From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The blistering contortions of the cave, its ramparts, its ridiculous upheaval, still mauled and haunted him; he should’ve been more capable, more efficient, more effective. Only a few times before had he felt so feeble and stupid, inept and ineffectual, droning on and on and on with naught to show for his efforts. Had the others not been in amongst the same threshold, fighting onslaught after onslaught, terror after terror, lending their abilities, their invocations, he might not have even standing there now – dead and gone again, sent back to oblivion without a trace. He would’ve been dust. He would’ve been demolished. He would’ve been nothing again – which seemed to make a full circle and cycle; the confidence undone, the belligerence uncanny.
But he needed to make amends, reparations, and acknowledgments first – before the Reaper presided back into training, into demolition, into abhorrence, striving to make himself better, stronger, mightier, so he wouldn’t be the towering, useless beast in another pocket of hell.
The warrior took his time gathering adequate supplies, and then bundling them together in a makeshift satchel, knotting the fabric together, tying it off so as he slung it over his shoulder it didn’t fly apart; muscles twitching, reminding him of their perilous ventures, and he thought to roll his eyes – carrying onward as if nothing would stop him (unceasing, resolute, adamant).
Finding Remi and Isla was another venture altogether: he didn’t think the blinded man would be able to traverse terribly far, and it only took a few inquiries and queries mentioned to those passing by to find himself at the cornerstone of the Artisan’s Guild. It was one giant market: he’d somehow managed to avoid this section and sanction altogether, but curiosity stoked and incensed at his machinating mind, stealing a glance here or there at present wares and artifacts. He could always come back at a later time and inspect.
The guildhall was his true destination, and he threaded his way through the crowd, never losing his munitions, eyeing the workshop-like atmosphere. He’d only ever created things with his hands – spiraled them in gilded glows when he required them – but the inquisition was there, sparking and sizzling once more. His brows furrowed briefly, then he continued, persisted, before he faltered again into a lapse of inquiry and completely lost his ambition. It wouldn’t be fair, not after everything the pair had done for him.
The beast thought he saw Remi in the space, meandering closer and closer, until his shadow pressed along light, casting out the sun, and he stood in front of the alchemist. “Remi,” he proffered, wondering if his deep vocals would be enough to intonate who it was, if he had to introduce himself every time – perhaps, just to echo in balms of familiarity instead of rampant confusion. “It is Deimos. I came to thank you for everything in the cave.” He lowered the bag down to the ground with a reverberating thud, then allowed the silence to sink in, wondering how the statement would even be met.
Indeed the alchemist was puttering and pondering about. Anyone was free to use the workbenches that he'd set up, but it was clear that some were meant for more serious creators than others were. It was at one of these that Remi currently sat with his head low and his eyes narrowed, intent on a crystalline geode before him.
As impressive a pose as the Reaper struck, silouetted against the light as he was, Remi couldn't see it. His sight was slowly coming back it seemed, perhaps magically so, but currently the world was outlined in faint silvery lines in an otherwise sea of blackness. Lost in thought as he was and with the hustle and bustle of all those around like a wall of white noise, Remi flinched at the sound of Deimos' voice suddenly so close.
Looking up, Remi's once sea-glass green stare now a pale milky colour, a genuinely boyish and bemused smile creased his features as he gently shook his head. "I should be thank you, for pulling me out. But you did just as much as I did. As any of us did." He countered softly, head cocking slightly to the side in a decidedly avian gesture at the sound of the bag being placed on the floor.
let the ships roll in
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Perhaps Remi was simply too kind to state Deimos had been practically useless. He hadn’t been beneficial to the team at all: between getting smacked, beaten, and demolished, his attacks had waxed and waned, largely ineffective, stabbing measures coming up empty, death incantations sometimes bounding off to nowhere. His precision and control had been pathetic at best – something he prided himself on, the ability to withstand, to endure, to persevere, and without any of that he’d been utterly lost. “I did not,” he shook his head, even though Remi wouldn’t be able to see the variance, he’d be able to hear it in his voice, a counter to the softened requiem. “Without you or Isla, I would be dead.” It was the veracity, the truth of the matter: gone on the cavern floor, bloodied and ineffectual, an engraving on a rocky tombstone and colossal sepulcher, no one deciding to bring him back, purposeless and stranded, third chances and tries not the charm.
