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 afternoon rain had brought him out – whispers and ghosts of the past lingering in droplets and cascades, and the beast longing to drown beneath their weight and wake. He wasn’t bothered by the sousing, drenched and never beholden, consecrated and baptized in the enigmatic ethers of quandary after quandary, head lifted to the skies as they opened, and ceasing to duck down, pelted by their colder touches and fringes. How many times had he encountered such measures in Helovia, within the Basin’s deluges and inhabitants, a stark turn of the day, and absorbed it all? Such was the same now – fur, hide, and the sack over his shoulder (he’d misplaced his bag of holding; would have to take closer inspections on his routes) embedded in the showers. Zuriel stepped close behind, silent in her perusals, while the sounds of the rain plopped against swords, blades, and knives tucked along his belt.
By the time he’d crossed into woods, the weather had dissipated into naught all over again – sun striking on turning, deadened, or withered leaves; a passing, formidable gesture, reminders of blistering torrents and mercurial containments. He shook off a majority, the unicorn following suit, and as they meandered through the ethereal boundaries, the equine grew more and more distracted.
By puddles.
His gaze lingered on her, a sigh on plumes and ridiculousness, as she seemed to peer into the depths of the waterlogged soil. She’d study them for a series of moments, then shy away, only to go to the next, then the next, then the next – and after a while, with no explanation, the deadpan, dry reverberation pulsing through their connection. What are you doing?
She took her time in answering, an mystifying creature with some sort of eternal, unearthly connotation, and he was about to move on when she finally chose to respond, blue eyes never on his. Looking – there are images. His brow arched and he maneuvered closer, choosing one nearby on a sheer provocation of intrigue and curiosity (though the notion that she was simply choosing to trick him was embedded in his mind), looking down into the surface.
A flash of gold, tawny brown feathers, long, long talons, gripping, ripping, tearing.
The Launceleyn’s first venture into these woods had hardly been a success. Indeed, Loren had seen visions in puddles—which made him wonder if he was going mad for real—and then managed to make the worst possible impression on someone as a result. Granted, the librarian had been reeling from seeing the spectres of his family, but even so he’d been pretty horrible. All in all, it was enough to make him avoid these woods altogether.
However, Loren had avoided things that scared him for far too long. If he was ever going to grow, ever going to learn from his myriad mistakes, he needed to challenge himself, push himself further than he was comfortable. He’d always had his family to do that for him—and resented them for it, with good reason—but now he had to be the strong one. After all, other than the children, he was basically the only Launceleyn left. It was a heavy burden, especially given the dark legacy of his bloodline and the chaos that Zariah always seemed to leave in her wake.
All that was to say when a rainy day rolled around again, Loren made up his mind to go back to the woods and see if he could get through them this time. He’d left the Manor with little more than the clothes on his back and some rations; his magic could protect him from pretty much everything, or at least he hoped it could, but he couldn’t make food for himself and he hardly knew how to tell what might be edible in strange woods. Although the librarian had been a farmer once upon a time, that was far different from foraging.
As he walked, a chill breeze sprang up, and he drew his brown cloak closer around him. Its hood was up, both to protect him from the cold and the water the wind shook from the trees and to protect his identity. While he didn’t think he was in any real danger, there were other reasons he might not want to be recognized. It didn’t take long for him to arrive back in the Wildwood, as it was called, and he started retracing what he thought were his steps. By now, the sun was shining and the day was fair, but still Loren kept himself wrapped up tight. He was still gaunt, with hardly a spare bit of fat on his frame, and so he chilled easily.
He spotted movement ahead and he slowed, suddenly wary. However, as he approached, it resolved itself into a familiar frame and a unicorn. Loren was startled to see such a creature around; he was still getting used to the fact that many in the Hollowed Grounds had companions that once upon a time only he might’ve been able to summon. The man, who Loren knew from various meetings and events, had the tall broad frame of a warrior, and the Launceleyn was sure his own thin build looked positively skeletal in comparison.
Biting his lip, Loren considered whether or not to turn back. But the sight of the unicorn frolicking in the puddles brought a sense of joy to the summoner that he had not felt in quite a while. Although he felt guilty for feeling happy, that didn’t diminish the awe in the slightest. So, almost unbidden, his legs carried him forward and he found himself speaking up. “Hello there. Mind if I join you?” Loren’s tone was cautious, but polite enough; as far as the Launceleyn knew, he had never met this man before and therefore didn’t need to worry about the warrior’s reaction. However, it was entirely possible the other man friends with someone Loren had hurt, or, more likely, was enemies with Zariah. Zariah had a lot of enemies, and she’d left them all for Loren to deal with.
