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.
since the widely discussed speech made by the leader of silvertongue, dmitri wisbane, silvertongue's defiant stance has been the subject of scrutiny, disdain, and even praise. remarks of dmitri being the "leader that st needs" fill the silver halls of hireling's keep but it stands that silvertongue has politically renounced several accusatory institutions of sundial, going as far as to calling them "ludicrous" and "specious" -- investigations into this "Specious" claim are still apparently underway but the helios knights have come forth with a diplomatic ban on witches of silvertongue entering the empyreal cup. [break][break] meanwhile, several training grounds that surround the helios knight hall have been opened to the public for practicing duels. the grounds have opened for guests, and several high profile witches have visited the Order in shows of their stance with the knights. the unsettled political atmosphere of sundial seems almost completely masked by the decorations and festivities. [break][break] the crowds cheer as the opening show begins. a speech is given by a high-profile noble witch of the helios knights that dictates the history of the cup: it began as a deadly tournament consisting of several rounds that tested every aspect of a witch's aptitude for magic, risking the life and honor of all participants involved. through each of its incarnations, its trials changed shape and objective and varied in severity. and yet, to this date, the cup always began with a duel between two esteemed witches---- [break][break]
[attr="class","stafftempsubtext"]
ooc notes
welcome to the opening ceremony of the empyreal cup! this event will consist of two rounds -- the first round is an open interaction setting occurring simultaneously in all open areas of the HK rounds, the practice fields around the helios knights hall, and the stadium where the audience is watching the opening festivities. be warned that members of leviathan are likely in danger in this setting and your orders are to not compromise your identity at all costs- be as inconspicuous as possible. [break][break] you need to post once (minimum of a 450 word post) with as many characters as you like to be eligible for a reward. you may continue to interact in the event setting until the next round, which will be marked by the ceremonious "duel"-- you have until 29th november, wednesday to post for the first round. don't be deceived, members of all covens can participate. [break][break]
Post by milo tremerie on Nov 24, 2017 16:05:46 GMT
❝
was he going to participate? he had to. the crowd was kind of counting on it-- the crowd was seriously counting on it. he was too. but could he get away with just participating? milo did not think so highly of himself that he'd bet on having lady luck herself take a fancy to him. he was cute, he supposed, but not that cute.
without fortune rallied to his side, the knight could not really escape the dangers that presented themselves like well-wrapped and well-meaning giftcards (who in their right minds gave giftcards for gifts?). but, like all shitty giftcards, this one would need to be accepted with grace and humility. and, if he did not want to face the ire of the idiot who had granted him this misfortune, he would have to use the giftcard and write to them about it in vivid, unnecessary detail.
in sum, he would have to win.
which was doable. or so he thought. he was stabbing at thin air, practicing the motion of the sword. the field was mostly empty: the crowd had moved indoors to watch the festivities unfold. it had been a while since he had had quite such a large space alone to himself- he had, after all, tried too hard to fill every empty space with as many faces as he could find. being alone left him agitated and restless, as though he was waiting for the hidden sword to stab his side.
graceful, elegant, like mother. strong, focused, like father. large steps, small steps. a swing and a jab. silence, tighten your grip. his eyes were closed. he tried to focus on the mana around him. how was it moving? the world is breathing, said a voice. it was rosaline's, from the day she had revealed herself to him. the world is breathing and so are you. hear it breathe, watch it breathe...
his eyes flashed open, yellow-orange dots half hidden behind messy turquoise bangs. the sword sliced through the air in a clean graceful slash. milo was satisfied: he had managed to drown out a lot of voices. he had heard the silence of the 'world's breathing' as rosa said. that was a good sign-- lady luck may be courted yet...
a person passed by and milo hesitated:
he had promised his friends he'd be with them in the stadium seats (the top box, fully reserved for their little gang) before the opening show, but he liked to take his chances with time and he made the large overestimation that he was good for another round. rosaline eyed him with dull grey eyes- but he saw that even now she was teasing him.
somehow, his familiar had grown to despise him the stronger he had gotten. he could've sworn it was the opposite to what was written in the instructions manual. you're at it again, said rosaline, her voice surprisingly sweet yet stabbing. of course, she was referring to what she called 'useless thoughts.' she had gotten stricter with them over the past few days. milo sighed and straightened himself out.
"hey there! fancy humoring me for a bit? i think i've gotten rusty. i reckon we still have a whie before they get to the good part."
he'd gesture the handle of a sword at the stranger and smile a disarming, deceitful smile. but the kind of smile you wanted to believe in nontheless.
