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!
She didn’t so much as see the fae leave the Greatwood so much as smell them, feel a tingligg on her neck as the group heads in the direction of the Spire. Thinking that this might be the best chance she has to get to the village without getting her ass killed, Wessex darts through the trees in the night. They shift around her, moving of their own volition and every now and then she watches, waits, pulls something out of her clothing, looks down for a bit, and then finds the correct path again.
She is not so stupid as to think she is not being watched, noted, but neither Zariah’s goons nor any small, winged person stop her on the way.
To her credit (or perhaps her foolishness), she carries no weapons on her - only her heavy black cloak and the metal talons inside her hands. Her only aim is to get in, look around, and then get it out. No muss, no fuss, no bother.
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While Delah and a group of the warrior fae are in the KQ, Wessex has used her map of the Greatwood to come find the village.
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
The night is mild as I step from the warm glow of Undercroft’s spiralling staircase. Sequin-silver stars, like the scattered embers of a dying fire, wink playfully down at me, illuminating the pitch-black curtain of sky.
All is not as it seems however, and as I begin a slow trek through the stillness towards my Aunt’s tree-house, the almost mute silhouette of a giant appears upon the path in my way. Huddling beneath my own patterned cloak, I stare, entirely aware that the barrier-people are not welcome.
“What are you doing here?” My aim is to intercept or stall, until maybe a better suited Fae (Warrior? Adult?), arrives and intervenes. As much as I can, I bristle before the trespasser, trying to straighten my weary spine and pull back my lazy shoulders-
Of course, it dawns on me as I do, that there isn’t anything remotely intimidating about my minute figure, at all. Nevertheless, I hold my ground as boldly as my shrieking nervous system will allow. “You do not belong in our Village.”
It’s a sene vaguely reminiscent of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, starring Hazel as Cindy Lou Who and Wessex as that ugly green bastard, The Grinch. Except that it’s the tail end of summer, and Cindy isn’t a naive little girl. This one knows something is up, and she’s about to blow Wessex’s cover. Cookies and milk won't save the Ascended now.
At the first sound of the girl’s voice, Wessex bristles, snarling internally despite her best efforts to remain inconspicuous and peaceful. Ha, ha, ha. Good one. She’ll settle for remaining anonymous - just another one of the barrier people. She even goes so far as to lower her voice in an effort to keep the girl out of the way and her image as pristine as possible. It’s impossible, of course and hypocrisy abounds, but the need to move on gets her over that oh so quickly. “You can’t stop me,” she says simply (and it’s the truth, isn’t it? Hazel can’t, not the way she is), with a gutteral feral hiss and a quick movement to leave - quicker than the child can make with its crutch and bent figure.
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
The child’s heart sinks like a rock, falling to the darkest depths of the ocean. The intruder's words strike as a knife, carving a clean wound through the mask which is her courage; her feeble confidence and her soul. The eyes, before glinting and alive, full of challenge; the mouth stiffened with resolve and good intention, both begin to bend beneath the weight of her reality.
The pointlessness.
Gravity pulls her from the pedestal she had so foolishly positioned herself upon. The other is right. There is nothing Hazel can do to prevent the other’s invasion of this sacred village.
She can’t run for help. Cannot block or fight. The tongue beneath her teeth lies paralysed by fear…
The child-Fae is more than helpless, there, standing in the path of the towering, night-cloaked figure, and trembling, startled, vulnerable, she stumbles aside to safety. As the crushing wave of self-pity begins to smooth, however, a new thought emerges; a very bold idea. Perhaps it was finally time to find favour with the gods.