He leaned down, knees spread so he could lower himself to be eye-level with the alchemist, even if the green stare was now poised in a pale, affixed hue, tilting his head for a moment to study, then dropping his skull entirely, shifting through the bag to display, announce, the artifacts he’d carried and carted around. It wouldn’t do any good to show Remi, but he could at least explain. “I brought some things for both of you, to thank you.” It was how he brandished and branded his affection, his acknowledgments, words sometimes failing, utterly useless when actions were not – his craftmanship, his movements, his motions, far more eloquent than he could ever be. His hands wrapped around some fruit, stretched out his fingers to place them on the bench beside Remi. “Some apples,” he paused, grabbed hold of a smaller bag within the larger container, and placed it with a heavy thud next to the crimson food. “And oats for Isla.” Then, thereafter, because he was a man of weaponry, of swords and knives, his hands extended in their golden glow – a ripple of invocations and elements coming together to whittle and manifest a dagger. Remi could likely make his own, but it was a weighted thing, perfect for throwing with deadly accuracy, a unicorn notched at the hilt, emblazoned at the top. Gently, he pulled at Remi’s fingers until one of his hands was open and flat, placing the stiletto there. “For you.” The beast paused, musing, silent, waiting for a refusal, a rebuttal, and being incapable of taking either. “When your sight returns, I can train you to throw it.”
Remi hadn't studied the Reaper's face with any sort of zeal back when he'd been able to see it, but even with such a small sampling, the voice that left the man now sounded so different from the gruff and sturdy tones that the alchemist would have expected. Softening with an understanding nod, Remi sighed. "Did you ever have the chance to meet Isla, as a woman?"
Cast in shadows of saturated black as he was, Remi could only vaguely make out the movement of the larger man as he knelt. Even so, the younger man cocked his head slightly, pale eyes blinking as his mind tried to reconcile what he was (sort of) seeing, and hearing. A bemused and boyish smile parted the alchemist's lips as Deimos began to explain. The look was one of awkward resistance, the words you didn't need to do that spread out across his raised brows, but ever the curious one, Remi was interested to know what a man such as Deimos might have brought.
Remi's grin turned crooked and endearing at the offerings for Isla. "Good food is one of the things she misses most." The alchemist mused as his fingers reached out to find the objects as they were placed.
At first the sensation of Deimos fingers against his own made Remi tense—old hangups from Northaven that would likely never quite leave him—but he soon softened. Opening his palm and turning his head at an inquisitive angle, the alchemist let his fingers dexterously but carefully roam over the hilt. Narrowing an eye and biting his lip with a comical look of extreme concentration, the alchemist's charcoal-stained fingers carefully traced the unicorn notched into the hilt. Slowly understanding what it was, his smile grew until his face was filled with sunshiny-appreciation. "It is beautiful." He whispered, dimples appearing in his cheeks as he raised his sightless gaze.
Smile slipping only for an instant, Remi chuckled to himself and took a breath. "When." He repeated with a wry shake of his head, turning mostly sightless eyes up towards the big man.