Post by heath ambroise on Nov 28, 2017 4:55:05 GMT
The excitement in the air was palpable. It felt like a thunderstorm was rumbling through the city. The electricity could be felt by everyone. Everyone was looking for a distraction after the fall of the pillar. Citizens, himself included, were all too eager to get on with their lives and rid themselves of the somber grief that had befallen them. It was a great opportunity to write. He would observe, he would remember, and he would write in the most vivid of detail what he witnessed. Though, if he was being honest, he doubted his reports would be anything different from a journalist watching from the stands. But that didn’t matter. Even if his article was delegated to a small column in their paper at least he was getting the opportunity to experience this himself. Getting close to the top tier witches was just an excuse really. Not to say he wasn’t interested, but he had his own reasons to participate.
The Empyreal Cup was…intense to say the least, but at the same time he had the luxury of being a nobody. Not even a dark horse in the race to the top but an actual unknown. He had never participated before and he doubted a couple of missions where he had used his magic really gave him much experience to begin with. But shit, it sounded like fun. He had slept in anticipation for this. He had gone to bed so early he’d actually slept a decent amount this time. The dark shadows that underlined his amber eyes were lighter. He looked less like a skeleton today. That alone was enough to put his familiar in a good mood.
The coati walked by his side humming to himself and making the occasional comment on the decorations. It was…kind of cute. It was a nice change from the usual snob the prick liked to be. They had been taking in the atmosphere of it all. “What?” Hath managed to say glancing over at the source of noise. Startled out of his passive enjoyment of the festivities, he stared back. His eyes flickered over to the sword and he quietly wondered how real that really was. Was it sharp enough to sting if it sliced through flesh or was it going to be dull like a cardboard papercut? “Do it! It’s not like you’re working anyway.” Snapped Sinclair as the blonde looked to his familiar. Of course, he was right. Heath had been wandering around without pen or paper in hand. His trusty notebook had been shoved in his back pocket since they got here.
Heath took a moment to be sure there wasn’t someone else around to take his place. “I can give it my best.” He returned forcing a polite smile towards his blue haired companion. Upon further inspection of his opponent to be, he began to regret agreeing to it. He already knew the stranger was far more knowledgeable at swordplay than him. He stepped towards Milo eyes on the weapon, half admiration, half desperate caution. “I would’ve also agreed to boxing.” He added with a hint of a pout. Sinclair snorted at him at a safe distance away as the witch touch the handle. Couldn’t be too bad right? It was just practice after all. And Lord knew he would need it.
Zeph really wished that the Empyreal Cup could be hosted by anyone other than the Knights. Filled with riveting competitions and masterful displays of magic, it was an engaging event in theory. In practice, however, it was so drenched in politics and smothered in affirmations of status that Zeph couldn't ever fully enjoy it. Though Zeph admits his feelings on the matter could be exaggerated from some deeply-engrained biases, it felt especially bad this year with the Silvertongue fiasco and whatnot. Even so, he wasn't going to let that deter him from attending. Only hearing the excited recounts of the event after the fact wouldn't be fun at all.
He had arrived with a group of friends which were almost exclusively Jester's Den witches. His primary goal was to avoid drawing attention to any Leviathans with legitimate secret identities. His own identity wasn't a secret as much as it was a minefield of multifaceted diversions, decorated in conveniently trimmed half-truths. His witch license from his job as a locomotive mechanic was real enough, albeit merely a license of utility rather than loyalty. And his name, though it wasn't the one given to him at birth, had become his own. Even his closest family addressed him by it. The tabletop campaigns, the wild parties, and the midnight pizza runs he'd done with the Jesters had all happened. Those memories weren't a fabrication. Those laughs had not been lies.
Even so, today his friends acted as his unknowing smokescreen, hopefully allowing him to circumvent any strict identification checks if at all possible (or, at the very least, mitigate their scrutiny).
Spock, on the other hand, was doing an excellent job at grabbing attention. Atop her head sat a small, golden laurel, and a robe-like fabric draped loosely around her figure. Sitting on Zeph's shoulder with pretentiously regal demeanor, she looked like a true emperor, ready to oversee this gladiatorial event. Granted, she was just a bit smaller and fuzzier than most. Though she wasn't generally a fan of clothes, she didn't mind dressing up in silly outfits for big events like this (as well as playing the part).
