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 doors rumble and grind as they rise up. Torchlights flicker upon the walls of what is best described as an underground coliseum - walls that are steep, and high. At their very tops, spectators can be seen peeping over the edge and cheering as they spot the latest combatants. Ah yes... before you is your opponent. The doors grind shut once more. Good luck!
Please post your entrance into your trial and your first action! (e.g. attacking instantly, wondering wtf is going on, saying hello to your friend, all of the above?)
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
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A coliseum – blood sport, trials by combat, and he was quick to remind himself that he’d signed up for this, an active participant in entertainment for the masses, in striving to become stronger, mightier, better than he’s ever been.
His eyes didn’t glance to the spectators, only on the pathways ahead, on the door opening, rising up, allowing him entry – gaze then swinging to the other aperture, an unknown entry waiting just on the other side too.
Zuriel was silent, but steadfast and sure, maneuvering behind him, while he took his time, a measure in patience. He was a careful balance of fire and ice – infernal and glacial, savage and coldblooded; he chose the latter for the moment. The beast hadn’t survived all these years without some measure of calculations, machinations, or insurrection; a scrupulous tactician, cold and composed, eternally yearning to expose weaknesses, flaws, and defects of his opponent.
But the unknown gaped at him now; incapable of knowing what or who lurked beyond the aperture, so he drew a pair of throwing knives from his belt, holding them in his hands, pressing their weight into his palms, and listened, watched, for the sights, the sounds of the threshold beginning its ascent.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
The door rose as he stood with rapier and staff in hand, and Jigano's eyes narrowed at the sight of the small coliseum beyond. It was not his first gladiatorial fight, and memory prickled as for a moment the claustrophobic little arena was replaced with the sprawling pit of Scrapwall in his mind's eye. It was not Isuma on his shoulder, but two goblins, a wayang, and a human woman at his side, and the crowd was chanting for the Lords of Rust to crush the ragtag band of upstarts from Torch. Across from them waited the massive orc Kulgara, her weapon roaring to life with mechanical savagery...
He blinked, and the orc was replaced with a human, one of the last people he had wanted to see, but the fortunate gods had not been paying him much heed lately. Bitterness swept through him, and his fingers clenched around his rapier as he stepped fully onto the sand, heedless of the door that rolled shut behind him. He shook himself roughly, and Isuma fled his shoulder with a squeak of protest, fluttering up to glide above the arena and watch from above as Jigano shifted to guard himself with the staff, eyes narrowed as he gauged the distance between them.
No merry jests or sly greeting passed his lips, his blue eyes instead cold and sharp. Instead of barbed words he flung his sharpened staff at Deimos as he crouched and leapt across the sand to close with the big man, a surge of frustration and guilty shame lending his feet surety as he relied on speed and surprise rather than brute strength.
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Jigano.
He was facing Jigano.
In another moment in time, he might not have even reacted – calm and composed, a chilling monolith, a carefully arched brow to mimic their once-open gestures of mischief and musings. But that had been before pending arrests, before brooding factions, before the mountain was charged in lacking courage or strength, because he’d asked about contributions. That had been before crowns and thrones, tossed aside, abdicated, a whirlwind of choices and rancor now flowing through his veins.
They were silent – apparently naught needed to be said. Neither hastened apologies. Neither composed regret.
Perhaps that was where they stood now, the line drawn in the sand, the rapier in the bard’s hand, coming, coming, coming.
He placed his throwing knife back into his belt, watching, calculating, biding his time. He was a titan, a Colossus, bestial and barbaric, drawing his sword, witnessing the Sage leaping across the sand – striving to fling his staff towards his bulk, drive edges and fringes into flesh. Jigano would be quicker; there were no doubts about it, meant for swift intervals – but Deimos was built for war and all the moments that came with it. He attempted to intervene the rapier’s onslaught with his raised blade, trying to follow the sharp movements with precision, with rooted muscle memory, arcing to align steel against steel. Then, thereafter, he lowered it in an aspiration, a striving, an endeavoring motion, to sweep across Jigano’s legs, and impede the speed.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
08-07-2019, 02:25 PM (This post was last modified: 08-07-2019, 02:26 PM by Random Event.)
Ah, over but in an instant. How sad.
Jigano's staff is quick, agile, and above all sharp - and it aims true. The weapon would catch Deimos in the arm as they ran to meet one another in the arena, drawing blood but thankfully only grazing, rather than sinking into the skin.
"FIRST BLOOD!" the same Fae voice roars. "Jigano wins the first round!"
Jigano has drawn first blood and Deimos is knocked out of the tournament!
First blood? A kinder arena than Scrapwall had hosted, and Jigano dodged nimbly back from fully engaging Deimos' larger blade at the Fae announcer's cry. The staff had been meant as a distraction to buy him time while he closed, not a definitive attack, but he was in no state of mind to argue with the decision. In many ways it was a relief; as unusually good as the outlet of violence felt, his confused emotional state at seeing those he had let down who had turned on him so quickly in the basement in recent weeks past ignited a restless anger in him, only some of which was directed at them.
The same summer sickness that had left him too ill to lead his friends back to the Spire - if any would still have followed him - seemed to have stolen his tongue, for he said nothing to Deimos as he retrieved his staff, wiped the blood from its tip upon the sand, and turned to walk away, heading back to the tunnels and whatever trial would await next within the Cloister. Isuma swooped down to flutter an apologetic circle around the big man, golden eyes worried as she peeped once, softly, at him and Zuriel before she hurried after her companion to land on his shoulder and rub her cheek against his, as if to try and thaw some of the ice from his eyes.
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
A graze on the arm; and the match was finished before it’d even truly begun. For a moment, his features fell away from their nonchalant veneer, from war facades, to a searing, emboldening contortion to audacity - first blood - as if that had ever truly mattered. First blood didn’t mean one would live. First blood didn’t mean one would die. First blood simply meant they’d found a way –
And that he had not.
If it was anyone else he might have offered them congratulations, a nod of the head, but Jigano was Jigano, altered and morphed and so ridiculously warped from what he’d once been, from the rooted foundations of how Deimos had recognized and understood his efforts, his tactics, his wisdom. So the Reaper, the sword, granted him nothing; rancorous and defiant, his eyes flickering to the crowd, vehemence for their sanction, before the stare rendered hard on the Sage’s departing back. Both companions had far better sense than either man, Zuriel with her proud bow, Isuma with her apologetic circle; Deimos with his abhorrence, simply sheathed his blade and turned from where he’d arrived. No Greatwood guardian, but still a warrior nonetheless; he’d prove it in other ways.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