What are the point of these things? he roamed along their bond, thinking she might know or understand far more than he, accustomed to these lands and ventures, made of the ether, of the air, of the earth – his eyes flicking back down towards the surface. The feathers, the talons, the gilded and sienna glimmers were entirely vanquished, vanished, as if they were never there. Perhaps it’d just been another trick of the forest, like the will-o-wisps, leading to slaughter, damnation, or mere confusion. Visions! She countered, a sensation of smug, unbidden pride buffering against him, his brow arching again and swinging his cranium towards her. Of what? He could practically hear her humming under mysteries and enigmas, continuing to scatter her way along the puddles, and he thought to do the same, inching closer and peeking over the glassy veneer - fire this time, blistering, infernal bastions, like his father’s embers, like the coil of animals once rippling over Kiada’s spine, like the echoes and fringes of broken times, fissured spaces, snapped places –
Another approached – and both of them raised their heads at strides maneuvering closer and closer; Zuriel was calm, composed, and so Deimos remained much the same, hands not reaching for weapons or defensive measures. Instead, his posture was rigid, tall, an imposing, intimidating figure to those who didn’t know him, or knew, understood, what he was capable of. The unicorn’s head tilted at the voice, and his gaze flickered its way to the incoming individual, recognizing his figure from recent meetings. He’d offered the Launcelyn Manor for the eventuality of Long Night, which meant, in some way or form, he was connected to the family. The Sword doubted Zariah would’ve permitted anyone simply to enter their lair, their mansion, their fortifications, without some relationship amidst the clan, much less proffer it to strangers, no matter what impending doom. Deimos had managed to segment mere formalities and suggestions to the Merciless before; he wasn’t sure how to deal with this one yet.
Back to nonchalance and steel, iron-forged enamel, a bastion of strength and might; the detachment pulsing along his features. “You may,” he shrugged, maneuvering closer to the next puddle, gaze of a carnivore, a predator, waiting for the next set of motions. Zuriel lifted her nose into the air, sniffed, snorted, and then carried on with her own motivations, not even remotely bothered by the man and his presence.
The tall man had allowed Loren to approach, but still he hesitated; there was something in the other’s manner that called to mind a predator. But even though the man’s muscles bulged, Loren reminded himself that the strength of arms could only take someone so far. Besides, after growing up among people who’d tortured him for the slightest mistake, Loren had trouble finding anyone who wasn’t a family member all that threatening. “Thanks.” The librarian took a few cautious steps closer to the man and his unicorn, though he kept some distance between himself and the duo.
However, as soon as he paused, the Launceleyn realized he would have to get close to the other man after all. Awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, Loren figured it was high time he found out who this man was. “I’ve seen you around the Hollowed Grounds, but never actually introduced myself. I’m Loren.” He closed the remaining gap between himself and the warrior, the librarian’s hand held out for a handshake. As long as Loren kept to polite and courteous, he figured he’d be okay.
A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye, and he glanced over, gaze snagged by one of the puddles. An image formed within it: Ronin and Loren, sitting in the king’s quarters, as they had during their reunion. Only this time, the ex-captain was laughing and grinning of old, cured of the blight, and clearly welcoming his old friend back. As tears sprang to the Launceleyn’s eyes, he closed them and looked away, unwilling to entertain such fantasies. As he’d been doing all too often of late, he drew upon the cold, hard core his family had instilled in him, emotions banished to the depths of his mind. So when he reopened his mind, they were clear of any moisture. The puddles would not overcome him again, no matter what he might see in their depths.
The stranger remained as he'd bid, and Deimos walked along, aloof, waiting – ready to either impart stillness or violence, the sort of being who had made his living assuming vehemence was the answer (and sometimes it was, it was, it was, the echoes and cries of a battlefield, the slash of a blade, the herald of drums, beats and fragments of maelstroms). Around those he recognized, knew, considered comrades and friends, cherished things he wouldn’t part with, the walls weren’t so rigid, weren’t so sharp, weren’t so vivid; here, along wandering grounds with the vast unknown pulsing in puddles and posturing nearby, the Sword couldn’t afford to be relaxed, in repose. This was no sanctuary, no haven, no refuge; the Greatwood took, the Greatwood gave, and balanced along enigmatic intervals in between. He had no intention of being amongst the swindled, the lost, or the broken. Not again.