"Welp. Sounds like we're missin' th' history lecture," Zeph notes as he squints up at the reverberating structure, one hand shading his eyes from the glare of the sun. His tone indicated that nothing of value was being being lost. Hell, there was already fights going on out here in the practice area, and some of the contenders looked pretty damn impressive. Still, the Cup wouldn't be such a memorable event without its traditional dramatic kickoff. With the Silvertongue leader out of the picture, Zeph wondered who this year's show horses would be. "Wanna go find a seat or watch th' contestants out here for a bit?"
it is loud, chaotic, busy, and everything that elih doesn’t really like. it is, without a doubt, the type of event that elih avoids like the plague, going to extreme lengths to perhaps arrange an outing to the other side of the town, or perhaps fib some excuse about research and work and having to help out the librarians ( ‘it’s really so busy around this time of year, i’m terribly sorry, but i need to go help them shelve the books,’ he would say, as though the librarians themselves weren’t talented witches capable of assisting the tedious process with magic ). it is one of the three fundamental rules by which elih kartal seems to govern his everyday life: avoid crowds of important people, stay indoors and away, and pretend he does not exist.[break][break]
a white-furred coyote winds its way around his feet, footsteps snowfall-light, eyes pale and steady. ‘you’re breaking all three rules at once right now, aren’t you?’ hamster’s eyes shine brighter, teeth glinting in sunlight. ‘my oh my, elih kartal, what a rebel.’[break][break]
“i’ve already helped the first part of preparations,” elih says under his breath, eyes glued to the ground at his feet as though it were the most interesting thing ever. “it’d be a waste not to turn up for the actual thing. i think.” there is, however, a fundamental difference between this and the preparations. the preparations had been a purposeful bustle of activity, everyone setting out to complete chores and little tasks of their own. it is not to say that the opening ceremony lacks a purpose; far from it, elih thinks quickly, side stepping another attendee who passes with alarming haste. there is no way someone would walk that quickly if they lacked a purpose, right?[break][break]
still, he cannot help but feel lost within the crowd. and, unbidden, that inexplicable loneliness that he is all too familiar with grips him a little tighter. what is he doing here anyway? he should have come with a group, now that he thinks about it. when faced with that question a few days ago, he had waved a hand and flubbed an excuse, something flimsy and weak that he can’t even remember now. but here he is now, hovering at the edge of milling spectators, wondering if he will see someone he knows, or is stuck to the fate of watching the cup alone. he wonders if ashanti or ling had come. maybe they were with their own friends. he wouldn’t want to impose.[break][break]
the stadium seats stretch out before him, empty seats scattered among the people as others move towards the best seats, but elih can’t quite bring himself to find a seat just yet. instead he turns, moving towards the practice fields, eyes caught by steel-silver flashing in the sunlight, and the familiar dance of sword-fighting. he stops a fair distance away, eyeing a rack of spare swords. he hesitates.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Nov 29, 2017 5:39:37 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
take a city and distill it into its most innermost parts: the steady 'tick tick tick' of golden seconds drawn into spider-thin thread coiling around the bronze gears of its workings, drawing breathless moments into hours into days that broaden into a city's lifespan stretching out further than any of its composite parts will live; its citizens, trailing percussive footsteps into city streets that amalgamate together and hollow the air into a reverberate drumbeat - 'thump-dur thump-dur thump-dur' - of a city's heart, a city's soul that reaches out to embrace each and every one of its fragile mortal children; esterification of sunlight splitting light into a spectacular spectrum of colour layed out in silk and cotten and hand-woven wool. sundial incarnates itself in sunlight and laughter and the primal beat of heartblood - it comes alive in the festivities, in the electric charge of anticipation and excitement in the air, in the mana dancing through every witch's blood.
it is a glorious occasion of the people, for the people; a city dreaming itself into existence, and even he cannot help but be swept up in the tidal wave of expectation and suspense and passion.
oh, but to be one and apart; kasimir is a silvertongue regardless of intent - this event is to be denied to them for all that they are citizens of sundial too, for all that they are writ into its history and its legacy and its stone. it is not that he is proud of his coven ( quite the opposite, in reality ), nor does he feel indignant at their exclusion. merely it is this further exclusion brings a bittersweet longing to the gold of the air, an ache of what could have been and might have been, and what his deepest dreams are made of brought into brilliant colour - so close yet so far.
there is a not-insignificant part of kasimir's blood, kasimir's heart, too, that is forged of wildfires and the bone-deep drive of flame-born temper, that chafes against the iron-forged chains that hold him back into flimsy human skin; there is a part of him that wants to fight and laugh and revel in this challenge of passion and skill-
perhaps, he reflects, it is for the best that he is not permitted to compete. the last thing kasimir wants is more attention drawn to himself, no matter what the dragon lurking in his blood seems to want. no, seated in one of the more discrete areas and shaded by an overhang, he will be content to watch, to quietly observe and soak in the uncontained happiness of the people around them. these are... not untense times, especially for one in a coven such as his - he will be grateful for this peaceful respite, small as it is.
and, he, too, will pray that no one from his coven will do anything rash today.