let the ships roll in
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The inquiry was interesting – made the Reaper consider, calculate, ponder over the measures and means of meetings. Part of the dilemma was that he had been too diffident, reserved, and detached from the moment he entered this world, too haunted from the last, to impart much stock, information, or memories into surrounding circumstances. Instead, he’d brooded. He’d brewed. He’d calculated. He’d stuck to the shadows. He’d claimed nothing and no one, breathing acrimony into the midst and finding no one interested, intrigued, in its bounty – not until later, when he eroded, bit by bit, when he softened, little by little, due to their patience, kindness, and indulgences. And perhaps he’d lost more than he’d ever gained, taking too long, mired in the hollowed ventures of his own making, missing out on opportunities to understand those around him. “I did not,” and if he could recollect anything about her – it might’ve been very brief, couldn’t put a name to a face, couldn’t recite a medic’s hums, croons, or balms. It was a cold and empty feeling, empty, chilling. Out of curiosity, and maybe because Remi wanted to share it, wanted to proffer information in the exchange, he extended his questions. “What was she like?” At the alchemist’s grin, winding and bent, which the warrior took as acceptance of the oats, of the apples, the humor flickered and waned. It couldn’t be the only thing she missed; the unicorn who was once human, but he didn’t say anything else about it, his eyes wandering to the bag, to the fruit, saying naught, watching, waiting, for tolerance, a favorable reception of the dagger.
Deimos noticed many things – Remi’s reluctance to open his palms, a taut fission and fusion stuck in his claws , and then the softening, the eventual release, the carefully guarded aperture; he could understand it, he could comprehend it, the way walls and fortifications built their ramparts upon shoulders, upon ribcages, upon colossal, giving hearts. It changed them, altered them, consumed them, until it was shell upon shell, palisade, bulwark, and stockade, massed together in a seething, reticent statue. He wondered if the man would simply push it aside, have no need of the knife in his palm, worthless when he had claws, when he had incantations.
But the appreciation, the sunshine depths radiating from him gave the warrior pause, enough to tilt his head and examine it – similar expressions Amalia wore when amused and driven into emboldened antics – and dropped his gaze when the whisper of beautiful reached his ears. Nothing he’d ever created had been beautiful; destruction, ruin, annihilation, abhorrence, the stretches and screeches of condemnation, the singsong wail of a blade before hitting flesh and bone – he bit back a laugh, smothered a chuckle. He did proffer a smile that Remi wouldn’t be able to see, before twisting his piercing gaze back up, landing on the unicorn’s hilt, on the polished silver, on the gleam and glow. “Yes, when.” It was a certain measured assurance – presuming Remi’s status wouldn’t remain permanent, not with his pluck, gumption, and mettle. He didn’t know the cause, but there were enough factions and figures amidst these hallowed halls – someone would be able to determine a cure, a requiem of release from the void.
"Ahh." The alchemist mused with a softly sad smile. "She was..." Memories drifted hind blind-white-green eyes as he remembered Isla as she was. Vibrant. Clever. No-nonsense. Even the strange evening the pair had spent together after she'd been turned into an ascended was merely looked up affectionately. The lens of time and bodily-transmutation had the ability to make everything endearing, it seemed. ".. one of my very best friends. She came from the same world I did. She was a combat medic, trained by the best. Somehow though, despite all the death around her, she was never darkened by it." He added with a melancholy hum.
The smile brightened again as Remi's fingers continued to work against the grain and expert creation of the blade in his hands. Well-calloused fingers tested the sharpness of the edge, and then the fingerprints left were wiped away by fingers suddenly melded into feathers.
Looking up into the shadowy void that was Deimos, Remi let the big man look into his eyes, if he would. "Isla healed the worst of the wounds." He said, honesty coming easy despite the still open internal wounds Remi felt. "It was over before I even knew what had happened. Arduinna's fingers turned into talons and then.." With a smile-frown that dimpled the alchemist's cheeks, he simply shrugged. "Just darkness." His one eye, the right, was nearly entirely milky. Like an opal was, sometimes the light would show the hints of green and pale yellow that once characterized Remi's soft gaze. The left eye retained more colour, but the damage to his eyes was clear.