But the other had more manners and eloquence than the Reaper could afford; an introduction extended: Loren – someone who had seen him, had noticed him, for one reason or another. Then the other extended his hand, and he gave his in return, quick, swift, potency and power in a single gesture. “Deimos,” followed by a narrowing of his blue eyes, a perusal, a study: warrior’s indulgences, constantly examining and scrutinizing another. Can I fell this one? the void might ask. Can he be trusted? another might insinuate.
Then the puddles distracted, deterred, and he followed along Zuriel’s treads; she danced and ignited further ahead, lost to zeal and fervency of each potential image. She didn’t answer his last inquiry, likely on purpose, blatantly inscrutable and puzzling when she wanted to be. When he glanced down at the glistening surface nearest his feet, he didn’t see either feathers or fire, but a drenching of water, like his mother’s alms and balms, her munitions, her grace, eerily composed into a funnel, a spout, drifting and journeying to someone’s drowned herald – like mercurial gods and their whimsical voids, shattering the earth one moment, allowing it to beckon the horizon the next. It twisted away after he blinked, as if it were never there – mystical and damning, the speculations curling and coiling along his mind. Too many things occupied the space, but for now, for these loitering, languid instances, he played along with their games.
He missed Loren’s reaction, didn’t see the emotions, didn’t look upon vacant tracks where tears should’ve been shed; secrets and furtiveness usually safe in his quiet, hushed harbors, keeper of keys, locks, and daggers. “What are they meant to show?” His voice rumbled in the abyss, in the void, in the glade, against the turning leaves and their hastening descent – the past, the present, the future, nothing at all? Perhaps Loren comprehended the fathoms, could make sense of their images, of their slide into naught.
The other man had quite the firm handshake, and Loren felt his own grip tightening for just an instant in response. Then, it was over, and the librarian resisted rubbing the ache out of his hand, instead choosing to clasp them both behind his back. He offered the other man a tentative smile—though it didn’t reach his eyes—as the two of them regarded each other. Then Loren realized he was falling back into old, bad habits of posturing, and he let the smile slip away. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Deimos.” Even if the warrior still looked at the summoner like he wasn’t sure what to make of Loren.
It wasn’t like he cut an especially imposing figure, skeletally thin as he was. Then again, he also knew what it was like to constantly be on the lookout for danger. All he could do was try to be as friendly and non threatening as possible. Given how volatile he’d been since his return, however, that would likely prove difficult.
Thankfully, the unicorn bounded over, playfully skipping among the puddles, and Deimos followed. Loren let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding; unlike the other man and the unicorn, the Launceleyn stayed put. However, there were so many puddles that it was impossible to avoid them entirely. The next one that drew Loren in showed him a picture of himself—or maybe Neron, what with the identical twin thing—dressed as a jester, performing capers for a wide-eyed crowd. Unlike the other visions, that wasn’t too painful, just annoying.
Deimos spoke, asking a question, and Loren welcomed the distraction, breaking off his stare at the water to gaze at the other man. “I don’t know. Most of the visions they’ve shown me have ranged from annoying to painful.” The Launceleyn ran a hand through his hair as he considered the puddles. “I wonder what causes them. It feels a little bit like illusion magic.” Casting his eyes at the much taller, broader man, Loren decided providing a little bit of information about himself might put the warrior at ease. “I don’t have any myself, but I’ve certainly been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count.” Of course, what might put Deimos at ease caused a spike of remembered terror to flash through the summoner. But he shoved it out of his mind: his family was almost all gone, and couldn’t hurt him any longer.
That didn’t stop their ghosts from haunting him and his dreams.
True – he didn’t know what to make of Loren, because the man didn’t seem to possess any token Launcelyn approaches or attributes (bold, insistent, rapacious edges), so he nodded instead, “Likewise,” uttered, even if it lacked significant meaning. The proclamation hastened from his throat but not his eyes – they were too carved in piercing guards, pondering when the threats, the ultimatums, or the vows were going to start biting into the ground and gravel. He scrutinized him once more, arching his brow at the tentative, apprehensive smile, as if they were both testing the waters, seeing what would provoke, instigate, or unleash. When naught came, because neither had crossed those lines, it was an odd assemblage of a truce.
