#ieri poli

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IERI POLI, the Shining Jewel, Keystone City of the Central Sunbeam Ruins.

If the text is too small, it’s in the image ids. I hope you’ll tune in when we drop the prologue for Ieri Poli’s story!

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Art of Lio for my beloved @vicegrips-fr! I experimented with a new shading technique in the first version then more usual version in the second. He was super fun to draw even if it took me three tries before I got it right <3

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In anticipation of myself and @vicegrips-fr​’s new light lore, I decided to update Belisarius’ design! Behold, the Herald of Fortitude, valour, summer wind, fresh spring waters, and the arts. She, alongside her siblings, were left to rule over Ieri Poli after the First Herald; original son of the Lightweaver; Iustinious Dei, disappeared six hundred years ago.

It’s been kinda rough, even for a demigod.

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Some of the dragons of Ieri Poli, the keystone city of the Sunbeam Ruins which protects the central lands from the Hewn City! This is a combination of both my side faction and @vicegrips-fr’s side faction that we smashed together because it made more sense for them to just be the same thing.

Top left: Belisarius Dei, an ancient creation of the Lightweaver known as a Herald, worshipped as a demigod. Her domains are Fortitude, fresh spring water

Top right: Marpessa, a mid tier priestess of The Order, the encompassing paladin organisation that runs the city. She handles administrative duties.

Bottom left: Aristides, the captain of one of the paladin guilds named Lux in Tenebris Lucet. He’s highborn, proud of his abilities, but forced to herd cats due to his teammates being, uh, unusual.

Bottom right: Alcibiades, (whom some may remember!), a noble who was kicked out of his house. Now he freeloads at the temples and plays music for the festivals.

We’re both super excited about this and have plans to actually write down a linear story in rp form which we can then clean up and post in parts! <3

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Some older followers may remember Alcibiades, a smarmy little goblin who sat around in the Syndicate’s bar playing piano. Well, I dusted him off and reinvented him a little! Here’s Alcibiades 2.0, exiled noble of a prestigious winemaking family who does all of the music for the temples.

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Well this isn’t weird or anything; goodbye Icedad, hello Sparklemama!

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Seraph, Pt. IV

Notes: Continuing this loose series of snippets from the history of Ieri Poli. War looms, and a messenger runs for his life.

Pings: @vicegrips-fr @mask-fr @kattafr @slighteyewing​

A silhouette from above darkens the ground as he rides. A wingspan wider than he can see stretches across the once golden plains and bathes the already sodden earth in black.

Wild animalistic panic bubbles inside his throat, the blood pounding in his temples so hard he cannot hear the low inhuman rumble of the shade beast that pursues him. Or perhaps it doesn’t even notice the speck that lies beneath it’s belly and the raw panic the messenger feels is purely coincidental. It feels pointed though- malice made manifest sweeping across what was once a peaceful nation.

“Lightweaver,” he manages to wheeze out, feeling the sweat drip down his throat as his mount pants beneath him, “Help me.”

As if answering his calls, a beam of light pierces the heavens. The messenger looks up to see a rain of light made into holy spears, breaking through the massive silhouette of the beast above. They shoot straight through as the beast tilts to the side, taken off guard by the attack. It cries out, a mournful song- all it wants is to return home, but it will not be so lucky.

A commanding voice rings out from the heavens.

“You will come no further.”

The messenger lets out a shaky breath, the iron grip he’s had on the reins going slack in his hands. A rush of relief runs through his veins, as sweet as honey. Oh, his muscles ache, his very soul aches, but he can feel tears springing to his eyes anyway.

“Belisarius Dei,” he whispers.

The mighty beast above finally crashes to the earth. It’s form is warped and wrong, as a child tried to sculpt a mighty dragon but had little reference to work with. It’s long wings bleed into the rest of it’s body, dotted with strange gaps where flesh mixes with black liquid. It’s gaping maw opens for a moment, a death rattle before it falls silent.

Beside it, a Herald of the Lightweaver settles.

“You were brave,” Belisarius says, closing her wings along her back, “To keep riding.”

“Of course,” the messenger wheezes out, chest heaving as sweat drips from his pale face, “Iustinious Dei wished me to.. return at all.. costs.”

He laughs, coughs, dragging a hand over his face.

“Then we will deliver this news together,” Bela says, her voice a lilting thing.

She places a hand on the man’s chest and smiles, radiating out healing magic which alleviates the worst of his fear and panic, as well as healing the steed he rode on.

