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 kasimir burovski ✨ on May 12, 2017 13:17:53 GMT
coquelicots blossoming
in the wake of the sun
his hands itch.
the blood that had stained his fingers crimson has long since been washed clean, but he can still feel phantom droplets sinking into the crevices of his skin as a physical mark of his sins. no matter how many times he has fought, killed, cheated, stolen - he will never be rid the irrational urge to scrub his fingers raw to the bone.
this time, thankfully for what tattered remains of his conscience he still clings to, it had only been a preliminary scouting to gather information for a later hit gone awry, an unexpectedly vigilant guard being the only casualty. It's another life on his ledger of course, another name to add to the list that weighs heavy on his soul, but... kasimir's not ready to die, not quite yet, not with responsibilities still tying him to the world. so when it's do or die, his life or another's... he regrets, but not enough to stay his hand.
which is why he finds himself stalling outside the back entrance to hireling's keep, not ready to go in and face people just yet, but also with nowhere else to go.
Post by artemi zakharchenko on May 14, 2017 20:45:17 GMT
[nospaces]
He didn't think many people used the back entrance; or, at least, it was rare Artemi ever caught someone loitering around like this. With Silvertongue not being the most virtuous of covens, it was most likely not something he wanted to get involved with. The smart idea would to be to turn around while he remained unnoticed and leave the pensive male to his doings.Rather than let common sense guide him away, the raven-haired witch's feet remained firmly rooted. The redhead didn't outwardly seem threatening, he reasoned weakly.[break][break]
The alleyway that snaked around the back of his coven's headquarters was poorly illuminated, cast in shadow by the tall buildings that flanked it. The sun's rays, unable to reach the dank back street, made it so the area consistently smelt damp, sweetly tinged with decaying rubbish piled, forgotten, in cans.There was a faint rustling to be heard but neither of the men seemed to be the orquestrator; no doubt it were some small rodent ferreting for scraps. Artemi, his lithe dark figure pressed against the wall where the alley turned and slithered deeper into the less traversed bowels of the city, didn't spare a glance for the origin of the noise, his sanguine eyes - the same crimson hue of fresh blood - were fixed on the other male through his mane of unkempt inky hair.[break][break]
"Are we going in today, sir, or perhaps tomorrow?" He drawled, his monotonous voice interrupting the near silence that permeated the damp, pungent air. His unassuming hands slipped into his dress trouser pockets as he pushed off from the wall and stole a couple of bold steps closer. The heels of his shoes scuffed and scratched the worn cobbles. "You seem... lost in thought. Although, forgive me, this is hardly the best place. This is a bit of an.... ah.... unsavoury area."
notes, just crashing in, hope it works o/ up to you if kasi recognizes his fellow coven member![break] tag,kasimir burovski ✨
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Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on May 16, 2017 13:33:27 GMT
coquelicots blossoming
in the wake of the sun
footsteps, quiet, unobtrusive, pattering like soft rain across the misted morn; halt. his skin prickles, tiny pinpoints of paranoia creeping down the ligaments of his spine, whispers of matte-coated daggers and the cloyingly sweet scent of poison ominous in the looming shadows. there is someone there, wrapped in layers of void and silence - that he cannot sense any ill-intent is one of the only factors staying his hand.
kirjava slips tacitly into existence, quiet like the final sigh of the universe's end and shrouded in the same darkness that so hides their observer; she styles herself a silent guard, an unseen protector, ready to stain crimson her claws at the first stirrings of provocation; a ghost in the night as they are forged to be.
there is a pause in reality, breath held still by the skies themselves. then... a sigh.
"are we going in today, sir, or perhaps tomorrow?" monotonous. flat. distant. a stranger steps into view, tall and lithe with dark hair sliding like a river of ink down his back, eyes crimson as the fire of his hair, the blood staining his soul. instinct has kasimir taking in the quality weave of the stranger's clothing and the immaculate style with which he dresses, hard-learned wariness has him scanning the newcomer for potential weapons. there are no obvious threats, but he of all people knows how easy it is to conceal knives on one's person. "you seem... lost in thought. although, forgive me, this is hardly the best place. this is a bit of an.... ah.... unsavoury area."
kasimir does not reply immediately, eyes dark as the night flickering back up to the stranger's face instead. familiar, he thinks, and there is a brush of agreement across the back of his mind; neither he nor kirjava forget faces - etched into their very bones is the instinct of committing everyone of import into their memories - but it takes a beat of time for the correct name to click into place.
