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!
The only portal Deimos had ever gone through was to here from Isilme; the other life had been adrift in a series of endless journeys until he’d reached Helovia. In both, he’d come across terrain and loam by foot – the intervals, the swift changes, usually pressed and shackled by a battlefield, by drumbeats, by fog lifting, exposing adversaries and enemies. It was why he enjoyed wandering so much now, curious to explore, fascinated by different levels and lacquer, intoxicated by nuances and ghosts of the past; why he might’ve been lured so readily into the realm of quick access. It might didn’t weigh as heavily as a promise, or a possibility of another Jigano lie, so he let it rest, didn’t stay and dwindle in it for long.
As for other powerful magic users – Edrei and Zariah were likely out on this expedition. He withheld the snort this time, the roll of his eyes, a certain layer of fatigue weighing on his shoulders, on his brawn, on his might again; but his mind working, machinating, deciphering the measures in which they had to go.
The alchemist seemed inspired though – and he drifted off, Deimos watching, waiting, patient as he was apt to explain items, amulets, he’d made for the Merciless. Stored magic; a wisp of time in Helovia, where they’d stored, where they’d harbored, where they’d harpooned using the same devices – he was irked he hadn’t even thought of it until now. There’d been other ways too, but it didn’t seem important now (but left for future fodder and notations). “And we simply ask them for their magic…it seems much safer.” He paused, because he knew they already asked so much of the alchemist, and though he seemed willing, it had to be a burden. Deimos wasn’t as talented in these angles and directions, but he could at least try. “What do you need me to do?” Because he wanted to help.
"Are you close with Rory?" The alchemist asked softly. Remi...might have been. Once. But with things as they were with Jigano, Remi thought perhaps he was not the best to seek out the bard's boyfriend and ask for favours. "Or Amalia, I suppose." He added belatedly, realizing that the baker was likely the best one of them to ask for such a favour. A gifting of power.
Cupping his hand palm-up on the table, the alchemist closed his eyes. Slowly a shape began to appear, not terribly unlike some ugly necklace. There was nothing in the magic that necessarily restricted the container of the power, and Remi thought perhaps in other contexts it might be better if it could be worn, or easily disguised. When completed, it simply looked like a piece of moon-quartz on a chain. Blinking back the magical fatigue Remi felt tugging at his eyelids, he offered the small babble to the reaper with a weary smile. "The magic just needs to be cast at it."
but you're all i see
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Was he close with Rory? Close wasn’t a designation Deimos delved within often: though far more so here than anywhere else; more friends, more allies, more beloved things and individuals. “Reasonably,” he ascertained, a shrug following on the nettled note. At least, Rory had been fine enough with assisting in building tunnels, well before the Reaper and Jigano traded conspiracies, then raised their hackles at one another. How did one even approach someone else to ask for their powers? The suggestion of Amalia had merit – he’d save it for later when he wandered to the bakery next (sooner rather than later; he doubted she’d enjoy hearing secondhand news that he’d ventured down into the Spire again without notifying her; something else to dread in the back of his mind). “I will try,” the beast proffered instead. And if Rory said no, they’d have to think of something, or someone, else.
Then the mountain watched as the alchemist dove into his enchantments, a shape emerging, almost like a rock, chained, tethered, tied together – a vivid, poised reminder of all those days in Helovia, watching the amulets break apart, fizzle, or sizzle, the deadly incantations of his own stored for later, granted and given out to those who required them, the Reaper reborn and there when they required him. The hues had always been Stygian and nefarious – a representation of his blackened, savage heart and the enmity pulsing through it. Not now though: this appearance was like moons and stars, and he took the offering in his hands, eyes glancing over it, before placing it in a pocket, nodding at the instructions.
“Ah, the gas masks,” he recalled and remembered, the whole reason he’d even arrived. Glancing around, he found a spare piece of paper and charcoal, using it to sweep sketches along the threshold, until they’d conformed to his original design. “I think the main issue was the charcoal. I likely did not have the necessary power to wield it correctly.” His brows furrowed, fingers tapping over where the elemental components had been.
Remi nodded appreciably, tugging in a breath. "With Ronin as he is.." The alchemist began, before the words and all they were meant to capture and represent hardened into something insurmountable in the back of his throat.
Dying. The word, was dying.
Gesturing vaguely as one does when they hope you will fill in the blanks—and should you not, to pretend that you had—Remi's eyes lowered to the table as a fledgling smile pushed the corners of his lips upward for just a moment.
"Right." Watching with a keen and interested gaze, the alchemist noted just how skilled the reaper was with the charcoal, immediately seeing the design come to life in his minds-eye. "Earth." Remi said with a slow nod. There was much that creation magic could do, even moreso when combined with more base elements. There was probably some sort of way around it, something not organic that could replace the charcoal, but Remi's mind was too tired to work at what it might be.
"Charcoal to filter the air, I assume." Remi mused, squinting at the design. "I can add that part, if you create the masks."
but you're all i see
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Remi’s didn’t need to impart anything more: Deimos understood the rest of the sentence, the declaration, the old wounds of dying lovers and friends burning against his soul. There was an utter helplessness to it – no one in control of those scattered, lacerating moments, the rising hope that something could cure it, that they wouldn’t be lost forever, that this was just another passing illness, a frayed thread, a strand to be cut away. Sometimes, in the end, no matter what one committed, what one tried, what one strived to do (kneeling in front of a shrine, howling and begging, pleading, please don’t let her die, please cure her), it fell upon deaf ears and eyes; and there was nothing all over again. He swallowed down the clawed response, the promise, the conviction, the vow that Ronin would be fine, the blight would be destroyed, and there would be new disasters to overcome. He’d already told Jigano that he didn’t build his frameworks and convictions on hope; they’d be on plans, on predilections, on their own versions of upheavals and sedition. The beast said nothing instead, just a firm nod of cognition and knowledge, the determination corded around his throat.
