsupervised; it was her first visit, period. Having been raised under the warm, loving protection of Sundial's the south-western outskirts, the brunette was very used to safety and soft, floral aromas. Not to what she found in the Hovel.
It was precisely because of this reason that Fondue had chosen that moment to comment on their surroundings. With a well-timed critique, she would be distracted from even more frightening thoughts.
A shoulder brushed past her, sending shivers down her spine, successfully undoing her familiar's attempt at calming her down. The question of who she'd bumped into was soon forgotten, as a newcomer's back shielded her vision from the first one, and then another, and she was swarmed by the multiple bodies roaming the place as if they walked that path everyday. They do, she was reminded. "Yes," she breathed. "They do."
She'd begun to regret the decision of coming here at all, but it was only then that she seriously considered it. Just when another collision took place.
Vera blinked rapidly, far from expecting to bump into yet another person so soon after the first. She didn't fall, luckily, but another issue came to her attention: this body hadn't shrugged her off and moved on, like the first had. She looked up, and almost screamed. The sight of a man of raggedy black hair and arms filled with tattoos scared her more than anything else had so far. It had something to do with his closeness, one would think, but at that moment Vera wasn't thinking.
Words she could not comprehend entered her ears, and only after a long ten seconds did she realize those words were directed at her. She gasped. My fall? Was he falling? He's not falling. Monsieur? Madame? What had he said? Vera understood the last word, at least, but... "U-um, I'm sorry. I mean. Yes, I— Come again?"
Wincing was the least she could do at her shameful display.
Post by Gryffin Bordeax on Apr 25, 2017 19:44:14 GMT
it's the bitch of living
[attr="class","humour"]It can be difficult at times. When one is so used to being alone -- not truly alone per se as Gryffin always has familiar but cut off from most other human interactions -- to communicate effectively. It is even more of a hassle for someone with a language barrier. English is not Gryffin's first language and he rarely uses it to talk to others; as he rarely talks to others. His conversations with Piqûre, even when done telepathically, are done so in French. So when thrusted into such a sudden social situation Gryffin retreated to the language he felt most comfortable with almost instinctively. He didn't even realize what he had said was more French than English and left them both in an awkward place.
Shades of red bloomed into existence on Gryffin's grey cheeks as he began, "I, uh, am very sorry mada-" Only to be interrupted by the sudden appearance of his familiar, Piqûre. His usual massive size had been instantly reduced to the size of a hummingbird due to the city's various enchantments. Appearing with a loud pop and bubbles of water he looked more like a pixie than a terrifying jellyfish. The miniature jellyfish had sensed danger of some sorts but found only another one of Gryffin's awkward situations. The tiny glowing ocean animal buzzed loudly and flew circles around Gryffin's head.
"Compose yourself, monsieur. Simply apologize to ze mademoiselle and get on with what you were doing." Piqûre said in the witch's mind. He was right of course. Continuing where he left off he said, "Again, I aim sorréy for this. Are you okay, mademoiselle?" He only hoped she was and he could just blend into the crowd once more.
Vera watches the boy's cheeks redden in disbelief. First, because she cannot fathom why he would feel embarrassed. She's the one who didn't understand him; she's the one at fault in every sense. The second thing she notices, once color has bloomed in his cheeks, is that his skin isn't simply dark. At least, not in the traditional sense. Not tanned or olive as she had first assumed, but actually a sickly grey.
Was he sick?
I'm as clueless as you are, answered her familiar. At this, she frowned. The brunette really hoped he wasn't sick. He looked young—probably only a few years older than her, which in her books was pretty young. Would life be so unfair as to burden such a young man with sickness? Ah, but of course, if he was in the Hovel, that wasn't unlikely.
It was a bummer, and Vera was very ready to slot a few minutes of her time to silently mourning a happy life he would likely not have. When a floating jellyfish suddenly appeared out of thin air—thin bubbles—and a popping sound, though, and then the young man tried to apologize again, her unconscious knew she would have to skip straight to her motivational speech.
"No no no, you're completely fine! I'm the one who should be sorry, for getting in the way like that," she countered, trying to brush away any concern he may have had for her. She was, in the larger scheme of things, probably a lot better than he was. "As you see," she motioned at her unharmed body for emphasis, "I am completely fine. Don't you bother worrying about me."
Vera stopped for a moment, tried to find a tactful way to ask about him, found none and just rolled with it. "Which brings up the question, are you fine?" She's never learned the art of discretion, and doesn't bother with it now. Her green eyes are practically staring.
Post by Gryffin Bordeax on Aug 13, 2017 22:03:20 GMT
it's the bitch of living
[attr="class","humour"]Gryffin could feel the all too familiar warmth of embarrassment as shades of red choked his neck. Even with the red present in his cheeks, chest, and neck he was still the graveyard gray as usual. The same color that got the girl’s attention. She was staring at him like a child at the circus, like he was a freak. Which he was. His eyes downcast, the French boy couldn’t see the others that had began to stare. He could feel them though. Their eyes like daggers in his back, he was painfully aware that everyone was staring.
Or were they? Piqûre knew that the boy’s anxiety and paranoia worsened and the little bubbling blue speck darted around Gryffin until finally coming face to face with him. “Eet is onlee ze mademoisélle who stares, monsiéur.” He said, trying to soothe him. For a brief moment he looked up into the emerald eyes of the stranger and mumbled before returning his attention to the floor, “Non, I just look as I do.” Even after all these years, Gryffin still found it hard to talk about his… Condition.