I press the button and[break]it bursts into life[break]This time nothing will escape my sight
Ling has always, always loved large crowds and festivals, loved tradition and history and when people from all different walks of life gather together and merge into an amorphous surge of colour and noise and light and laughter - and the Empyrean Cup is a beautiful realisation of all these things she loves.
She loves the way she keeps spotting familiar faces - from both her own coven, and of citizens she's met over the years - alight with anticipation in their eyes and infectious cheer on their faces, only for them to vanish back into the sea of people in the next blink of an eye. She loves the way gold and crimson and deep indigo blue and orange rich like the morning sun contrast against each other in a riot of colours, banners fluttering high in the sky and witches dressed in elaborate styles that would not look out of place in a fairytale ball. She listens with shining eyes as the Helios Knight down in the arena below begins narrating the history of the Empyrean Cup (a tale she is very familiar with, but loves listening to again all the same) - it is never a tale so grand as when it is being told by an expert orator to a crowd of eager citizens. She cheers along with the rest of the crowd as the opening ceremony being, yelling out as loud as she can in a glorious, beautiful moment where she can feel her heart drumming out its rhythm beneath her ribcage as she is suspended in a temporal state where she is more than herself, she is a part of this greater whole of thousands of people all roaring their approval; she loves it in a way one can only understand in the fleeting beat of the moment.
She has attended every Empyrean Cup since she can remember - five in total with this one being her sixth and it never fails to impress.
Oh, but, but! This time is different, this time is so different from all the years previous, because this time, this time Ling may be participating in the event rather than merely watching as a spectator. Oh, she doesn't expect to actually achieve much - not only is she just sixteen ( probably many, many years behind the experience of most other witches ), she is also a runescripter, which is not quite an affinity suited to duels and spontaneous, flashy showings ( not at her level, at least ). All the same, she is all but vibrating in place with a mix of nervousness and anticipation and excitement and apprehension.
Fidgeting in her seat as the Helios Knight narrating down below begins to reach his conclusion, Ling decides to check out the training grounds near the Helios Knight Hall. She's never really gone down there before, always having been more occupied with the opening festivities, but hey, since this year is obviously different, she might as well, right?
[attr="class","lucystars"]there are reasons why ninos knight is not an avid user of his magic. there are reasons why he keeps his studies academic and carefully contained to chemical glass vials and dog-eared pages, rough at his fingertips but still wholly distinct and separate. these are the same reasons why he keeps his shirt collar pulled high, a thin layer of fabric brushing against a reminder of what happened the last time he did. perhaps under a different set of stars, the recklessness of ninos knight would extend to facing the preternatural cowardice that freezes him solid whenever he so much as reaches for his mana. the ideal would be fearless, immortal in the moment, apollo instead of the sun-pierced icarus. but here, his doubts are traitors, and he believes them wholeheartedly.[break][break]
but here, he can live outside himself, forgetting the limits of his skin, living vicariously through the challengers that dot the field, multi-coloured vibrancy and alive in the challenge of skill and wit alike. for a while, he skirts the edges of the practice fields, gaze flitting over the duelists who circle each other like wolves with perfect rage, his own eyes monsoon blue and intent. he supposes, to some extent, he misses it. there is little combat involved in being a lab assistant in lux, something that he’s not sure if he is grateful for or not. logically, he ought to be grateful, but there’s that part of him that longs for it. ninos has never been one for self-preservation nor safety, not when his first instinct is to press into purple-black bruises to make sure they hurt; not when the first time his brother had mastered the art of making flames dance into the darkening dusk sky, ninos had stuck his hands into the fire because it had looked pretty. ( he had burned himself and it took him a full week to recover, even with the help of the healers. he can’t remember regretting it. )[break][break]
the witches spin into a flurry of quicksilver blade and crimson capes and ninos, wisely, continues to move until he has passed the borders of the practice fields and lingers at the side of the stadium. a voice fills the air, narrating the rich history of the empyrean cup. he finds himself listening, the novelty of it all demanding his attention as the crowd cheers and yells, a drumbeat that reverberates even within his ribs and tugs him along; he laughs, genuine and warm; lives beyond the limits of his skin in that manner he quite so loves. when it quells ever so slightly, he attempts to find a seat nearby and finds none, so he searches a little further.[break][break]
and, unexpectedly, finds a familiar face.[break][break]
it’s a little difficult to get there, but he makes it, weaving through the crowd and hoping he doesn’t get trampled underfoot. when he finally escapes the crowd, it is with relief, and shortly after ninos slips into the seat beside kasimir. “hi,” he says, eyes bright and curious. “how’s life been, buddy?”