"artemi zakharchneko," he greets, stoic and detached as if merely stating something of fact, the man's question discarded to the uncaring wind. the other man is older, part of the same coven his loyalty has been shackled to, but still a fledgling as he remembers. not a threat, not really.
Post by artemi zakharchenko on May 16, 2017 19:36:33 GMT
[nospaces]
If Artemi had caught the lone male by unawares, he concealed it effortlessly; it did not go amiss though how he was examined with eyes that warded... indifference? Wariness? A thrum of amusement left the witch's nose in the form of a light exhale at the unreadable sight but he let the man look, he let those unfathomable eyes comb through his hair and brush over his clothes, allowing him the time he needed. He was wagering it on being the latter - on being simple cautiousness - yet that was hardly something to be held against anyone. But, of course, Artemi would only expect that his own blatant inspecting would be permitted in return.[break][break]
When finally the younger spoke, merely uttering his name, Artemi followed through with a respectful bow of his head. A discreet show of deference for a higher-ranked witch. He was a fledgling, practically a nobody, an insignificance of a member in a numerous coven in the presence of someone who possessed a notion of recognition in comparison. Burovski; a Silvertongue comrade who had perhaps been around roughly as long as he had, yet who had crawled his way higher, scaled to an acceptable rank. Frankly, it was a surprise that a novice would even bear to recall the name of someone who didn't bother themselves with the ambitious competition of climbing ranks. [break][break]
Existing, living, whether it be on the edge of the coven where his freedom was secure, was suffice.[break][break]
"That would be my name, yes," Artemi replied, with about as much emotion as the boy with wildfire for hair had had the graciousness to say his name with. Which, honestly, wasn't much. The alchemist didn't seem dissuaged in the slightest though and the hint of a slanted smirk danced on one corner of his lips. "I wasn't aware I'd caught enough of your attention for you to recall it."[break][break]
Maintaining his nonchalant demeanor, he took an ambling step in the other male's general direction. His gaze finally disconnected and floated off to take in their... humble surroundings. A presence at the back of his mind, constant and rooted as an integral part of his own being, hummed with the call for vigilance. The novice, or rather, his familiar, while not outwardly unsettled nor hostile, didn't go unperceived by his own. Whether it be because of their dismal location with its foul scents that grew more noticeable the longer they lingered here or because of his familiar's meddling, Artemi squinted and removed one of his hands from its hiding place to flick at a strand of hair that'd become displaced. The movement had been too quick for his guarded familiar, Deimos, who immediately responded by telepathically sending a scolding murmur.[break][break]
"I didn't think novices would feel the need to skulk through the back entrance," Artemi continued, unperturbed, wordlessly conveying that he - too - recognized the other witch. "That feels more apt for the dregs of the coven such as myself, don't you think?" Another pinched look passed over his sharp expression as his eyes fell on the petrified core of an apple languishing by his foot; almost daintily, he toed it away. "I'm a little curious now."
notes, ahhhh your writing is music to my muse <33[break] tag,kasimir burovski ✨
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Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on May 21, 2017 8:57:38 GMT
coquelicots blossoming
in the wake of the sun
he feels eyes scraping over the crevices of his soul, sinking into each pore, sifting through each fragment, each facet of his being; he knows it is his paranoia whispering sanguine-stained thoughts into his mind to taint his logic scarlet, but still he cannot help the feeling of vulnerability that curls through his veins, cannot smother the fission of (not fear) dread at being the focus of someone's attention. in his line of work, to be noticed is to be dead.
but even he cannot justify silencing a... comrade for the sake of easing his discomfort, so he endures as he has always done: with utter stillness, a blank void of body language that will hopefully reveal nothing to observers. (he is very good at remaining if he allows himself to admit it - too many times has his very life depended on this skill)
he does not relax when the razor-sharp intensity of that crimson gaze eases, does not relax at the recognition that sparks in his eyes, does not relax when the ink-haired witch nods to him as a concession and acknowledgement of his rank - kasimir has seen too much of the cruel, deceptive world to allow himself the foolish luxury of lowering his guard to one whom he does not trust. the ghost of a slanted smirk to zakharchneko's expression does the older witch no favours; tension cords in the rigidity of kirjava's spine even as his own posture slips towards deceptive casualness.
