"ENDLESS NIGHT :: DEAD MAGIC"


The God of Time was struggling against the very forces of the universe, but he was only a single entity. Sweat trickled from his brow, and his lungs heaved against his sides. He stood in the center of the Thistle Meadow at the head of a large, mirror-like tear in reality that was threatening to consume them all. A blue shield of energy pressed against the large, glassy surface which stood vertically in the middle of the meadow like a sideways lake.

From the fluctuations of force and wind that pulsed through the Meadow, the signs of oncoming tragedy were there, looming. The pulsing shield against the rift seemed to pull with it clouds and storms, spiraling to the center like a moth to a flame. Too early in the day, the light faded, and even the moon seemed wan and weak, rippling strangely in the sky as if it too would soon fade.

With lines of worry etched into their godly, pristine faces, the four siblings united for the first time in an age. The God of the Earth, with deeply furrowed brows strode next to his smaller, charcoal brother and pulled water and rock from the earth, forming a rotating shield of his own creation against the rift.

The goddess of the moon snaked around to the other side, pulling essence from the blackness of the sky like a dreamless void while weaving the dark through carefully threaded streams of wind. She layered the darkness and wind against the glassy surface. In a thick cloud of blooming flame that was torn quickly and reformed with the force of the wind, the God of the Sun approached his sister's side. Light from his very body poured into the rift, and fire rimmed his sister's shield, stabilizing it as best as he could.

But it was not enough.

The forced of nature conspired against the young gods, and Time knew that they had only one choice. The God of the Earth seemed to share this same thought, and he turned to the God of Time, dipping his head in a gesture of great sadness. He traveled instantly to where his son was in the Foothills, and the God leaned down, touching Hototo on the forehead and breathing against his forelock.

"You are a protector of the mortals now. When the world grows dark, only you will have the power to nourish the land and keep it alive. I will return when I am able. Be strong. Be brave. And know that I am proud of you."

In an instant, he was gone, and his large, draft figure was torn into the rift. One by one, the gods released their holds. The God of the Sun found Israfel in the World's Edge, sadness-etched lines into his proud face.

"You are the light this world will not have, Isra. Stay steadfast and bold. Be the star of the land, the hope of an age, and one day, I will see you again."

Once he was returned, the God surrounded himself in a thick cloud of churning fire, leaping directly into the void. The God of the Moon snaked away next, going to the Windtossed Foothills to visit her son.

"Mesec," she whispered. "Soon, the world will be dark, and you will be the only one who will understand its ways and desires. You are a strong boy, and you must lead them with your knowledge. Goodbye."

The goddess reappeared in the meadow and cloaked herself in darkness before sliding inside the glass, silent and sly like a shadow. Finally, the God of Time traveled to the Foothills to meet with his daughter who was too young still to understand what was happening. Soon, that would be changed.

"Roskuld." His voice was deep. "You are the time keeper. Days will not cycle. The Sun will not rise, but you will know the seasons and feel the pattern of then spin of the Earth. Watch after them."

Once he returned, the blue shield left and the rippling tear grew exponentially larger until the God of Time stepped through the hole. In an instant, the rift was gone, leaving the meadow in an eerie and ominous silence. The world did indeed grow dark, and day came without the rise of the sun.

Upon waking, the four demi-god children would all find themselves at a year old, their bodies altered by the God of Time. They had been forced to grow up, to age to protect the mortals in the gods' absence. Only the four half-gods had the power and the connection with Helovia to keep it functioning in this strange age of eternal night.

Lining the roads and well-worn pathways that lead to each lined were large, lamp-like trees. Their bark glowed bright shades of green, blue and purple, and their leaves gave enough light by which to travel. In the herdlands, the shrines provided enough light by which to live. The pool in the Foothills glowed brightly like the fires in a lighthouse, a beacon to all who called this land home. The mists of the World's Edge sparkled with light and lifted to settle in the bare boughs of the winter trees. In a way, the mists because stars, fallen from the skies, blanketing the land. The fire in the Dragon's throat began a pillar in the sky, erupting straight into the heavens. Its light illuminated the oasis, giving life to the vegetation. In the Basin, the mirror in the cave reflected against crystals in the walls, creating a massive entanglement of light that pulsed from the cave. The light illuminated the lake which seemed to glow from beneath, providing some comfort in the frozen land.