Post by iolani kótsyfas on Nov 29, 2017 7:49:19 GMT
she looks around with storm grey eyes, casually sprawled along three individual seats and ignoring the annoyed looks she's getting for taking up more space than she needs. lips curled up in her customary wicked smirk, iolani lets her gaze grift around without any definitive target; she spares a single glance for the little crimson knight in the arena down below prattling on about the history of the event, then looks away in disinterest. it's not that she doesn't like history - oh, no, iolani quite likes the... interesting lessons one can learn from the idiots of the past - but this particular iteration is so stuffed full of shining knight-worship propaganda that it's useless for anything except maybe a laugh or two.
entirely unsubtle propaganda aside, however, this 'empyrean cup' is certainly an occasion she's learning to appreciate. there's food, there's betting, there are going to be tournament-style fights, there are a lot of pretty pretty people, and best of all, there is so much gossip and information flying around - truly, what's not to like? all it needs is alcohol and less brainwashing of people into loving the stuck-up holier-than-thou prissy knights, and it'd be perfect. well, near perfect. perfection is, unfortunately, not possible for mere mortals.
'heard anything interesting?' she sends a lazy question to her familiar even as she catches the eye of some pretty blond guy and winks. he blushes. how cute.
'you humans are all idiots,' comes the snarky reply. she snorts, but doesn't deny it. it's not like ne's wrong, after all. 'six politicians cheating on their spouses, four bribery attempts, three potential scandals, one idiot who fell over the railings.'
iolani considers the information. huginn/muninn will tell her the details later, of course. 'impressive,' she quips, and receives the mental equivalent of rolled eyes.
'excuse you, i'm always impressive.'
leaving her familiar to dig up more dirt on the stupid, she lets her gaze settle on another guy, this time dressed in the gold and crimson of the stuffy knight order. he's cute though, all lean lines and golden skin and eyes like the new leaves of spring. she smiles, sultry and slow, when he happens to glance her way, winks at him when he startles and stares; her eyes gleam as he looks away quickly with a visible flush creeping up the back of his neck. the innocent ones are always the most fun to tease.
some might call her reckless, but iolani's not really concerned about being recognised or caught or whatever it is her new coven is so scared about. she's quite good at playing the tourist, at playing the oblivious new kid, at playing the girl who just wants to party and let loose and have some fun - and hey, it's not even a lie! having been in sundial for little more than a week, she can very easily pass as a foreign traveler coming here to see the festival.
tag: @anyone words: 495 notes: im dead kill me now
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Nov 29, 2017 8:53:08 GMT
as a general rule of thumb, maddox dislikes the knights. barring leviathan, barring family grudges, barring his own upbringing, he simply cannot get behind their entire shtick of self-righteousness, or the entire ‘knight in shining armor’ propaganda they sell. he stares at the speaker as they rattle off more about the history of the tournament, and yes, it is interesting, and yes, it would be a lie if he said he wouldn’t have wanted to participate in the tournament itself, but the way it is presented--
'i want to die,' says moosely flatly.
'same.'
he’d have thought that maybe he could come here to have a good laugh at the festivities. join in the crowd and place bets on the duelists, liked prized pit fighters, gladiators in a ring. he appreciates the spirit of it all, really, the challenge and the exuberance and the undercurrent of danger, running like wildfire through the tributaries of his veins. hell, maddox likes it. but it is scarcely an activity enjoyed in solitude. unfortunately, as someone who is supposed to lie low and invisible lest something unspeakable happen, maddox finds himself very much alone. he knows his brother is probably out with his friends from jesters’ den, and takes solace in the fact that zephyr is probably having fun. they seemed like a decent bunch of people, after all.
'are you jealous?' the familiar’s question is sudden, and in maddox’s opinion, wholly unwarranted.