( briefly, he wonders what zakharchneko sees when he looks upon the younger witch - a weapon stained in the blood of his wielder's enemies, perhaps? or a monster, an inhuman being who has forsaken the right to be human - then reality reasserts itself and he pushes the thought aside as a frivolity of mind he does not truly wish to know the answer to )
"that would be my name, yes," zakharchneko says, the same inflectionless tone as kasimir underlying his words despite the expression painting his face. he wonders which side of zakharchneko is more real. "i wasn't aware i'd caught enough of your attention for you to recall it."
trap question, baiting - a technique as familiar to him as the biting touch of the cold, and just as despised. it speaks of being trapped, being boxed in from all sides with the insidiousness of words that doesn't allow for the defence of fire and steel, of being manipulated and blackmailed and closed in on until he is exposed and unmade and forged anew into a creature he loathes more than the universe itself. it is the hourglass heavy in his pocket, the blades strapped against his body, the phantom blood he feels even now coating his fingers red. he does not answer for fear of the words that shatter like glass shards on his tongue, and it tastes like ashes and bitter tears.
the older witch takes a step closer, encroaching upon his space with an illusive nonchalance that kasimir trusts about as much as he would a bloodthirsty assassin; kirjava prowls forth from the shadows paralleling his movement, taking her place by his side with burning eyes one shade shy of gold. her stance is yet dispassionate, neither she nor kasimir displaying any signs of aggression for now; she is a warning, and everyone present knows as such.
zakharchneko's sudden movement shoots adrenaline straight into their veins; mana curls at kasimir's fingertips straining to be released; kirjava's ears flatten, hackles raise, lips peeling back from her sharp sharp teeth. for a fraction of a heartbeat, tension laces through the air like the helm of a god's anger. then.... realisation, forceful reestablishment of a false composure, a sinking feeling in the pits of his stomach.
he doesn't apologise.
( in their defence, they had only just returned from a mission, unexpectedly having been ambushed leaving their instincts on hair-triggers combined with exhaustion lacing their bones. but the reality is, they should have been better, should not have reacted so impulsively, and there is no excuse for very nearly attacking an innocent over such an innocuous gesture )
zakharchneko speaks again, subtly revealing his knowledge on kasimir himself - and both he and kirjava know better than to think the older witch was anything but purposeful in his reveal - his pretty, deceptively polite words concealing the traps laid within them. there is very little the summoner despises more than people who bait, trap, manipulate like zakharchneko does, but... he, unfortunately, owes it to the man not to simply ignore him and walk away now.
still, zakharchneko is currently the last person kasimir wishes to reveal anything potentially incriminating to. "i felt it appropriate," he settles on, offering no more than the four words and a deliberately casual shrug in response. if the older witch can take the hint...
a shrug, he realises a second later as pain flares across his torso and lances between his ribs from injuries he had forgotten about, was decidedly not a good idea.