“I shall fly above you and guide you home,” she says, lifting back up into the sky.

“Thank you,” he says, then louder as she flies up, “Thank you!”

Ieri Poli is abuzz with activity. It has been the jewel of the middle-lands for generations, one of the first cities to be formed and the favoured roost of the God-King Iustinious Dei.

When the messenger arrives, the crowds greet him both with grins and shoulder-claps of appreciation.

“You’re back! You’re back! You lived!”

“Ha, told you! Nothing can stop us, not any monster!”

“That false God better count her days, I’m telling you!”

He laughs nervously, exhaling as the crowd parts around Belisarius Dei, bowing their heads. Some throw flowers as she passes, which seem to catch in her feathers and hair and bloom ever brighter.

“Your Radiance! My Dearest Lady of Fortitude! You return!”

“I will always return,” Bela says warmly, accepting a bouquet that is given to her with shaking hands, “We must protect you all. Come, fleet-foot messenger.”

“Um, my name is Caecilianus,” he offers, “Your Radiance-ness.”

Bela laughs at that, like the chiming of a curtain full of golden bells.

“I do not need such fancy titles, child of man,” she says, kindly, “Belisarius Dei is my name.”

Caecilianus laughs, nervous but relieved as they walk through the marble streets and cobblestone paths, up around the stairs and towards the palace at Ieri’s centre- the Herald’s Roost.

Inside the Roost is a complex combination of a temple and a palace, even more abuzz with activity than the streets as people fall over themselves passing around reports and strategizing.

“Saint Sidaris,” Belisairus says, drawing the attention of a veiled woman with a beautiful circlet, “The messenger has returned.”

“Oh, what wonderful news!” Sidaris says, turning around and giving Caecilanus a bright smile- despite the bags under her eyes, she looks optimistic- “I will inform His Radiance at once.”

“No need!” a voice says from above.

Someone- something?- jumps from one of the higher floors, six wings flaring as gravity itself obeys and he settles gently on the floor. There is something about him- the sum of details, a bright halo and long purple hair, golden jewels and pale robes- that summons bravery from even the weariest of hearts.

“I heard you already, Sidaris,” Iustinious Dei says, walking right over to Caecilanus and clasping him on the shoulder, “You are truly brave, and I thank you for your service to Ieri.”

“Oh,” Caecilanus manages to wheeze out, trying his best not to collapse as the demi-god of counsel and justice stares him in the face as if it’s no big deal, “Of course, Your Radiance.”

“Psh,” Iustinious dismisses, “Iustinious is fine, or Ius. Come, give me the report and get some rest. Your husband was in here asking after you this morning, I am sure he will be elated at your return.”

Before Caecilanus can actually hand the letter to him, Iustinious takes it from his hands and unfolds it, walking away as he reads, feathers of his wings readjusting themselves.

“Please forgive His Radiance,” Sidaris says, rolling her eyes subtly, “He’s very busy.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” he says quickly, “Did Niketas really come in earlier looking for me?”

Sidaris nods in confirmation, holding her hands together at her chest.

“He did,” she says, “You should-”

He’s already turning to leave despite his aching limbs, renewed by the closeness of his beloved. Sidaris stifles a laugh until she feels Iustinious standing just behind her- and she can feel the weight of his gaze.

“Sidaris,” he says, as she meets his eyes, “This is not good.”

[majestyrising]

Seraph, Pt. V

Notes: Aha, once again not chronologically coherent. An extract from the end of the war between the ancient city of Ieri Poli and it’s divine ruler, Iustinious, and a shade remnant god known as Tethys. Warnings for mild body horror.

Pings: @vicegrips-fr @mask-fr @kattafr @slighteyewing

The mighty corpse of the shade remnant Tethys sits like a mountain, casting a deep shadow over the entire city of Ieri Poli. Well, what remains of it. The buildings have been shattered and sundered, even the tallest and more resilient still smoulders, shivering in the breeze.

Iustinious gets to his feet and finds his knees weak. With a soft grunt, he braces himself on the hilt of his sword. The scale that hangs from it's cross guard tips to and fro as he uses it to heft himself to his feet.

It should be a cause for celebration. Tethys is dead, destroyed finally. No longer will she threatened the blessed people under the Lightweaver's gaze. And yet-

Nothing but devastation as far as the eye can see. Rubble and broken weapons, bodies and the injured. Belisarius limps weakly towards a small group of the injured, holding her bow arm to her chest. She casts a look over her shoulder at Iustinious and gives him a weak smile. It doesn't meet her eyes. Those are too sad, bloodshot from soot and war.