'i-- what? no, shut up.' was there some way to mute a familiar? he makes a mental note to look into that later.
unbidden, his eyes flit across the crowds, searching, before they snap back to the red-cloaked knight begrudgingly. if any other leviathan were here, they would probably be in disguise, or at least concealing their true identity in some manner. maddox is ( trying to ), at least, if only because of the fact that he had been recognised at a particular knights-held event some time ago. he had even gotten a haircut for this ( hides it under a grey hood nonetheless ) he’s still not sure if he regrets it. with some hope, the day would pass without mishap. he notes a lack of windows from which he can make a speedy exit. truly, a tragedy.
he looks up again, quickly tiring of whatever little attention he had paid to the history lesson. this time, he actually moves, hopping down a few rows of seats ( too lazy to actually use the stairs by the side ) until he reaches her.
“you’re terrible, you know,” he says, lips quirked into a smile. following her gaze in a manner all but discreet, he thinks, not bad ( for a knight ). not that he says anything like that. “terrorizing all these poor, defenseless knights.”
[attr="class","shockwave-lyrics"]laugh as she tries to give you what you cannot give herself
[attr="id","shockwave-textbox"]
There is a certain amount of shame, Aisling knows, that the Ancient and Noble House of the Fei has produced an heiress that cannot fight. Or - as she is not entirely incapable of combat, and no one can deny that the raw magic their House is known for flows strong in her blood - the shame lies in Aisling's incapability of bringing honour and glory to their House and their family through ceremonial area combat. And when there is such expectation for her to provide a strong showing at the Empyrean Cup while she knows she will fall short, she cannot help but wish, in this moment, that her adoptive parents had not been so firm on her remaining as heiress, that she had not fought so hard for the position. [break][break]
Aisling cannot deign not to compete - there is tradition she is beholden to - and to back out would be a show of cowardice far more shameful than even a humiliating defeat will be; she refuses to subject her House and her family to such disgrace. Like it or not, regardless of situation and circumstance and her personal fears, Aisling is the heiress and the representation of the Fei - and she will conduct herself as such. Grace, dignity, humility, honourability, and poise - she repeats the set of values that have been drilled into her head since birth; she is determined that no matter how painful her loss will be, she will not waver from her teachings. That much, at least, she is capable of. [break][break]
As the clamorous noise of the crowd washes over her like a wave, she is all but pulled under, dragged by the tidal force of a thousand raised voices and dashed against the rocks, over and over and over till her world is nothing but white thunder and she has lost all sense of where she is. Of who she is, and it takes Lyze, beautiful reliable Lyze digging his claws into her shoulder and grounding her with his mental voice, for her to resurface. There is a reason why Aisling dislikes crowds so much, dislikes festivities and heat and noise - she drowns in the chaos, a tiny bird lost against the unfathomable vastness of an incomprehensible frenzy; she drowns in the incomprehensible, the unintelligible, the wild and primal fever of a mob lost to its own passion - she drowns and there is no one but her familiar to pull her back to safety.[break][break]
No. No, she has not come here to lose herself. Aisling takes a deep breath, centering herself against the tumultuous press of people, and straightens her back. Lyze a comforting murmur in her mind, she lets him guide her steps, lets him lead her to the more familiar ( and quieter ) fields around the Helios Knights Hall. She is a noble, she is an heiress, she is a Fei - she will not allow herself to become undone at such a trivial matter.
Post by percival grayreme on Nov 29, 2017 10:53:42 GMT
[attr="class","percy"]
[attr="class","percy2"]
[attr="class","percy3"]
[attr="class","percy4"]
@anyone hohoho
[attr="class","kikan"]
“
It's all over Sundial. Flyers, posters, Salem-wide messaging pigeons, storefronts, name it, and one person would be talking about the Empyreal Cup. Percy knows that the event isn't known to everyone, despite the hype about it. He is the living proof. Apparently his parents had raised him far enough from the city hustle that big events like this rarely make importance to the local community. The town didn't mind, until the pigeons stop coming, the already-scarce flyers completely disappear from its structures, the wind peeling off the worn-out posters.
Needless to say Percy is quite... intrigued with the event. A little research tells him that it is hosted annually by the two most publicized covens, the Helios Knights and the Jester's Den. It's generally open for all covens, but with the political turmoil surrounding Silvertongue, the coven has been banned from joining the event.
Though Percy doubts the coven would pull out completely.
For once, the festivity does not resonate to Percy. He does not pay any attention to the fireworks, to the performance down below, to the banners and confetti, the balloons and ribbons. It's a grand opening, and the stadium is packed. He barely squeezed himself through the entrance. In the topmost circle of the grand structure, where everything below is reduced to a dot, Percy wears a jacket he keeps hugging to himself. If not, the wind would blow it away. He breathes and the gust takes away the exhaled air. Percy's face is already numb.