Which Zuriel sought to interrupt by prideful intervals – threading through the puddle closest to Loren, raising her noble head as if in full inspection. He wondered, very briefly, if their bond was too strong, if some of himself was meandering into her thoughts; but she took posturing to a whole new level, widening her nares, and then blowing a harsh, almost dragon-like snort, waiting to see what the other did (nearly an agent provocateur, he could almost see a smirk hidden in her features). Then she motioned away again, as if nothing had happened at all. “Zuriel,” Deimos nodded his head in her direction, indicating her name with no other explanation (mostly because he didn’t have one).
In methodologies and comprehension of the puddles, however, both of them seemed quite lost. His visions must’ve been different, altered, because the Sword hadn’t been pained or irritated by the flashes of scenery and incantations. He’d only been all the more curious, enticed, tempted, ghosting over to another one close by, hesitating upon looking in only to answer. Illusion magic; something he imagined conjured by kitsunes and their many tails, spun along threads of deceit and trickery, into snares, into specious depths. “Nor do I,” he muttered, brows furrowing slightly in thought. “The will-o-wisps have something similar.” It could be construed as a warning, in case Loren sought continued avoidance of the nooses, traps, and nets. “I only see flashes of things: feathers, fire, water.” Then the beast shrugged, imagination long since gone from his mind; the things of boyhood, before swords, armor, and death.
Deimos might say it was good to officially meet Loren, but the man’s posture and expression belied the words. Although the Launceleyn had been a poor spy—more because of lack of interest than because he was bad at it—he’d picked up a little bit of his father’s craft in a failed attempt to gain Cyton’s affection. What the summoner knew was to watch the eyes. Someone might lie with their tongue, but their eyes always betrayed them. Sighing, Loren ran a hand through his hair. He was too tired and drained to deal with this posturing, so he carefully considered whether or not to do something to put the other man at ease.
Ah, screw subtle. Loren had nothing to hide anymore, empty as he was inside. That didn’t mean he didn’t have a lot to answer for. It just meant he would be straightforward about it. “I probably should’ve given my full name earlier. It’s Loren Launceleyn.” His tone was mostly resigned, though he watched Deimos carefully as he said that; the man had obviously heard the summoner’s declaration at the meeting, so there was no point in hiding his identity. “So if you’re a friend of Remi, I have every intention of staying away from him. And if you’re an enemy of Zariah I have no intention of carrying on her legacy.” Maybe he should get a sign made so he had to stop explaining that to people. It would have to be a bit more pithy than that though. Maybe something like ‘Yes, Launceleyn, Yes asshole, No not dangerous (except to self).’ He would do it, too, if he thought people would believe it.
Then the unicorn (who was called Zuriel, apparently) came back. And even though she acted in an aggressive manner—and even though Loren was incredibly grumpy and depressed and in no mood for whimsy—the Launceleyn found himself grinning, holding his hands up to show he posed no threat to her or her master. Apparently, even a summoner, one who could called mythical beings into life with a thought and an effort of will, even one as broken as he, could find whimsy in the antics of a unicorn. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Zuriel.” The librarian had to call out after her, since she darted off to explore more puddles.
Which continued to give Loren tantalizing glimpses out of the corner of his eye. However, after having been beguiled before, he was doing his best to avoid staring into one again. Thankfully, the conversation with Deimos was a most welcome distraction. As the warrior seemed to get lost in thought, Loren waited patiently. “Well, that’s good. As I mentioned, I don’t have the best history with illusionists. My own magic is pretty useless against them.” That’s why he had his glasses. Again, the Launceleyn was trying to convey how little a threat he posed. He certainly didn’t look like he could put up a fight, given the sorry state he was in. Besides, he’d already admitted he was a summoner, which was his most potent skill, to a whole group of people including Deimos.
The comment about the will-o-wisps was legitimately useful advice. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll try to steer clear of them.” Then the conversation swung back to the puddles and Loren found himself hesitating. “It’s showing me flashes, but also full visions.” He couldn’t help the shudder that passed through him as he remembered the first one, the mocking words of his family that had him to the core. “I don’t know why it’s different for me.” Perhaps it had a little to do with the tragedy Loren brought with him like a cloak everywhere he went.