The gods left a single message in the veins, written in a language that was read not in the mind, but the heart. It glowed across the remainder of all four stones of their shrines.


"STAY STRONG. THERE MUST BE DAWN AFTER EVERY NIGHT."

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Feel free to reply to have your character witness specifically the events in the Thistle Meadow.

INNOCENCE You will never be mine The tensions between Psyche, Deimos and her sister had left Ophelia with a sour taste in her mouth and a knot in her soul that she was still trying to work out. Should she leave? Was that the answer? The tired feeling that numbed her entire body seemed to only be growing worse, and she seemed to always stand upon a balance of turning cold and trying to hold onto the goodness and compassion that had been so far abused. She was not happy with who she was becoming, not pleased with the choices that had been presented and how she had been forced to act in response. Ophelia did not blame Ktulu inherently for wanting to protect Midas - she knew she would have done the same. The white mare also did not like the fact that she was growing to resent her sister for pulling her into this murderous endeavor. As they battled, she had seen the expression on her father's face when he stood upon that hilltop, and it was filled with disappointment. Paladin had taught them honor, to justly battle, and while Ophelia had a different set of morals than her father, she had to believe that what he taught protected the soul. With every contract, she felt emptied out, strung up and tumbled dry. She felt as if she was spitting on the precious beauty of life in exchange for what? Items? Corporeal things? Trinkets? Of what use did she have for these items and what made then worth another's life? Nothing, no price, could ever tip the scales into a balance between life and crafted things that would be forgotten in death. Put simply, what they were doing was wrong. She had tried to spin herself a lie in which to found her desire to please her sister. Ophelia had told herself that their band would protect others, but so far? A god contracted them to take a flower, and the Basin, one of the largest herds, contracted them for warriors. In there very first action of gaining a homeland, they violated her lie - they took from the weak who had nothing with which to protect themselves, a broken herd. Cloven toes crunched the snow as she drifted through the meadow. Normally, she would have gone north, but this blanket of white made anywhere she roamed feel like home. But something was wrong, on this day. A large, rippling surface of a lake seemed to sit in the middle of the land with the God of Time at it's front. She furrowed her brows, realizing that the situation was more grave than her initial impression. The sky grew dark and storm clouds thundered overhead. She could not hear over the roaring of the wind, almost too loud to bear. Wind picked up and blew her pale and crimson hair around her face, catching in her long, slender legs and around her face. She felt her heart begin to beat fast as the other gods joined the fray. A pulsing energy kept her back, and she grit her teeth against its power. Ophelia was powerless in this moment. She watched as they one by one disappeared and reappeared only to be sucked into the void. The God of Time was the last to fall, and the rift disappeared. The sun did not return to the sky, and shadows grew longer. An unnatural quiet settled over the area that had once been in such turmoil, and she felt fear creep into her soul. What had she just witnessed? Was this the end? Was this the end of the world? Ophelia could only stand and stare, paralyzed by what she witnessed, a hopelessness covering her soul. The great architects of their land had gone... She could hear the sound of her own heart beating, every rustle of her hair through what was left of the breeze from the violent storms. The shards of stone that had once adorned her hair and made her almost glow was gone entirely, snuffed out like the flame of a life. She looked up as the flap of Tinek's wings caught her attention, and she felt him settle in her hair. "Are we... alone?" he asked. Ophelia stared at the empty horizon, wrapped in darkness. She inhaled once, sharply as tears rose to the brims of her eyes. "I can still hear you, Tinek..." she murmured quietly. "I... I believe this may be the end." Was the dream she shared with Mauja prophecy? Had they tumbled into the hole?