Percy relaxes and leaned back against the backrest. He tilts his head back until he is looking at the bright blue sky. It's windy, but somehow, the clouds are not moving. The sun is low, barely touching them, but enough to illuminate the festive mood of the place.
He hears the speech of a nobleman, and Percy does not know what to think of it. The words are forced, the chuckles are half-hearted, the compliments sting. It's all for fun, he says.
Fun and money.
How many people would join? Percy wonders. Several names pass through his head. Elih, Ling, Asha. Tony would join, even if he has a silver tongue. If it's money involved, Tony would definitely be there. Percy looks forward to actually seeing him, it's been so long!
But his heavy heart does not match his optimism. The boy refuses to admit to what his gut is saying--that Tony would not be here.
Percy shakes his head. Ah, he's here for the Empyreal Cup, but he's not even watching. He has no reason to stay. But somehow, his feet remain planted, his butt remain sitting. His mind and ears wander to his daydreams, but Percy does not leave. The same his gut tells him of Tony's absence, it also tells him that something... interesting would happen.
It's dangerous. It's risky. A Leviathan should not be dwelling in these kinds of places.
But today, Percy is not a member of Leviathan--he's a member of Prostatia Emilia. Today, he spreads and collects information.
Desmond yet again found himself asking (for at least the third time this week, from what he could remember) why the fuck was he here?
The seer thought he had forgone the stage in his life where he'd follow the breadcrumb trail of visions deeper into a web of fabricated choices. After the Snakes learned that he struck back at threatening displays of power, after the waters calmed, there was no longer any need for him to See (in the way that only seers can). But, no, apparently he remained a pawn. This thought crossed his mind with a bitter edge.
"You know, with Jester's Den still being friendly with Helios Knights, Lu Xi is probably here--" flowed a gentle voice into his mind. After remaining silent for months, Grendel, his familiar, had begun dropping some less-than-subtle observations about the link between Des' visions and his daughter. First, at the crumbling of one of Sundial's protective towers where the most unexpected event which occurred was her appearance. Then, a second vision, unrequested and unwelcomed in the surface of his drink, showed her for just a brief moment. But water could never hold the image of an emotion-bound subject for very long, so her face vanished as quickly as a fleeting dream.
"I don't recall asking your opinion," the seer replied curtly, the idea of silencing his encumbrance of a familiar with his true name playing at the edges of his thoughts.
Thankfully, Grendel catches on to the sentiment without the need for more direct action.
Desmond hadn't been to an Empyreal Cup before; he had never seen the appeal of large crowds and loud noise. It was a safe assumption that he would not be cheering alongside the rest of the crowd today. He had a general idea of what was traditional and what wasn't from the stories his coworkers, but hadn't witnessed the entirety of the event himself. Trust his damned visions to pick a year when Silvertongues are under a diplomatic ban to be his first.
And always trust the Knights to cherish the history of things. They begin the festivities with a speech -- an affirmation that the Cup is a long practiced event. Traditional. Noble. Refined, compared to its more barbaric iterations. But not all ancient traditions are good practice. The reverence of seers and the value of lineage, for example.
A glint of light from the crowd catches his eye, and Des' gaze snaps away from the presenting noble. Scanning the excited faces all packed together across the way, Des doubted that he'd find the cause of the sensory distraction. It was likely just a decorative coin or belt buckle turning just the right way against the sun. Nothing to get excited ove--
"There she is! There she is!!" Grendel's enthusiasm was palpable.
"I haven't gone blind in the past two seconds. Thank you for your stunning observation." The seer's frustration at his familiar was tainted, however, by a sensation of relief and a pang of something else which he didn't wish to put words to.
Post by claire fermont on Nov 29, 2017 12:22:35 GMT
The still mana buzzes, then vibrates. They resist, hard, but Claire is stronger. She pulls them, and they give. Usually they travel to Claire's body. Today, Claire directs them to the wood, to its body then to the point. Claire levels the wand, and releases the energy.
A bottle flies to Claire, and she catches it with ease. She tries again, but this time, the staff does not respond.
"You need practice," Vani points out helpfully, and sometimes, Claire wonders how can he say such obvious things as if they are the discovery of the century. Claire has pointed it to him for so many times already, she's grown tired and Vani has not changed a bit.