Iustinious swallows and looks around. When Tethys took a final swipe at them, Sidaris was with him- his attendant, a woman whose strengths lie in diplomacy yet who refused to leave him on the final field of battle.

"Sidaris?" he calls, rubbing dust from his face as he makes his way through the carnage. The twisted bodies of Tethys' spawn litter the field, oily and black. Intertwined with them are his people, so few of them soldiers but too loyal, desperate to save their home.

None are still alive.

"Sidaris?" he calls again, louder this time, "Sidaris!"

There's no response. He grits his teeth and keeps looking, the shade-spawn's bodies catching fire where his hands touch them, repelled by his innate divine nature.

His heart sinks the longer he searches; that is until he spots obsidian hair catching in the smoky light.

"Sidaris!" he shouts, dashing over to shove the twisted remnant of one of the shade spawn away, revealing her body battered and bruised.

"Your radiance," she croaks out, with a smile that does meet her eyes despite her bloodstained cheeks, "We won."

Her voice is thin and reedy, a gash that runs down from her cheek to her chest. Her legs are crushed, but her elation is pure.

"We did," he agrees sombrely, "Do not move, my friend. I will heal you."

Her eyes flutter shut as he kneels down at her side, carefully lifting her onto his lap. Her breathing is so shallow. So shallow it's almost non-existent.

Jaw clenched he summons his aching bones to listen, his exhausted magical core to move and glow, his divine mana to manifest. The battle was so long. Never before has he been forced to confront mortality, to stare it in it's hideous face. He is immortal. He cannot die. But everyone around him can.

Her breathing is silent, her eyes shut.

A radiant light fills his body, pushing through his pores. A glow that never goes out.

Using all of his remaining strength, he pushes that power from himself into Sidaris.

Yet it doesn't absorb.

"It won't work," Sidaris mumbles, her eyes opening, a cough escaping her lips, "The poison..."

Iustinious lets out a panicked breath. The fluid from the shade spawn leaks into the group, bespoiling and corrupting it. It too leaks onto Sidaris, blackening her flesh.

It repels his attempts to save her, like oil on water.

"No," he says, suddenly furious, "No, it cannot be so."

Sidaris looks at him noncomprehending. Slowly her head turns to the side and another, even brighter smile works its way onto her face.

"Look," she says, her voice full of awe, "The sun is rising again!"

He follows her gaze to where the sun is beginning to crest the horizon, sending golden rays of warmth across the shattered plains.

"Yes," he manages, full of emotion and looking down at her- his heart plummets into the earth below as her gaze meets nothing, "The sun is back, my dearest friend."

He feels her spirit go, lifting from it's fallen vessel like so much air.

It hurts- like the final crack in a broken vase, he feels agony and heartache well up inside him. Its not fair. They won, and yet as he looks around he already knows that barely one tenth survived. His city is all but gone, his beloved people decimated.

What good is that the power of the gods if it cannot even save one person?

He bows his head and weeps quietly to himself, six-fold wings at his back drooping to the ground as one fades from shining violet to black.

Justinian wakes with a cold sweat. The memories fade like a photograph in reverse until he is again blind from his hubris, his fall from grace.

The sorrow sits ill. Sidaris is but a figure of legend now, and he has no one to talk to about the grief that still runs in his blood. Still, there’s nothing to be done now. He can hear footsteps just past his door- likely Mischa having brought him coffee for the early morning. It’s sweet, but he doesn’t quite want to have anyone gaze upon him right now.

“Just leave it there,” he calls, sitting up and reaching across the nightstand for his blindfold, keeping his pale eyes shut until it’s secure. The irony of light hurting him still isn’t lost on him. Mother has a cruel sense of humour.

“You alright?” Mischa calls back, no doubt putting a hand on the door considering that it creaks.

“Bad dreams,” Justinian answers truthfully, scratching his chin and getting up, pulling his cane from where he left at leaning against the wall, “Nothing to trouble yourself about.”

“If you’re sure,” Mischa says, sounding a touch concerned nonetheless, “Kos wants to see us when everyone’s up.”

“Mm,” Justinian murmurs, doing his best to push the images of a time when he was the one at the table with a shining crown, surrounded by his own tacticians. But then again, all of his died- and all of Koschei’s still live.

He’s always been the better ruler; so Justinian goes back to being nothing more or less than a mysterious acolyte with a strange level of expertise in history.