They shifted back to the masks, where they weren’t so damned lingering and lost. Ah, earth had been more of the missing links – Deimos incapable of wielding and controlling those materials. It made sense that after some time, the crafts had simply failed, lacking the appropriate invocations. “Yes,” his voice rippled in accord, and at the indication, the beast followed through. Moving his empty glass and making space for the enchantments, he brought his hands together and then pulled them apart: in place of the absent ether was the gilded glow again, surrounding and transforming vacancy into clarity, four of the same masks he’d managed to cultivate within the Spire. “One extra, in case,” the mountain shrugged, the slip of a smirk resting on his mouth.
"Just in case." The alchemist mused with a crooked smile, rendering him if only for a moment, the picture of ease and openness that he once used to constantly be. Glancing down at the masks, head tilted slightly as his eyes focused. Though there was plenty of light, his vision was not optimized any longer for this sort of work, and it took a few moments for him to understand the components properly and how it all fit together. Once he had, a neat mesh of charcoal appeared. With a filtration-system of sorts on either side of the organic lumps to stop dust from being inhaled, Remi nibbled the inside of his lip before casting a glance towards Deimos, silently imploring that should the reaper have any additional suggestions, that he was open to hearing them.
but you're all i see
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
He watched, immersed back into normalcy for the moment, standard routines of silent witness, a scholarly study, a master of hushed platitudes and precipices. Perhaps one day he’d be able to embark upon the same creating standards, capable of molding different elements together (fire, he thought of his father, the embers always in his hands, water, he thought of his mother, confident, calm, and composed, intricately weaving the liquid in her palms), to be better, to be mightier, to be more than he was now. His eyes riveted on the intricacies and developments, tilting his head from side to side when curiosity and inquiry fully invested their wares into his gaze; the blinded man’s ability to wield and position everything just so was fascinating. Then the charcoal was in place, a filtering system, hopefully to ward against the damned, menacing claws of the venom, the toxins, floating in the air. Then a glance was mustered his way, the orchestrations and compositions complete. “Perfect,” he uttered, the rapt smile back on his face; could’ve been considered boyish and devilish, an impish twist and turn of mischief from days scattered in yesteryear. “Thank you for doing all of this.”
He paused, uncertain about where to go from here. Their agreement upon Jigano’s role was cast, they already had three assembled for the impending doom, and Deimos would have to somehow wrangle Rory’s powers into the amulet settled in his pocket. “I will see about finding another,” he mused out loud; because if there was just one more powerful individual, raging and fighting and tearing apart the plants, they might have a better chance. They might come away victorious, instead of potentially broken, weary, and suffocated. “Is there anything more to be done?” He inquired, before the thought of the baker meandered its way back into his skull, and the devilry faded away from his lips. “I have to go tell Amalia.” It’d been replaced with dread, with apprehension, with obvious trepidation; thinking about digging his heels in and dragging his vessel there.
Remi shook his head, still boyishly awkward beneath the weight of compliments. Magic still felt very much like cheating, and perhaps worse, like something he was far from worthy of wielding. Such was the world he came from after all, where commoners like the alchemist not only couldn't possess magic, but were usually loathed by those with it.
Remi tugged in a breath as he considered, but then slowly exhaled with a shake of his curls. "Not that I can think of. Rest, I suppose." Chuckling under his breath as he imagined Deimos badgered by the lithe baker, Remi realized that he was in a similar situation. "I will mention it to Ronin as well. I know he was not helpful last time, but perhaps he will have thought up some additional insights."
but you're all i see
Coding base by Sky!
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Even as Remi hastened to shake his head and disagree at the sentiments, Deimos merely arched a brow. His worlds had been immersed in magic, sorcery an integral portion to everyday life, and though he’d always utilized his machinations, his tactics, or his sword first, the necromancy had also been everything to his motions; a part of who he was. But each realm, each kingdom was different – so he considered it, but made no mention of the exposed sentiments. There were larger things afoot, and the mountain had already been convinced more than once of Remi’s innate, powerful abilities.
But with nothing else to do except rest (and when had he ever done such a thing – easily deterred from sitting around, muscles on the move, power undulating, constantly finding something to commit to), all he’d had have left was the impending conversation with the baker. Remi was apparently in a similar situation with Ronin; the man born from stars, leaving the Spire well before they’d all sunk into the horrors and hells – the beast didn’t blame him, didn’t hold a grudge or anything against his motions. Especially if the blight had been effecting him then. Everything else could’ve easily plummeted into further tragedy from there. They’d had enough lately. “I suppose we will meet up when it is time.” He didn’t smile, the stoic notions and preludes clutching over his features again; an automatic reflex, walls and fortifications, a long road ahead with no horizon in sight. He tapped on the remains of the alcohol, ensuring what was left was for the alchemist and if he deigned to share, and rose from his chair. “Thank you again,” he added, nodding, a clear salute of his departure, the masks collected in his hands, ready for use when they were all ready. “See you then.” And with better luck than the last intervals; stronger and stronger, better prepared for the vitriol and acrimony.
