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 doesn’t ask, and thank gods for that. He trails off and prefers to leave it that way, finding that it’s easier to let things lie rather than dig them back up. So he changes, he praises her for what she’s learned so far, shifting his attention back to the red head with a half crooked smile and a nod. “Revenge is sweet.” He tells her through experience, giving a knowing nod and a smirk.
But she asks if there’s anything else she should know and he sits forward briefly to contemplate before he stands fully again, letting the water drip from his clothes. “I’m sure more will come to me, but if you have any questions I’m in the Domicles.” He gives her a light shrug, feeling the goosebumps rise on his skin as the wind passes through. He reaches up to remove his shirt, turning half way away from her while he rolls it up and wrings the water out of the fabric.
His tattoos are on full display, dark navy wings that flow along his shoulders as he glances to her over one of them. “If you’re curious about your father later on, I’m sure I could scrounge up a few more stories.” He tells her with another grin.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
Revenge is sweet clung to the burning strands of her essence; and it will be mine an unsaid vow, one of the many oaths coined by her tongue and teeth. Her smirk was a reflection of his, deeper, unholy proclamations locked in her grasp, in the fight, in the fury, in the ferocity of her vengeful nuances and notions.
But there time seemed to be nearing its end; the curse words and insidious proclamations gone, heralded, left to ruminate in her mind, to stew, to brew, until they were unleashed (and it was an exciting, exuberant sentiment, to kindle and instigate so much vitriol in more than just the swing of her staff and the glory of her fiery arrows). She tilted her head as he sought to remove his shirt, wringing out the water, surveying and examining, eyes inching over tattoos like wings – all she had were burn scars, scorch marks emblazoned across the depths of her backbone. The youth thought about asking about the navy plumage, but wisely said naught – her expression of intrigue already pressing back into his gaze. “Oh, yes please!” Because she would like to know more, more about the man who couldn’t be bothered with them, who couldn’t take responsibility for his actions, and if she was more aligned with his hate, his malice, his menace, her mother’s devotion, ardor, and sacrificial alms, or simply sputtering along in between, crossing lines and parallels too many times over.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
She follows to an extent, and he finishes wringing out his shirt before he nods toward the direction home (at least the direction he thinks is home) as he straightens out his shirt and lets it wave in the air slightly. The rest of him would have to air dry, he decides, pushing back a bit of his hair with a half dried hand. And she agrees to hearing more stories, while the man wonders what other kind of stories he could tell.
Gods, when was the last time he had even thought that far back?
“Let’s head toward the Settlement and I can try and think up some things on the way.” He assures her, feet finding the sand of the beach, a brow raised as he finds his boots and slings the shirt over his shoulder, lifting his boots in his other hand, and letting her begin to lead the way.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
She wanted tales. She wanted stories. She wanted to know who the man was, so perhaps she wouldn’t turn out to be like him, so she wouldn’t riddle and rankle the cycle, so she wouldn’t be her father’s daughter, pieces and pockets of nothing. The youth was fury and fire, but would never think to leave those she loved and craved behind – and perhaps that was just it. They hadn’t been loved. They hadn’t been chosen. They hadn’t been wanted. The distinct flavor of bitterness slid down her throat again, and she nodded, rising along, following, then turning towards the settlement, Fangorn clipping at her heels. “Whatever you can manage,” she laughed, bright and cheery despite the agonizing, trembling hands, despite the puncturing nuances that had glanced over her – perhaps, content, for once, in knowing exactly where she stood with the gaping, grasping unknown (nowhere). It was a liberating distinction, an easy sense of deliverance. Maybe one day she would be better than anything the beast could ever concoct, ever do, ever manage; and his name would be an outlier, naught but a bearer, and she the flame, she the avenger, she the spark, the kindling, the incensed, enraged beacon.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
He doesn’t really know where to begin aside from the small amount of information he had told her already. But he tries as they walk, ears listening to the remark from the girl, and he huffs a quiet hum of agreement. Bht they begin their long trek back, and his mind slips back to Korofi and the varying counties within the country. Of his time in Gaal’s part of town, watching as he tries to start fights and flirt with everyone. But ah, that might make a good story.