Ah, there it was, the surname he’d been waiting for. Whether or it embodied and possessed the other Launcelyn features or characteristics remained to be seen, though he’d yet to blow anything up or threaten to put the Sword in chains or prisons, so Loren was already faring better in those regards. But he listened – a maintainer of scholarly pursuits, waiting in his calm composition, either biding his time for acrimony, for hostility, for warrior munitions, or something else altogether. He ensured his features were more inscrutable now, a portrait of nonchalance and detachment, seemingly apathetic, while his mind reeled and calculations restored. He didn’t know about his history with Remi, and frankly, wasn’t going to ask, and the beast wasn’t certain of he’d made himself an enemy of Zariah, since their rebellion had been stoked, instigated, and provoked in her ignorance – out in the open now, thanks to Ronin and Wessex’s seats upon thrones. No intention of carrying on her legacy was an intriguing line, as if he didn’t harbor the weight of the crowns or scepters, returning at a time when chaos had unraveled and crises had flown from one venture to the next. The Merciless disappeared, monarchs in her place, and then the spread of blight – a singular disease to another. Instead of voicing any of these machinations, however, Deimos remained in steadfast silence, then nodded, noting his understanding – no less taut, no less rigid, not a yielding source between strangers.
Zuriel’s state and stature had suggested a lacing and lacquer of pride, her eyes glinting with a forbearing mischief – and though he didn’t roll his gaze, he certainly had to stifle the motion – Loren’s hands in an open gesture of faith and non-violence only rippled across her brow briefly. An indignant, haughty, huffed snort thereafter followed, as if she were mildly disappointed she wouldn’t be using her horn to brutalize, or her hooves to condemn. Then she placated neither man, meandering off on her own.
The conversation shifted, away from dangerous family members or daring unicorns, back to the illusions, the deceptions, the range of possibilities. The Launcelyn’s incantations were useless against them? He gave the man another studious look, as if contemplating what he held, what he contained. “What best combats illusions?” After all, Deimos had only been attempting to thwart them with death – draining them of souls, lifeless, leaving him and Ashetta lone, the last time he’d wandered into their midst (their screams, their agonies, their granules of his past lives).
As for the will-o-wisps, he nodded again, because not many deserved to share the dismal, anguishing fate of listening to horrors and the departure from reality and into despair. Along puddles and distortions though, their experiences appeared to be a mystery, more enigmatic qualms and requiems, pulses and flashes, full visions. “Like memories?” Was that what his were too – though the behemoth couldn’t proclaim a connection, a flash of impressions, towards those particular plumes (nothing like Amalia’s or Kiada’s – too gold, too brown, too foreign).
After explaining all that to Deimos, the man still seemed wary, despite the way he’d nodded. If Loren hadn’t been so exhausted, emotionally and physically, he would’ve rolled his eyes. As it stood, the summoner just wanted the other man to lose his watchful edge. So, though the Launceleyn hated showing this part of himself, he decided to give the tall man a tangible demonstration of just how little he should fear the librarian. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he exposed the scar tissue that started just above his wrists. “Again, if it’s Remi, I am leaving him alone. If it’s Zariah, well, some of these are from her.” Actually, he didn’t know if that was strictly true, but it was true in a larger sense: she’d been one of the many who’d wounded him with magic, contributing the horrifying tapestry on his pale skin. The rest were the rest of his kin.
Lowering his sleeves with a jerk, he hugged himself briefly, trying to banish the memory of all the torture he’d suffered at his family’s hands. It was hard to do so with the puddles; although none of were showing him visions of his past or his relatives at the moment, the fact that they had made him wary of them. Zuriel finally managed to break the spell the waters had on the librarian, when the unicorn made such a cute sound of disappointment and then wandered off to explore. He gave her a fond smile as she left, but it quickly slipped away.
The question was an interesting one, and not particularly easy to answer. Loren narrowed his eyes and studied Deimos as the Launceleyn considered how best to answer. “It depends on what tools, or rather weapons, you have, I suppose. Do you have any magic of your own?” If the other man did, it would simplify the explanation quite a bit. If not, however, there were still tips Loren could give the taller man.
The summoner hesitated, not sure how much he should, or was willing to admit. “Memories, yes.” Then Loren sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. There didn't seem much point in holding back, since it wasn't like he needed to keep the mysteries of his family a secret any longer. “But also, well, what might have been? Figures from my past? So dreams and nightmares maybe.” It was just a guess, and an incomplete one at that, but the days when he practiced rigorous guesswork were over, and besides, some magic was beyond explanation.
