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!
As soon as the thorn pricked the woman’s skin, Loren floated the flower down to his hand and held it there. Simultaneously, he ordered the siren to stop singing; the creature’s mouth closed and only then did the summoner take out a single earplug. It was just in time to catch the red-head’s mumbled apology. Though the Launceleyn didn’t know if his Rose had worked, or why the woman was speaking, he hoped and prayed that it did. That didn't mean he was going to be reckless; the siren was staying out until he was absolutely certain the Rose's magic had worked as intended.
”Hey, no, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t your fault.” He kept his voice low and soothing, though he still eyed her warily. ”What’s your name?” The precarious way she was balanced on the branch began to worry him, and he decided to see if he could coax her to the ground. ”Do you mind coming down from there?” Although Loren had many talents, none of them really extended to catching a falling woman. At least they didn’t while he already had an active summon out.
She suddenly felt exhausted, as if the weight of the world shambled down her spine, plucked against her scars, and pounded into her skull. Perhaps it was the blight, desperate for the resurgence of its control and power again, but she swallowed down its cumbersome, overwhelming void for the moment, coiled and curled, balanced precariously, steadily losing the might in her body, in her bones, to keep her aloft. One hand swiped at the blackened tears streaming and cascading down her face, eyes lingering on the stain they left behind on her skin – gods, how had she become so broken, so distorted, so unraveled? The siren’s song seemed to have stopped, stifling temptations for the moment – her heart thought to flee but her figure was too dispirited, fatigued, fighting a losing battle just to keep her eyes open.
The stranger’s words shuffled against her and she shook again, thinking she’d need to get away from him (what had she done?). But the vocals were low, a murmur, meant to be placating and pacifying, and she swallowed again, head raised, crimson locks tangling into the wind. It wasn’t your fault - but whose was it? Who had control over her figure, over her form? Who made her chase down thorns and roses? Who made her seek destruction? Some portion of herself must have had some modicum of coercion; as for the rest, the blight stoked and unfurled, pressed into her veins with vicious insistence, kept at bay by either the pricking of the rose against her sides, or vehement combinations.
He should’ve left her there. Should’ve fled. Should’ve let her fall apart at the seams.
“Melita,” she responded, wrapping her arms around herself as she remained in the branch, like a little bird left behind for the winter – the madness orchestrating no sense of wellbeing. At his insistence, her gaze drifted downward, more herself in those snatches of moments, emboldened enough to thrust herself out of the bough, landing haphazardly on shaking limbs.
Loren didn’t know who Melita was, though now that the blight had left her (at least somewhat) he had some vague recollection of seeing her at the meeting regarding LongNight preparations. As the red-headed woman leapt down from the tree, the summoner stepped back, not wanting her to land on him. Though he was worried from the way she jumped down that she might hurt herself, when she landed he didn't see any obvious injuries. Still, he'd ask her about it once she seemed more aware of her surroundings.
For now, he just made sure to keep the soothing tone in his voice. ”Hi Melita. I’m Loren.” He dismissed the siren; though he’d feel safer with it by his side, he could always call upon it again in a few seconds and he was worried about using up too much of his magic in the presence of someone with the blight. ”I don’t know how much time we have, so can you tell me if you need anything, or if you need me to pass a message along to anyone?” If the woman had loved ones back in the Hollowed Grounds, presumably they’d be worried about her. And if she needed help with anything, he’d do his best to provide it.
She blinked rapidly, as if trying to ascertain who he was in the binding, blinding haze, in the shadows creeping back over her eyes. He wasn’t completely familiar to her, like many of those in the background, in the scenery, in the surroundings, while she was absorbed in some other tasks. But his tone was soothing, placating, and as she shook her head, to rid herself of the monstrous blight trying to swallow her down again, she listened, striving to extract his words, her hands slipping to her forehead, pain bounding behind her brows. “Need anything…” Something to rid her of this plague, of this pestilence, of this thing eating away at her, scarring her, scorching against her, but that was already obvious, their efforts too ineffectual, wasted. A message to anyone? Wessex already knew; she’d made that much certain when her wounding words had haunted and leapt and threatened – chasing down one of the core figures in her life. “Can you tell Wessex I’m sorry? And…” Had she gone after anyone else? She couldn’t remember. The honeybee girl choked down the bile contorting and cloaking down her throat, tossing her head again, crouching and curling back into a ball on the ground, barely upright and mobile as her skull kept reverberating with anguish. Did she have anyone else that would’ve cared? That could’ve done something? Did it matter, really, in the scheme of things, when she was damned and doomed to return straight back into this molten-fueled agony?
Sense was returning slowly, to Melita, but not nearly quickly enough for Loren’s tastes. Indeed, he was fully aware that at any moment, the Rose’s magic might run out, and the red-headed woman might succumb to the blight once more. Still, he wanted to stay at least long enough to find out if she was healthy and whole, and if there was anything he could do for her. As she apologized, though, he shook his head. ”She knows. I promise you she knows. But I’ll tell her.” Hesitating, he glanced at the flower in his hands. ”Listen, I’m sorry, but I don’t know how long I should stay. If you’re not hurt, and that’s your only message, I need to get the Rose to safety. But...hang in there, okay? We’re working on the cure, and we will save you from this.” He sank as much conviction into those words as he could manage; hopefully she’d believe him.
Did Wessex know Melita hadn’t meant to be awful, to be a ruin, a savage, upon this society? Because something in her heart told her she’d been wicked, and damned to conduct it again, lost in the acrimony, in the vicious, unwinding cycle, of darker fathoms returning to take her away. She rubbed the blighted-remnants of tears off her cheeks, eyes glancing at the Stygian stains on her hands now too, shaking her head, longing for complete, utter clarity that wouldn’t come. She couldn’t even chase that.
At his next set of words, her gaze swung back to the rose, to its thorns, and her frame rankled, ground into her soul, threatened to tear things apart again. It was an urgency, to destroy, to rampage, to devastate, to be one more guardian of disease and pestilence, instead of what truly mattered – she’d never wanted to be this way, a monster with no control, with no composure, feral and foul. “Go,” she nodded, taking in his convictions with little flare. He’d have to leave before she found herself back in the taut contortions of the blight’s perilous insistence again, before her hands and fingers and claws could sink into stems and snap them apart. “Thank you,” she whispered, ducking her head, lost and lost.
At Melita’s command, Loren nodded. Still, as he turned to run, he heard her quiet whisper. ”You’re welcome. But don’t thank me yet, not until you’re cured.” Then she could provide all the gratitude she wanted, though he’d wave it away as completely unnecessary. Then he was off, running as fast as his legs could carry him before the blight reasserted itself, trying to get out the range of her bow and her fury.