"But I am not the first man to go through the world blind. Perhaps even if this when never arrives, you can still teach me." With a playful smile, Remi pulled his fingers away from the dagger entirely. Despite this though, it continued to float in the air before him, revolving under his deft magical touch.
let the ships roll in
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The Reaper watched the smile turn softer, sadder, melancholy bouts flickering up through the abyss. He rarely permitted his own to cast away, broaden or burden his features: gone were the days where his face could be an open book; too much ruin, too much annihilation, too many lost, broken things. He was vigilant in his nonchalance to certain extensions, hidden where Remi was open, coiled and contorted where Remi was unfurled, allowing for the world to see past vivid dimensions. Deimos avoided vulnerability and fragility because he knew what could come of it – but he listened, didn’t mark it as weaponry, as future swords and perils, thought about healers and their craft. He’d come across many a medic, the Time Menders capable of wielding back hours and minutes and seconds until only a scar remained, one of hundreds, field doctors rushing into the onslaught, carrying out bodies, and then unfurling them back into the fray the moment they were deemed healthy enough. There were different levels and layers, different care, different impacts: how she’d come to be in this aspect, taken and absconded, then placed back into another form, another species, entirely, was another notion. He didn’t ask how she’d died, how she’d been mottled and reformed, how she’d been christened into something else. “Sounds like an impressive being.” A smile managed to linger around his mouth, eyes cast off elsewhere. “I appreciated her efforts in the cave.” He would’ve been gone. He would’ve been nothing again. A life so easily snapped, no matter how persevering, persistent, or enduring. It prickled against his skin. It ruffled his edges. It seared and blistered, schemed and scathed on his flesh and bone. Ridiculous, to have been so weak.
His eyes caught the tufts of feathers, plumes rise against the blade; another shifter, another Attuned, which would make sense between Amalia’s connections and the alchemist before him (did he contain everything then: capable of wielding and changing and altering?).
He studied and examined again, as if Remi let him, understood the necessity for scrutiny and meticulous efforts: no healer, no mender, not even a soothing, assuaging individual – more apt to find weakness in chinks of armor and devising ruses to make the wounds that much more binding, aching; but not to Remi. While one was nearly all pale, not a smidgen of color, reminding him of the alabaster snippets of the moon, but here there were no craters, cracks, or rocks, plastered, alabaster ruin – the other hinted at more color, more hues, more blending convictions and contradictions. The damage was done though, at the hands, at the talons, of the Fae who’d led them down into the village. The beast stifled a grimace, a frown, churning his smile back to where it belonged, darker and darker still. “Arduinna,” he began, tilting his head, leaning back to allow the alchemist space again, his scrupulous study done for now. “Was the one who led us into the Fae Village. So we could get our friends back.” So here was another blistering inconsistency, except there was an invisible binding in place – and he pondered if eventually, their eyes would be milky and colorless too, or removed altogether. “Now we owe her a debt.” But he didn’t ask what had caused this particular incident – just instituted, just explained, just hinted that there might’ve been more ruin to come; he didn’t allow the shudder in his shoulders to dissipate any further down his spine.
Yet, Remi kept himself in good humor, in good graces, at least here, now, in the present, in the moment. Deimos would have blistered and seethed, a terrible, contemptuous melee, back to brooding, back to brewing, where Remi merely seemed to accept his fate. The Reaper was resistance personified, while the rest of the world seemed to breathe and ease into their kismet. “Of course. Let me know when you are ready.” The beast allowed the smallest of laughs to quake again, as the dagger floated – courted mid-air.
"Mmm, she is still." Remi agreed, sunlight flickering back through his expression. With a laugh, the alchemist turned blind eyes up towards the larger man, smile turning crooked. "She enjoys it, in all honesty. I have rarely seen her so excited as when she is talking about dead things, or particularly gruesome wounds that she has healed. If anything, I think she finds her new magic a touch boring. "
Hearing the fae's name made Remi flinch, the muscles of his jaw tightening. His reaction to her was near visceral now, a carnality of emotion that he didn't even bother trying to hide. "I heard. Sam told me a bit about it." The alchemist explained, his teeth worrying his lower lip slightly as he ruffled a hand back to front through his curls that had developed a few flustered-feathers. "Be careful." Remi warned, pale eyes rising, rife with concern and a particularly heartbroken brand of worry. "She is not as she appears. She has made liars out of even the best of men, and broken the strongest of them." The alchemist added, his accented voice becoming even more thickly structured with his foreign cadence as emotion weighed down his tongue.