Wary was not the same as guarded, and guarded was not the same as ready; for anything, everything, calculating enmity, hostility, and acrimony at any instance of interactions with strangers, no matter the name, no matter the face. He was a warrior through and through, a predator, a carnivore, a beast who carved up adversaries, foes, and enemies because he protected, because he shielded, because it was all he’d done for a multitude of his lives. It wasn’t fear, so much as the beckoning unknown, if he would have to assault and siege, if he would have to remain the rampart, the bulwark, the breathing weapon.
But then there were scars shown, and his gaze flicked away from the marks, for he had plenty as well, understood there were layers to those intervals, stories for each line, pathways carved into skin and flesh. “Very well,” he uttered, as if to appease Loren, as if to ensure he understood only the barest brush of Launcelyn underpinnings, that there were more dastardly deeds in the background, that worlds and families were not always so wonderful. What did you do in return? he wanted to ask; if there were series of vengeful cycles in their blood, in their noble houses, if anyone ever dared to raise a hand back at the Merciless, or if she merely continued growing in power, in prestige, in menace.
But he didn’t – for it was not his business, and some portion of prying meant he’d gain some in rebuttal.
The Reaper could feel a narrowing of Loren’s gaze back on him, studied upon, his turn to be speculated against. It was a fair assessment, eye for an eye, inquiry for inquiry. “I do.” He thought about leaving the answer there, just to be an irritating, nonchalant, apathetic jerk, but ghosted a smile on the bridges of enduring silence, before giving in. “Life drain and creation.” He didn’t say the whims or malicious exploits of their powers, or the altering schisms and catalysts they brandished: how one had always been in his blood, how the other had only been signified here, in this land, in this realm, for reasons and multitudes he couldn’t fathom.
Then there were memories, and Deimos was half-content to consider his not of that particular realm – not yearning to traverse down notations of suffering again, tragedy upon tragedy upon tragedy, failure and failure and failure, barring enough scars to last lifetimes. It didn’t answer his question though; because these visions couldn’t possibly be past or present or anything but some sort of nonsense. He could’ve surmounted them as parts of Isilme – with his father’s fire, with his mother’s water, but then the feathers made no sense. The beast took an opportunity, leaning over another one, eyes catching the slide of paws, dark and black and brutal, before they disappeared off to the side, glimmers of pretenses and naught. “Perhaps it is different for everyone then,” he shrugged, either tired of the calculations or assuming it was another lost cause, no one out in the woods to explain the formations to them.
That two word response was probably the best Loren was going to get from Deimos, so the Launceleyn jerked his sleeve down, wanting to hide his past from the world once more. He’d been showing the scars more openly, explaining their meaning, but that didn’t make it easier or more comfortable for him. Luckily, the conversation turned to much firmer ground; the summoner might not be an expert on magic anymore, but he would be happy to discuss it regardless. ”Good to know. I also have a little bit of skill with creation, but life drain is basically the opposite of most of my magic.” Well, actually, the summoner was assuming, seeing as he’d never encountered someone with the dark art before (at least that he knew of). Still, they’d had something similar back in Northaven. “I’m mainly a summoner, as you know, but I’m decent at healing magic, and I've got a tiny amount of telekinesis to round it out.” At least the other man should remember that from the meeting Remi held.
Loren still owed the taller man an explanation, so the Launceleyn took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts. ”Illusion mages are tricky. The best method is to have items that allow you to pierce their spells.” For instance, the librarian had lenses that let him see through visual illusions, which again, was something he’d mentioned at the meeting. ”If you don’t have one of those, however, the best method I’ve found for dealing with them is blanketing the area. They tend to be pretty cocky and don’t bother to hide in reality, so if you blast the area with something that hurts or preferably stuns or disorients them that usually takes them out.” He paused briefly to give Deimos a considering look. ”I’m not sure how your life drain works, but I say preferably use non lethal means because you run the risk of hurting allies or yourself by slinging spells around indiscriminately.” That had been the Launceleyn’s experience: growing up in a family of illusion mages that loved to torment him had left him wise to their tricks.
When the other man spoke about the puddles, the summoner shrugged. ”Perhaps.” Seeing that the visions he was still spotting out of the corner of his eyes caused him to wince (being almost exclusively painful), Loren probably wasn’t going to spend a whole lot of time studying them. Or at least, he wouldn’t unless he had a very good reason to.