"I know," Claire sighs. Yes, she does need practice. Her skill, though strong, would not be enough to win the competition. The Empyreal Cup is no joke. It's a melting pot of talents and skills, and at the end of road is a prize. Claire wants the price, from a financial standpoint. Granted, it might make boost her moot image, but Claire doesn't really care. She wants the gold.
As soon as Claire pockets her wand, she is met with a low, monotonous buzz. She hears and explosion, then a cheer. When has the crowd grew that big? Claire is one of the first to occupy a training ground in the Helios Knights Hall. She chose a spot in the back, inauspicious, secluded, and peaceful. She made the right choice, apparently.
Vani takes it to himself to make a path for his witch. He marches straight ahead, and naturally the crowd split in half, making way for the sizeable boar. Claire trails behind, equally intimidating and serious. The Knight catches stares of awe, challenge, and disgust, and something in her ignites. They're going down.
The duo's original plan is to head for the stadium. The opening ceremony is due right at this time. They're late, but it doesn't really the matter. There is nothing exciting about a bunch of elites taking the center stage. Save the best for the last. Vani is about to plow forward, when he sees a rather interesting figure.
Claire sees him, too. And when Vani does not head for the exit, Claire follows him.
Arriving at the scene Claire is made aware of the presence of a young man. Oh, are they going to have a sparring session? Too bad for the other one. Claire is not underestimating him. She knows Milo, and she always feel bad to people who faces him as she knew just how capable he is. Claire makes her presence known formally (because Vani has made sure to announce their arrival proudly) by looking ant Milo and nodding at him.
"I'd like to go next, against the winner," Claire says. She steps forward and addresses the other man as well. "If it's all right with you?"
OOC Notes/Items Here
Fill the air with what you like Another weekend massacre of opinion Don't be afraid of the knife Sometimes you have to cut the limb to
Post by raven delacroix on Nov 29, 2017 12:58:36 GMT
[attr="class","ig"]
[attr="class","ninety"]
[attr="class","joker"]
[attr="class","game"]
@no one in particular, rip
[attr="class","kikan"]
“
First of all, why would she bother with the Cup? Granted, it's an annual thing. It's a big event. It gathers large crowds, every year, without fail. Those who emerge victorious are granted fame, money, and huge bragging rights. Okay, so what? Raven already has fame, money, and huge bragging rights. Even more than what could the winner possibly have at the end of the day. So why exactly should she bother?
Endless questions tears Raven apart as she looks through the glass. Her eyes are trained to the witches exchanging spells, casting scrolls, attempting to annihilate each other for a "friendly test of skills," but Raven knows it's more than that. There is conflict in everything, self-interest reigning over common morals. When all those three are involved, all bull frog shits are going to say, it's just for fun.
"You don't have a wand," Dai says, and Raven bursts a vein. "You can't join anyway." When Raven turns and her eyes are glinting with challenge, Dai knows he has uttered the wrong words.
Discouragement fuels Raven's desire. "I want a wand," Raven says.
"No, you don't," Dai says evenly. Raven looks at him the eye, and Dai stares right back. "You know you can't win."
Raven raises a fine brow. She rolls her eyes and goes to fish out a small square parchment, picks up a stylus and ink. She begins to write the words Dai does not want to. The ink dries relatively fast. Raven rolls the paper then opens the cage of her beautiful messenger pigeon. The bird, bought from the top breeder of pigeons, spreads its wings and flew off the balcony. It's headed to the Delacroix household.
"I'm still going," Raven insists. "It's worth a shot."
"What if you lose?"
"Then so be it!" The girl flips her hair in annoyance and storms off the room. Dai follows closely even though Raven attempted to shut the door in his face. "If I lose, I lose. I want to try."
"It will be bad for your career. Your image will suffer a great deal if you fail to get to a good place in the Cup." Dai is reasonable. He holds no grudge against the decision of his witch. He offers the outcomes of the decision, providing the much needed opposition. Because hell will set loose if Raven is left on her own.
That's when Raven turns around. This time, her carefully dolled-up face is serious. She unpins the Knight's Crest from her collar and holds it up to Dai's face. "I'm a witch practicing witchcraft as much as I am an idol performing on stage." Her eyes are cold, but determined. She looks at Dai, and she knows she is right. "Let them know my witching career is separate to my show business." Raven storms out of the room and to the grounds where the crowd is gathered. To Raven, the crowd is both a blessing and a curse.
To Dai, the image of the beautiful woman descending the steps looks like a descent to hell.
The beautiful woman's logic is flawless. But logic does not apply to people who wants nothing but destruction of Raven Delacroix's image.