let the ships roll in
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
He laughed too, at the notion of talking about dead things, like some sort of depraved individual, when it was just another part of life, picking apart the grisly, the horrifying, everyday things others couldn’t stomach or stand. The Reaper had been numbed to the ritual as well, part of battlefield monstrosities and barbaric wounds, though he rarely went poking or prodding at them. Perhaps they were fascinating in a morbid sort of way, where healers had to puzzle over their complexities, their ruins, their edges, to see how they’d come to combat them, war against them, sew them back together without fear of collapse. “We will probably keep her busy at some point.” Which was another sad, deplorable philosophy, but with the turning of tides, there was bound to be more artifices, more pretenses, and then more bloodbaths, rage fixated and centered squarely on bestial proclamations, the roar of the undone crowd.
The warrior watched as Remi flinched at the Fae’s name, the unsaid, unspoken nuances there in the flesh. Naught needed to be said to understand the implications, so he bowed his head and listened, Samuel the informant providing Remi with the story already. The warning was a barbaric clarity too, and if he were not a hardy beast the notion of her capabilities might’ve made him shudder; but he had no inclination of breaking, of falling apart at the hands of her schemes. There were debts to be paid and owed, and he wouldn’t go back on his word – but perhaps there would be other measures, other means, if worst came to worst. “What did you do to earn her wrath?” The curiosity hung there, poised and crafted; but he regretted it the moment it left his mouth, not intending to pry, but longing for the layers, the lacquer, the intonations and decibels behind it. How far had Remi pressed? Had he not at all, and simply earned her contempt another way? Or were they simply all doomed and damned, just by stepping inside the village, just by curiosity, promises, and misgivings?
"If you do not, I certainly will." The alchemist agreed with a boyish ease. Though he had been told he often found himself in far more trouble than was reasonable, and that he was careless to a fault, Remi...still didn't particularly see it that way. Never would he ever view himself a hero, but nor could he turn away from someone who needed help. It never occurred to him that the fact that such a way of life culminating in his death would ever be a bad thing. It was just who he was.
The corners of Remi's lips twitched upwards; smiling as he was often want to do, but the crease indicated sadness. The man's blind gaze searched empty space for a moment as memories danced in his mind, culminating in a sigh. "A...very good friend, was bound to her. Ianto, found himself outside of the barrier while we were all inside of it. She saved his life and in turn he was bound to her forever." Running a hand across his ruined eyes, Remi leaned his head back slightly. "He was forced to wear a collar that he could not remove as a sign of the bond. I had only thought to change it so that...if not free from her, he at least might have some way of forgetting." Looking down at his fingers that could produce such wonderous things, Remi shook his head of curls. "As soon as the magic removed the collar, she appeared. I had tried to explain, but there was not enough time."
Biting his lip to keep from another aggravated sigh, Remi instead ran a hand through his hair. "If the collar had remained off, I might have thought my sight was a worthy trade. But..." He shook his head.
let the ships roll in
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Perhaps he and Remi were more alike than they realized, on the rough, boyish grin, on the intonations of danger and destruction. More often than not, especially lately, Deimos had been running straight into trials and tribulations, rather than casting a diffident, detached eye upon them. Once, he would’ve calculated and measured his abilities against shadows, onslaughts, and terrors, staked his claim upon them, or evaded; cold, chilling, the king with only his land, his compatriots, his kin in mind. Now, he seemed to have leaned into impulsive, ridiculous statures, and he wasn’t sure how to delve further into that mess. He’d never lingered into the impetuous; and so it clawed its way back to him, reminded him he was nothing.