Tilting his head to her, there’s amusement gleaming in his slate eyes. “I used to spar for the rebels in Korofi, and became a pretty good fighter from it. And one time a few friends and I were outside chatting in an alley, when Gaal rolls up with his posse of people. I think him and I were twenty? Twenty-one?” His gaze drifts from her as he recalls the rain creating puddles at the edge of the walkway, the way Gaal had huffed like a child having a tantrum when the other man had confronted him.
“Gaal wasn’t much of a fighter, he preferred to have other people fight for him so he could sneak in and take the prize, so to speak. That and he was huge. A boulder of a man. Well, he had heard that I was talking shit about him — which I was… But that’s beside the point.” He snorts. “So he challenged me to a fight, saying that if I lost I’d have to claim he was this grand, amazing person, but the kicker was that I wouldn’t get a chance to touch him. His buddies would do the fighting for him.” Eyes drifted back to Melita while they walked.
“Rather than arguing with him, I agreed. It was night out, incredibly dark and raining so much that I could barely see. They went one by one, though. The first guy stepped up and I think I got him to give in within the first five minutes, much to Gaal’s dismay.” He recalls, prolonging the story in case she had questions.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
Her head tilted as they walked, attention rendered, Fangorn bounding along a few steps behind, distracted by the last remaining insects and ivory stones. There were different layers to her father, apparently, though not many of them appeared to be anywhere near virtuous: big, tough, and strong, but not intending to fight his own battles (and there, at least, Melita knew they were alarmingly contrasting; even if she was fire and fury, she’d always wield her own weapons), a glory hound, sinking teeth into a victory he hadn’t acquired for himself. She hid the inward frown, kicking a few rocks out from their path, watching them glide along dirt, soil, and silt, imagining the burly figure remaining there, awaiting his opportunity.
The whole fight sounded preposterously stupid and asinine. Melita’s skirmishes and duels had been about training, had been about perseverance, had been about mettle, spirit, grit, determination, and survival. Gaal sounded as if he was made up of petty fragments, slipping them out one right after the other; who cared if one was grand, if one was great, or if it was ever acknowledged by peers? She rolled her eyes and hit another pebble squarely, watched it ricochet off of larger boulders, furrowing her brows.
But Sunjata had seemingly prevailed – her cranium inclined further, an obvious insinuation from his to continue. “And then what?” Had he succeeded, or was this just the cliffhanger, a dangling thread meant for her to unravel?
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
They continue to walk while Melita kicks stones and listens, and when he pauses with his story, he glances over to her to see what she says about it. But she’s quiet, waiting for him to continue, and so he does. One hand rests on the shirt over his shoulder, the other resting in a pocket while they continue on in the direction of home. “Well, the second guy was more of a brute. Took a bit longer to get him down, and he ended up breaking my nose and bruising my jaw.” He pauses with a quiet laugh. “By now, Gaal is losing his mind, screaming at his friends for not being able to put up a fight.” He snorts.
But when he looks to Melita next, a wolfish grin crossing his face, he gives her a nod. “So I went up to Gaal, to tell him to try again next time and give him a pat on the shoulder.” Another pause, he can recall the blood that had seeped into his shirt, mixing with the rain. His knuckles bruised and bloody, too. “But he tried to swing at me instead. So I took out his knees and left him in the alley with his buddies until he could walk again.” He offers with a hum of laughter. “He had always been too childish, honestly.”
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
It was almost embarrassing, humiliating, and shameful to hear of her father’s inabilities; there were flaws and defects embossed and embedded in each one of Sunjata’s tales, but gods, these were more pictures of the same stupefied fellow. What on earth had her mother seen in this man? The notion was nearly incomprehensible, and she winced for poor decision making at its finest; shaking her head, allowing long crimson locks to bound and bounce, pondering if any of these childish antics were forged in her too: while she searched for monsters, while she ached for survival, while she persisted and dreamed and aspired, while she swung on impulsive endeavors. “How pathetic,” the girl laughed, bright and cheery for an instant, then fumbling back to the stones, imagining they were the broad and burly Gaal, demolished and devastated by someone smaller, swifter. “I hope I’m nothing like him,” she murmured, a quiet thing she hadn’t meant to voice aloud. She must’ve held some of his distinctions, to have been recognized by Sunjata – and it made her sigh, suddenly not wishing to have anything reminding her that she shared this idiot’s blood, that she’d been brought into the world on his feral, stupefied instincts.