Deimos bore no shame in the markings, in the sketches of his scars, the way they crawled over his arms, his chest, his back, deep gashes healed over only to a certain stature and point, left there to scintillate or devastate in memories and recollections. Each one meant endurance, perseverance, and fortitude, tales etched and sketched in brutal infernos and malignant motions – but they maneuvered the narratives into decibels and alluring voids of survival, the slash of a sword, the clash of an ax, the broad, undulating power from another adversary steeped in his blood, in his skin, on his flesh. He’d lived while the enemy might not; the harsh monstrosities of pain and anguish well worth the next agonizing onslaught, a rumbling growl, low and harsh in his chest, as he plummeted his sword into another. However, his hadn’t been emblazoned on his figure from family, the inhabitants, the people, who were meant to love and protect; so he could understand the way Loren tucked them aside, beneath, forgoing their existence for the moment, not giving into their structure, their multitudes of mayhem. Even if he’d come out stronger for it, the terror and tyranny would be enough to sway, to swindle, to depart into ghosts and wraiths, the entanglement of hostility – struck by blood and bonds.
There were more creators in he and Remi’s midst – which was wise to understand when the poor alchemist was exhausted and fatigued again, constantly asked to magical incantations and a summoning of more. Loren apparently had more than just the art of concoction though, along with healing and telekinesis, an intriguing, interesting balance. Perhaps the Reaper’s was too – power in devastation and ruin, then opuses and oeuvres. “And you summon animals?” Was that what the other mage had said in the meeting? The entire thing was a blur, truth be told, voices waging war over incensed, misplaced rage, hostilities and acrimonies festering even when it had all been for the greater good, a lack of composure amongst some. “Healing is not effective against those who hold life drain,” an exchange of information waylaid; experiences at least passed to another. Deimos would know. Vai had tried.
As far as illusion mages and their trickey, the Sword held none of these particular items. He had raw power and machinations – but none of those things blocked the intricacies of duplicity and speciousness, except the cunning of his own mind, except the blistering ferocity and malevolence stored in his frame. Non-lethal means almost made him laugh, because Deimos rarely held back when others or himself were in danger, under attack; the Spire the latest of endeavors where his manifestations of vitriol and vehemence had laid waste to poison and venom. But he’d had an extension of death since he was born – it was a natural, intrinsic thing. “I have significant control over it.” He shrugged, likely too much at ease with the ploys of danger and disaster, when it fueled and entangled itself along his veins, as comfortable to his existence as breathing. He wouldn’t swarm allies with it, nor he did he ever sling spells indiscriminately. Composure and command were in his being, in his core, in his entity. “What sort of items?” He leaned into the prior notion, pondering if he could create something to the effect – to protect himself, and those he cherished. “Something that blocks, absorbs, or shields?”
At Deimos’ question, Loren nodded. ”I do. Both real and imagined. So, again, creating life, at least of a sort, whereas you take it away.” The Launceleyn realized how critical that might sound, and hastened to add, ”Not that there’s anything wrong with life drain of course! Most of my family has destructive magic. Well...okay bad example, I know that, given recent events. But there is a place for it, obviously.” The information about healing not being effective against the dark magic caused the summoner’s brows to furrow. ”Really? Are you sure it wasn’t just a differential in power? Not that I doubt you, I just didn’t know about that. And I can’t begin to imagine why that might be the case.” It was certainly a magical puzzle, and Loren had forgotten how much he enjoyed taking those apart. Of course, the only way to test that would be to have someone use life drain against him, and he thought asking Deimos to do that in the woods was quite a bad idea.
When the warrior commented about his control, the Launceleyn shook his head. ”It’s not your control that’s in doubt, it’s your target. An illusionist is skilled at making you think friends are foes and foes are friends, so unless you are absolutely sure you are attacking the right person, it’s best to disable their magic by shattering their concentration or knocking them out. That’s why blanketing the area with non-lethal spells or other techniques to disable mages is my only general tip.” Hopefully he didn’t have to explain to Deimos the horror that came from killing one’s own allies because a mage’s eyes and mind betrayed them.
Then the warrior was asking about items that could pierce the illusionist’s veils, and Loren had to think about that. ”I have lenses that let anyone who gazes through them see through visual illusions. And I’ve heard of swords that can cut through or reflect illusions when swung. But that seems less ideal given that someone needs to know the illusions are there to begin with.” No doubt there were other ways and other items, but those two were the only one the Launceleyn knew for sure.