Credits: The-Ripple-Effects @ DA

Mauja Frosthjärta And here he was again, in the middle of nowhere, the middle of everything, halfway between the Throat and the Threshold – a white shadow in the night, a frost-wraith drifting over the carpet of snow. Pale light threw him into stark relief, his shadow crisp against the pale backdrop, and like something from another world he glowed silver, edges both blurred and sharp at the same time. Irma was a quiet ghost above him, soaring on the winds, his eyes against the horizon when his own grew heavy with brooding. He was barely looking at where he went, trusting her to keep him safe; tall grasses lay bowed under the snow, ice lacing the few stubborn strands that stilled defied winter, and these were the things he saw as he walked, head bowed and heavy. White smoke rose from his nose, testament of life where his impassive face and guarded eyes otherwise betrayed none. Day by day it felt like he was getting farther from his goal, despite being closer than ever, and day by day he spent more and more time away, knowing that time only increased the risks – and yet he wasn't ready to leap, to tumble headfirst down the abyss and land wherever he may. Things were about to change, either a lot, or not much at all. He only needed to keep to the shadows, and then pull the trigger, release the flame, the spark. If caution was a flaw, then he was damnably flawed. He was treading the thin line between where caution was justified, and where it was simply cowardice. Irma tumbled into his mind, a jumble of images and colors and smells, and the wind picked up, a cold finger sending shivers down his spine as it flowed past. Mauja's movements stumbled to a halt, head thrown up, nostrils wide; his heart quivered in his chest, the owl's frantic transmissions confusing him more than they shed lights on things. Are you alright? he cried into their bond, scanning the rapidly darkening skies for signs of her – and there she was, ruffled and pale, righting herself from some tumble through the air, swept back by some unseen force. He released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, heartbeat steadying, and she banked left to face the way she had come from again. The sky offered her a vantage point he could never get, and he saw the shimmer of something, and Asni beside it, almost as if bracing.. Irma hovered where she was, and together they watched, transfixed, as one by the gods appeared... .. and his own eyes saw something else, a white shape further off, one that sent his heart tumbling and mind reeling. Ophelia! He would know her anywhere, from the red of her fringes to her stance, her long legs, the horn upon her brow – his heart knew her even if his mind wouldn't, and before he had the time to reflect over what he was doing he was rushing her way, even as the skies fell dark. Somehow he split his vision, one eye on the ground, one eye in the air; he saw the Gods flicker and return, saw them disappear into that something, wind whipping tails and wings and manes around, roaring in his ears and deafening even the faint crush of brittle grass under his weight. He was noiseless, only because the gale drowned him out, insignificant and brief as he was in these times of trouble. And then, Asni followed his brothers and sister into the void, and abruptly things seemed to return to almost normal; the storm lessened, the sense of suppressed, thrumming power vanished, but the world was so dark and.. and.. and... He felt weightless. As if something was suddenly not there anymore. As if his blood ran warm and light, as if something he had not quite been aware of had disappeared... His run had slowed to a walk, confusion written plainly on his otherwise closed face, and Irma crashed down from the calm, but so dark, skies to land upon his withers. The tight grip of talons, the spill of desaturated blood in the darkness, was her gesture of comfort, and he found himself clinging to her soul the way a dying man clung to whatever was closest – the way he wanted to run up to Ophelia and hug her, hold her close, for if everything ended now, he wanted to be with her. "Ophelia," he said, but it came more like a hushed whisper, uncertainty playing across both face and voice. Tentatively he reached out, to brush his muzzle against her neck, as if unsure of if what he was seeing was real.. and some part of him expected her to shatter at his touch, to fall like ice to the floor and merge with the snow. For if the Gods went.. would it not make sense that they took everything of beauty with them?

The winter had only seemed to begun, but was somewhere in the middle of its time. There was a lot of occurrences that had happened in its cold wake, but nothing too treacherous. Other than hearing about this duplicates, Faelene had not noticed anything wrong, anything out of sorts. It was disappointed again by the Threshold wanderers she begin to head into the wilds. The Thief only followed the strange tug of an invisible force that had her nerves set on edge by something foreboding she could not yet see. That she couldn't begin to understand.


Closer her dark legs cut through the snow, taking her to the Meadow where the energy was all wrong. In fact she couldn't control it at all it was out of her grasp. A faint frown tugged at her lips, lines about her eyes while she forced harder through the trails of white. The red maned was determined to see what was happening so she pressed on even though a wiser creature might have darted the other way.

Black, heavy clouds began to block out any light, but she could see the vivid blue of something oval. Drawn to it, she saw the God of Time in front of the bright, blue.....shielding against a reflected..hole? Silver irises were upon him. He looked strained, as mortal as she had ever seen him. While tempted to go to him, he was with the other Gods who seemed to try to face the same object. The wind a fierce creature trying to steal her breath, she could not move closer. The red maned stood, letting it lash against her hair, drawing air in quick gasps. She was afraid of what they were fighting, afraid of what was happening. There was nothing in her that could comprehend their actions, nothing she could do.