kasi is still an idiot, sorry ;;; also... oops, sorry for rambly post• artemi zakharchenko • 829
Post by artemi zakharchenko on May 21, 2017 22:24:33 GMT
[nospaces]
There had perhaps been a little reason for his familiar to be so cautious of their reserved and verbally vague company, although Artemi didn't appear to bat much of an eyelid at the abrupt - yet fleeting - hostile display. Deimos, on the other hand, allowed himself to be a little more bothered. The sleek heron appeared from behind one of the witch's legs, shifting into existence at the small hint of threat. Unlike the more feline individual, he had no really telling qualities to speak of his displeasure for him besides his ruffled feathers and the way he held his wings a couple of inches off his bodice. His eyes, small and as inky black as the rest of him and his witch, were no doubt following the ocelot's every move in spite of her apparently retreating her actions. If her attack had been true though, his intervention would have decidedly been a little late.[break][break]
Temi, let's leave this pair at once. We are not welcome. The heron's advice rang clearly through his mind, for his own ears alone. What the familiar's partner thought of that though was communicated through a look. A blank but telling look nevertheless. It said that he had no plans to hightail out of here merely because a cat had flashed her teeth at him. Artemi, unlike his familiar, wasn't... well... a bird and, other than that little show, there seemed to be no other hint of possible aggression. [break][break]
"Now, now, Deimos," he murmured to his nervous companion, sparing him a passing glance. It took all for a second for his eyes to find their way back to Burovski's familiar though, his interest momentarily taken by the elegant creature. She was lithe, limber, assuredly hiding a fair amount of lean muscle under her pelt which - even in this pale light - hinted at having a lustruous sheen. Her fur was a marvel; a marble of rosettes and smudges, stripes and spots, fading towards her underside, and lovely in all aspects. Between the aurous intensity of her eyes and her coat, it'd be hard to pick which feature were more striking. But, harder still, to decide whether the familiar or her owner were more appealing on the eyes.[break][break]
In demonstration of meaning no harm, Artemi withdrew his other hand from his pocket and showed his palms.[break][break]
"In terms of comeliness, you're both at quite a match," he stated with unsolicited boldness. "But, really now, I pose no ill will. And, if I did, I'm rather sure I would have made my move before my presence had been noted." Deimos, uninvitedly, began pressing again through their link, trying to interrupt his string of thoughts, but Artemi continued. "Weapons are such vulgar things anyway to carry on a person." And, frankly, superfluous when you could conjure shards of ice that could pierce as well as a common blade could.[break][break]
Not that he'd even had much need for such a barbaric use of his magic. His purpose resided in alchemy, in salves, unguents, elixirs, brews. Poisons. If Burovski allowed himself a closer look of the hands that were offered to free inspection, perhaps he'd see that the skin of his palms were entirely free of any manner of callous or noticeable scar. They weren't the hands of hard labour nor of someone who had trained with a weapon or instrument of any sort. They were the soft hands of a scholar, of someone more invested in pages, papers, books and the stories some told. Not a person who chose to write his own intrepid tale in the crimson ink bled from vanquished foes.[break][break]
Temi, Deimos insisted, but with a little more urgency. I must reiterate. We should leave. I can smell blood.[break][break]
That... caught the witch unawares though, so suddenly that it was able to seep into his expression. His thin eyebrows knitted gently in silent question which remained that; silent. He didn't voice a single word for a moment as his vision, once again, passed over the reticent pair. Another quick examination, this time looking for something in particular... which escaped him. He saw no visual trace on neither of them of what Deimos apparently captured the scent of. He, as capable of making a wound fester irreparably as to heal it, knew that not all lesions were blatant. They were easily hid... under clothes. [break][break]
The sweep Artemi did of the redhead's body was brash and prying. Given how responsive the male was proving to be though, he didn't expect any enlightenment from him.[break][break]
"Appropriate, you say? Hmm..." He made a show of touching his own chin lightly with his finger, a pensive movement. "Appropriate if you're trailing a particularly distinct scent, definitely. Is that why you're avoiding the main door? Why you're hiding in the pungent alleys like a sewer rodent?" Slowly, deliberately, the tip of the digit poised by his lips turned to point in the male's general direction. "Masking a coppery scent we all know so well with something more foul, Burovski? Or... are you too shy to show you're sporting some sort of injury, perhaps?"
notes, don't apologize for something so good ;o;[break] tag,kasimir burovski ✨
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Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jun 3, 2017 14:26:53 GMT
coquelicots blossoming
in the wake of the sun
the shadows shift; the dim light of the alleyway slide down inky feathers to caress a sleek form, the elegant curve of a slender neck silhouetted against the fabric of zakharchneko's clothes. the older witch's familiar steps forth with eyes dark like liquid night - wary, ever so wary and magnitudes more hostile than his partner. almost a mirror of he and kirjava, kasimir thinks with a touch of sardonic humour. spine rigid, fur bristling, ears pressed flat against her skull: the aforementioned ocelot finds no amusement in the matter as he does; she tenses further with this new threat, though sheaths her claws and fangs in favour of a burning gold-eyed glare in concession of their initial mistake.
