kalon readopts // new rule

[allu]

res

[pilotlight]

res

[Chiikapuu]

username; Chiikapuu
link to kalon; https://sta.sh/01qigtgay9fy
name; Senshi
gender; female
three extras max: assasin(limit of 1000 words per)
3 art pieces max [will do later]

[khvoxtic]

dropping

[gp5]

username;
link to kalon; https://sta.sh/02a8bha8bpo1
name;
gender;
three extras max (limit of 1000 words per)
3 art pieces max

let's see if i have time!

[f1owercrown]

dsldsfk dropping!!

[-galaxie]

username; -galaxie
link to form
Silas ---> Asteria

[birchfeather]

username;Birchfeather
link to kalon; https://sta.sh/021yuipk7x9r
name; Aleam
gender; Female
A bit of a insecure Kalon... She has deep line of magical heritage, so she is skilled at spells at grasping magic quickly, however, she isn't that strong with it, since she never full learned how to perform spells. She doesn't deem herself as normal due to her horns, seeing them as things that separates her from the others, everyone around her don't have theses monster like features she possesses. She thinks that everyone around her thinks she's some demonic creature... These views were created from her mother, calling ALeama freak and demon, for everything was happy until her horns and extra set of eyes showed... Luckily she managed to escape her mother when she was younger, but her upbringing had made a big impression to how she functions... ((wip?))
ARt: soon;;

[jisung]

res

username; agust d
link to kalon; link
name;
gender; male
three extras max (limit of 1000 words per)
3 art pieces max

[Cyrano]

[https://sta.sh/02a8bha8bpo1]

Male [he, him]

There is a shrill song that penetrates his mind, deafening and jarring, loud and obnoxious in the way it must be heard. It demands no less than his complete attention like the war beat of drums and the marching of feet, the synchronized thump thump thump of boots against the dirt. They rally for "proper" warfare, for "civilized" fighting.

He knows there is no such thing as "proper" or "civilized" in war, but he plays the farce nonetheless.

His name is not a name but a title, given unto him by someone he doesn't remember (it flickers in his mind, their face, their name, but he's not sure they had one either). In the darker nights, when he grows too tired of soft beds and warm sheets, and lays his back against the cold stone of the castle floors instead, he dreams.

It is always blood, more blood, not enough blood, staining his hands until he is red all over. His skin itself looks like dried blood, someone told him once (perhaps the same person who gave him his title).

But the Matriarch, she smiles sadly and folds his hands in hers, tells him that he is nothing less than beautiful tree bark, beautiful dirt from which flowers lay root and grow. He sees the blood in her eyes too and wonders if she still longs for it, dreams of it like he does. It sings to him, a corrupted song, telling him of old glory and past battles. Does it sing to her?

Shokra—war, rebellion, struggle. It is who he is, his place in the world, even as he scorns it, claws at it.

Even as he wants to embrace it.

(Good night, fair prince.)

By: Smith(ers)