She’d always been so different from Clementine, in looks and personalities– a rough, violent twist and turn while her twin had been gentle and compassionate, a spring song beside Melita’s summery, bestial clamors. Perhaps that had been anointed and consecrated in her flesh: the ability to be an utter fool, painted in gestures of more flaws than virtues.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
All of his tales will be the same, likely stemming from his dislike of the man. But while Gaal had plenty of terrible qualities, the man was incredibly charismatic, and it made up the difference. It was also likely how Melita’s own mother had fallen under his spell. But the man shrugs, regardless, humming a laugh along with the honeybee child, before his head tilts toward her as her own head tilts toward the ground and watches the rocks she kicks.
A dark brow raises slightly when she makes a quiet comment, something she likely didn’t want him to hear, and his gaze drifts up toward the path they’re taking to give her some semblance of privacy. “Well, do you go out and do things rather than talk it up?” He pauses, contemplating. “He loved to talk about the things he did, only he never actually did them himself. But he was charismatic enough to make up the difference.” He offers helpfully, but from what he’s seen of the girl so far, she doesn’t seem anything like the man he knows back home.
But then, in an attempt to give her some kind of comfort (likely not much, if at all), he lets his steel gaze drift back down to her with a half-smile. “Gaal had red hair too, and the freckles.” He murmurs to her, gentle and kind – strange for how he typically is. “But aside from that I don’t see anything in you that’s like him.” His tattooed shoulders rise and fall in a shrug with his accented voice, hoping it alleviates any internal warring she’s facing.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
She glanced back over her shoulder as he spoke, her comment heard, a sigh tracing its way through her lungs. Did she go out and do things? Frequently – her words and actions dictated her life, commitments and convictions firm in her mind. She couldn’t recall a time she’d gone back on them either, not since the Rift, when no matter how much she’d tried to shield, tried to protect, it hadn’t really mattered. She hadn’t been strong enough to conquer the ferocious forces barreling over all of them. Would Gaal have protected them, had he been there? Would he have even attempted? Or would he simply have left them to fend for themselves, no different than where they’d started and ended? She grimaced slightly, a frown on her features, then her gaze swung back to another rock, a mighty kick ensuring its assault punctured and pierced the stone to arch into the air. “Yes. I try to do things.” The honeybee youth shrugged, as if that might not hold significance either. As for charisma – was that a true virtue, or had Gaal merely used it to size and seize opponents, to ensure someone was always in his grasp?
But according to Sunjata, she had his flaming crimson hair too, the freckles, the press of the sun slanting over skin. The youth wasn’t sure if she wanted to resemble him at all, remind anyone or anything about his existence, about how he’d traced over their lives and then disappeared, wanting nothing to do with them. However, that particular portion was out of her control, and perhaps enough of her mother’s beatific grace was alive and well and beating in her chest. Sunjata’s ending comment wasn’t forgotten though, entirely too kind, and the girl allowed the slightest of smiles to cross over her features. “Thank you,” taking it as a compliment, on a light air of laughter, ignoring the resounding trembling in her hands again. “I wonder if he perished with the rest of Helovia,” another murmur, glancing up towards the sky as they meandered further and further down trails and paths. On ethers of curiosity, buoyant and ebullient, traces of her foundational prowess, an inquiry floated, as if on the clouds and the curls of soft wind. “Do you know what happened to your world?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
She comments that yes, she does try, which is a good enough answer for the man. He doesn’t feel the need to beat a dead horse with that — and if she truly wishes to not be like her father, that she’ll continue to strive to be her best rather than taking the easy route. It seems like it’s how she is in general, and so he has no true worries when it comes to it, even if Melita does. But he still tries to alleviate any worries she might have, breathing a small sigh of relief when she accepts his somewhat compliment.
He gives a small shrug to her next comment, reaching up with a hand to scratch at an itch found somewhere within the compass of his tattoo. He doesn’t know about Helovia, doesn’t know that there was another version of himself that lived within the same lands as she. Perhaps one day he might remember, but for now he has enough on his plate. “Well, if we’re being all honest now, I thought I killed him when I left Korofi.” He hums thoughtfully. Because Gaal had a hand in being the snitch, in being the one that had told his father where him and Lusea had been, before squirreling himself into the marriage arrangement with his sister. Salt in the wound? Perhaps.