But then the amusement died away, the question he longed to take back circumventing, hitting and ricocheting off of memories and spaces. How bowed his head apologetically, even if Remi couldn’t see it, perhaps he could sense the regret and rue; but listened just the same. Deimos knew Ianto – briefly, from saving him amidst flames, from legends churned over debts and repayments, for layers of warnings chiseled (and then ignored; because that was apparently who he was now – ignited and incensed, grave and grim when it concerned his friends). He didn’t know much of the fox’s story, but being bound, being subservient, made sense in regards to his tactics and motives. “So in the end, it did not matter.” He finished the sentence for him – the Reaper, the beast, mulling over thoughts and clenching his jaw thereafter, a taste of bile soaking, dousing, his throat. This was likely only a small fraction, a piece, of what they could, or would, eventually face. His voice grew softer, not so deep, not so guttural, but a remorseful exhale. ”You have made quite the sacrifice.” And hadn’t they all, at some point, in some way, throughout this world – meant to do it over and over again, because they were compelled, because they cherished, because they endeavored to do something greater, something more?
Given that he and Ianto were not only no longer together, but not even friends, the Reaper couldn't possibly know how right he was. Exhaling with a sad grimace that nonetheless somehow still suggested a lightness on the alchemist's soul, Remi hummed a sound of agreement.
"Haven't we all." The alchemist said with a nod.
"You really did not need to do this, but I will certainly treasure it...and be reminded once again of how dangerous this world can be." Remi added with a laugh, the dagger still floating in mid-air in lazy turns. "Can you...create magical items as well?" He asked with a slight tip of his head. In his experience, making smaller items had been the prelude to creating larger and then more wonderous things.
let the ships roll in
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Haven’t we all bristled against him, but he didn’t comment. He didn’t tell the alchemist about the sinister intonations of the things he’d lost along the way here, of the lives dissolved and disappeared in his hands, of the lacerations corded and roped along as scars, of the people he’d loved and cherished and watched fall apart. It was just an acceptance, a sad, lonely reverberation of the way life was, how it’d molded, how it’d shaped, how it’d sculpted them into the present. He failed to pry any further, had no intention of asking how many other sacrificial alms Remi had laid out within his worlds, eyes sliding downward, cast on the ground, then flicking up, glancing at the oats, the apples, and the dagger dangling in mid-air – controlled and contorted by magic, connections sizzling, fuming, pluming upon the ether.
Then the piercing slate of his gaze was back upon the blinded one, listening to his laugh as it mocked the fiendish lands they existed within: danger and treachery a constant, no matter where they seemed to go. Peace and repose was something they could barely wrap their fingers around until it was gone again; he knew, he understood, he comprehended, the blistering, nefarious Reaper with his scathing heart and ravenous predilections. On the inquiry though, his attention was riveted, caught, and tethered: he’d long since pondered how he’d acquired a newfound magic, because he’d never been able to create or concoct anything before. Not water like his mother. Not fire like his father. It’d always been death knells and a draining of breaths, of heartbeats, until everything was silenced. “Yes. Though I am limited,” he answered, waiting for something else to fall. Advice? Skepticism? Was it not enough? His gaze lingered back on the dagger, on the unicorn embedded on the hilt.
"Mmm." The alchemist hummed musically, his fingers finding the floating dagger and tracing the intricate lines and inlaid efforts the Reaper had put into it. "Mine started that way as well. First with small and simple objects, and I could only make a few at a time before feeling...well, empty of the power, somehow. Then it grew, and the objects became larger. It was only a few weeks ago that I was able to make anything magical at all. I know very little about magic, to be honest, so I am not sure if it was practice or just...a function of whatever lets us do this, that made the magic change."
Softly Remi's shoulders rose and fell, his blind gaze searching upwards (somewhere to the left of Deimos' shoulder, currently), as he offered the empty air a humble, but reassuring sort of smile.
"You are obviously already quite skilled...but if you would ever like a place to work, the guild is always open to you. We...are a rather disorganized bunch, with artisans from various different backgrounds. But the workbenches are always open and there is normally always someone about eager to learn, or share, or teach..." Holding up the dagger, Remi tapped it gently against his palm.
"You would certainly fit in well, here."
let the ships roll in
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