Two white figures who should have stood from the darkness, only briefly caught her eye. One she knew, while the other she didn't. Right now silver eyes couldn't tear away from the rift, and her mind was running to rampant to question anything but the Gods now throwing themselves into the void. A cry passed her lips, but it was muffled by the storm. The God of Spark had returned,to only take his final step with the rest. Whatever remained of brightness was gone. The light went out and Faelene would be nothing but a shadow, blending into the dark canvas that now was their world. In this place it wasn't smoke that killed the blue sky, and killed the light. It was something much worse, and Faelene didn't dare think where the Gods were now. Nor if they were coming back.

Confutatis After Déodat, the frozen land of white dust and silver stones seemed dull in comparison to the blood stallion and his eccentric manner of cold charm. It would be a lie, and a rather poor one, to say she had not been near-blissful in his dark company and the way his eyes were so dark. The svelteness of his sculpted muscles, the vermillion of his shining coat, the white that draped gracefully over his shoulders and withers, the sparkling indigo eyes. Beside him, the damned did not feel as damned; and her stone-dead heart did not feel as hard. His velvet voice, rich and dark, sweet on her charcoal ears. Oh she was no fool; he detested her, hated her, for she bore no crown like his ruby jewel on her forehead. Still, there was an inexplicable something between them, a black fire burning darkly, corrupted and a crude parody of love, but nevertheless, it was there, glowing, between them. Knowing Déodat had returned to his home unknown in the perilous world that was the north, made ever more bitter by the frost and snow of winter, the hellion had begun venturing downwards, down through the narrow bridge connecting the steppe to the larger body of land, past the mountains tall and dark, foreboding in their silence, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of avalanches chasing down their wide flanks. Mountains; she had traveled through them a few times in her chase of ambitions and terrible thoughts, down their winding, impossibly long passes filled with haunches-high snow, sometimes so deep she literally swam through the softer powder, praying she did not sink. Confutatis had wandered through many places, after departing Isilme. Exploring the world, learning what she could do; well, it was an experience that could not be matched by others. Unfamiliar as she is with Helovia, she did not know where she stopped, only that the scent of horses were ever stronger in the air, a plethora of intermingling stenches that twisted together, impossible to decipher. Pine and frost, like Déodat; the heat of a stallion, the fragile perfume of a mare; and four more, four so strong it overpowered everything else, the burning smoke of flame, electricity that she tasted on her tongue, the death and decay of darkness, and humid earth. Her one amber eye sought out the sources, finding a mare of pearl and a stallion of ivory, with black petals scattered over his rich silver bodice; a mare of ebony, mane of scarlet; but those were not who drew her eye. It was, who she was certain, were the gods. From a stout pony, robust and strong, shaggy black with faint cream patterns, to the tallest of them all, a massive stallion with a rack of curling horns and eyes of emerald, they emanated power and strength. It very nearly hurt, the power that radiated outwards from them, and Confutatis recoiled, a surge of surprise bursting through her. Four of them? Why, how? Were they what had drawn her idyllic path here of all places, near to a roaring river? Darkness gathered overhead, and something primitive warned her; something terrible was coming. It was then her eye found the vertical disk, just like the strange walls of the Arch, lying suspended in the air. Fear arced through her. It grew stronger, more abhorrent, as one by one the gods disappeared only to return, and as the first leaped into the hole. Then the second, the third, the fourth. And then the world was plunged into utter darkness, and Confutatis screamed. A horse's scream is a rare thing, just like a human's, horrendously high and loud-pitched, terrible and ghastly, ferocious. Could one truly blame the mare? For she thought her eyesight was gone in her left her, too, disappeared, and fury roared in her veins. How dare they take her vision? The mare half-reared, forelegs lifting off the ground, a mixture of fear and rage burning her inside, scalding water, and she was panicking. What had happened? Horses are prey. Susceptible as they are to fear, near everything and anything scares them; should one be surprised the dark mare flees for her life, running from predators that are not there, crashing through the river and to the trees, soaking wet and wading through the snow, desperate in her attempt to run? Fly Confutatis does.