he hopes this encounter will not result in bloodshed.
as much as kasimir is confident in his ability to emerge victorious from any potential conflict with zakharchneko, he... would really rather not engage in violence when it is not absolutely necessary. and, he thinks as he suppresses a self-derisory grimace at the knife-sharp pain wrapping around his ribs and lungs, he would really prefer not to fight when already injured.
but he understand intimately kirjava's feelings - they are two halves of the same whole, after all - and there is a part of him that wishes he had the liberty to demonstrate as his familiar does the veracity of his discomfort. and if his partner's overt hostility happens to provoke the other pair to leave, well. he certainly will not complain.
neither kasimir nor kirjava miss the looks exchanged by heron and alchemist, fleeting as they are. and neither do they miss when crimson eyes settle on the ocelot, bloodied depths lit with a particular shade of curiosity, of analysis. kasimir sends soft tendrils of support and calm down their mental bond to preemptively prevent his familiar from leap for zakharchneko's throat, though he too shares in the sentiment, if not slightly less bloodthirsty in execution.
( how many of their secrets can the other witch divine from their actions, he wonders; he prays that it is none at all )
this time, he does not reach for his daggers as zakharchneko moves; no does he relax however. though surrender is writ into the gesture so proffered, only an honourable fool would trust so blindly.
"in terms of comeliness, you're both at quite a match," zakharchneko says, and suddenly, suddenly the world has tilted on its axis and no longer makes sense.
'what?!' kasimir wants to blurt out, bewildered and disconcerted and completely, utterly stunned in a way he has not been since childhood. the sky could cave and the stars could shatter into supernova-bright shards right there, and still he would not be more shocked. it is only the training engraved in the very make of his genetics that halt his tongue and allow him to retain the shred of his composure; but for a moment, he is unguarded in his surprise: eyes wide, vulnerable, young in a way he cannot otherwise seem with the weight of his sins pressed down on his shoulders and the burden of his sworn responsibilities trailing like shackles from his wrists.
and then the walls slam back over the emotions that had broken through, iron-welded blankness that guards his core from the outside world as he hastily re-errects the fortress of his defences. he cannot believe... he cannot believe that zakharchneko has managed to elicit such a concession from him, cannot believe that he would be so weak as to falter under something so simple as surprise: that those words were the last thing he had expected from the older witch is no excuse.
( and if the first thing he thinks of is kisses pressed against his lips so hard they bruise, of dirty, dingy alleyways and the cruel bite of winter as he sells his body to survive; if he thinks of desperation like ashes and a contract with the devil that he signs because even that is more hope than the streets, well. that is no excuse either )
kirjava presses against his legs in a subtle show of support as sanguine eyes suddenly narrow, boring into kasimir as they execute a thorough scan as if analysing how best to unmake him, piece by piece. there is a phantom of surprise lingering in zakharchneko's expression, but that tells him nothing. whatever has caught the older witch's attention, he can only hope the other will not find anything more.
throat. eyes. heart. sternum. arteries: one, two three. kasimir quietly counts off every vital point he could target on zakharchneko with minimal risk should the need arise as said witch begins speaking again with deliberate, mocking musings, verbal traps as potentially lethal as any blade and equally as sharp. there is ice in blood, cinders in his veins; his jaw is clenched hard enough to bite clean through his tongue as zakharchneko reveals his knowledge of kasimir's injury.
soft. insidious. threatening: a fission of fear courses through him as he fights the urge to flee, to silence this man who knows too much, to prevent himself from being at the mercy of anyone again. but that would be admittance to this vulnerability, and he cannot run when there is still anything to be salvaged.
"that is no one's business other than our own," kirjava growls before he can respond, and they realise the mistake simultaneously. too defensive, too protective - it is all but the confirmation zakharchneko seeks, leaving kasimir with no choice but to reply with a nonchalant stoicism as if the words were not reminisce of glass shards on his tongue. "missions may beget certain dangers," he says. "it is nothing serious."
all he wishes is to return to his quarters, shower, attend to his wounds, then sleep for a decade far away from anyone else. is that truly too much to ask?