Still sucked though.
But when she asks what happened to his home, he regards her quietly for a moment. “It’s still there I think. I left Korofi for Dorobo after everything happened. And one day I woke up, went into the kitchen of the place I was staying at, and was suddenly here in the labyrinth.” There’s a small frown that finds his face, but he shrugs despite it. He hopes his world is still there, but he hopes the rebels had killed his father. In fact, he prays to every god he can hear that the man is dead.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
She meandered now, a lighter skip to her step; perhaps the sheen of her father’s claws not entirely resting on her any longer, a press of suns and Dragon’s Throat stockades, sands, and surf embarking far deeper than that man ever could. The youth sighed, listening to Sunjata’s response, laughing a little, a lighter air in her throat, forgoing the knotted requiems in her heart. “And yet, here I am. Living proof you didn’t.” The youth ensued a wink, and then glanced back to the sky, following ribbons of clouds while he quieted; pondering if she was a disappointment to this man too, some stark reminder that he’d strived for something that couldn’t be. Maybe it didn’t really matter, maybe none of this did, because Gaal was not here, a great blockade on a road, wouldn’t have bothered to follow her mother to sacrificial goals, and wouldn’t have strived to float down into Rift portals with his daughters. Perhaps he was back in the shadows of Helovia, crushed under its weight, all brawn and vigor and tenacity no longer a notion when earth turned to ash and dust.
The statement thereafter though was a surprise. Most of them had landed by the Spire, tucked beneath the giant monolith, surprised, bewildered, or simply glad to be out of the previous kingdom. Hers had been the latter, all hope of rampaging her way out of the Rift’s grasp a beautiful, tender release – straight into Caido, where she’d found some footholds, some capabilities, more than just the youth who survived. “Bizarre,” she laughed again, hair flying in the wind, locks like her father’s, but she’d like to believe, to think, hers were bolder, brighter, a vivid outcry against anything coming to haunt her. “At least, if this place doesn’t work out, then maybe you have something to return to.” The girl shrugged, glancing back at him again, a tiny smile warring its way along her lips.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
He notices the shift in her despite his dark answer, and a corner of his lip lifts in response to her. “That’s true.” He snorts, shrugging his shoulders lightly. Though it’s not like it matters much, whether he had been successful or not, what matters is that Gaal isn’t here, regardless wherever else he had been to. And besides, who is he to judge a child based off the merits of their parents when he was living proof that you didn’t have to follow it? It’s like the realization hits him, deep within, and he breathes a small amount easier as his gaze travels over the path they take.
But her comment on his arrival strikes a small hum of agreement from him, and he nods. “That’s one way to put it.” He agrees, quietly, a smile hanging on the corner of his lip. It fades, at her next comment, and he shakes his head to the smile she gives back. “I don’t think I’d want to return.” He admits, quietly. For all Caido is and has to offer, he finds it infinitely better than Korofi on any day. And besides, the man definitely doesn’t miss the floods any, if at all.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
The pathway opened up to residences and settlements, ghosts of wood smoke fanning into the air, curls and wisps, not unlike the parting clouds, except they carried distinctive smells, the notion and nature of returning to civilization. He didn’t quip back at her blunt statement, only a that’s true and a lighter shrug of his shoulders, no harm, no foul, seemingly no ill will spread or spouted at her. He would’ve far earlier anyway – and she had visions of a life ended with hands around throats and a shove into the water, drowned or obliterated in the pulsing beacon of hatred and vehemence – none of that here, none of what could’ve been. For all his notion of vengeance, he didn’t incite it towards her, and she breathed again – the clarity expanding, new friends emerging from darker outlines and looks. She was not a wanted child, but that didn’t diminish her, that didn’t stifle her, that didn’t defeat her.
At his insistent on not returning to his former world, Melita hummed a little, twisting back towards Fangorn, beckoning him with a few pats to her leg as the gourd became distracted by something in a nearby bush. “Does Caido have more to offer you?” Her curiosity bounded and leapt again – because at least he had something, when the rest of them seemed to have naught. Helovia was torn asunder, ripped apart, nothing but shadows and destroyed dreams, lined with rubble and desecration. The Rift was a siphon of terror and treachery. Caido had more to proffer and extend to her simply by way of occasional glee, not constantly riddled with torment and unease.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
