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!
09-02-2019, 05:47 PM (This post was last modified: 09-02-2019, 05:48 PM by Loren.)
LOREN
Loren had come out to feed and sing to the herds of luxere once more, his pack stuffed with hay and apples. After this task was done, he had another job to do—the flower tucked into his belt was evidence of that—but after that harrowing experience with Ronin at the Spire, the Launceleyn was trying to figure out the best place to plant his remaining two blossoms. Well, one blossom, since the summoner knew one would have to go to a tree at the heart of the Greatwood. Unfortunately, the librarian was not good at navigating that forest yet, and was still more than a little afraid that the fae would intercept him. That meant he was putting off that particular Rose until he could find a guide.
As he’d suspected, the luxere (which were becoming used to his presence), were fascinated by the Rose. It was magic and life and light, everything they seemed to enjoy, although thankfully none of them tried to eat the red and gold flower. Of course, Astra, who was frolicking and mingling with her larger and wild cousins, liked it, so the Launceleyn couldn’t say he was surprised by their reaction. While he was risking one of the blighted stumbling upon him, wearing the flower so openly, he didn’t think they’d come near the luxere, even if their light had no affect on the disease. However, even if someone did show up, that might not be the worst thing in the world. Of those in the Hollowed Grounds, the summoner might be one of the best equipped to deal with that particular situation.
Singing what was essentially a nonsense song (the luxere liked music, but weren’t particular about what it was), the Launceleyn held out an apple for a particularly eager luxere, which snuffed, and licked his palm as it consumed the treat. After it brushed against him, he smiled at it and then bent down to grab some hay; his supplies were running low, but he wouldn’t stop until he’d fed every last member of the herd or he finally ran out of food.
Actually, now that he thought about it, maybe near the luxere was the safest place for the plant. No one would really think to look for it out here, and it would be hidden among the other plants that still lingered despite the snow. With that thought in mind, he paused in spoiling the herd, and knelt down, digging a small hole in the ground.
Ordinarily, Melita would’ve been drawn with delight towards the gathering of luxere – inspired by light, exuberant and wild for the insinuations of grandeur and opulence, scratching behind their ears, humming a song beneath her breath. It would’ve been grand, to experience their gentle natures all over again.
Except that wasn’t who she was now – bestial and barbaric, twisted and turned, a sizzling, smoldering little blade with fire in her heart and madness in her mind; an onyx, Stygian, sable contortion of pestilence and disease curling its way through her frame. She hunted instead of rejoiced. She craved instead of danced. She growled instead of humming. It was bestial and wild, things she’d dreamed of since she was little, pretending to be a monster in the sea, but now it wasn’t of her own volition, now she couldn’t experience the menace and malice of power – it was just frenzied stirring, multitudes of mayhem brushing and smoldering her in waves. Clarity, understanding, and comprehension was gone – all the sweetened, jovial bliss captured, cloistered, locked away; an acrimonious shell, sizzling from the inside out.
She followed the luxere though, making her pathways in more silence than she’d ever executed in normal, everyday things; not raucous, not howling in a clambering din, slithering, slithering, slithering, a snake in the snow, in the grass, haunting and fervent for the fray. Her staff was in her grasp, fingers tight and taut over its rim, bow bracelet armed along her wrist, fiery quiver on her back, feet still void of shoes, as if she couldn’t feel the cold beneath them. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe there was nothing left in her for senses, for schemes, for anything other than a malicious spin and spill – her eyes following and tracking the man with the enlightened deer, crouching nearby, beneath waves of grass and snow, as he kneeled.
The girl made a drawing formation; muscle memory at its finest, Arduinna’s gift not used for good now, and the bow appeared in her hands, the string taut as she grabbed hold of an arrow embellished in flames, notched its pinnacle, and waited.
Just before Loren was about to place the Rose carefully in the ground, a flash of movement and light caught his eye. Immediately, he stood and whirled to face whatever it was that had distracted him from his task. When he finally spotted it, his heart sank: it was an unfamiliar woman with fiery red hair, bow drawn, with a nocked arrow that was as flaming as her locks. And she was pointing it right at the herd. This was really, really bad.
Frantically, the Launceleyn waved his hands, Rose still held carefully in one. ”Hey! Lady! Don't shoot! These are luxere, not deer!” That was literally the only reason he could think of for why she might be hunting the herd; while the summoner could understand the appeal of fresh meat during Deepfrost, these particular wonderful creatures were off-limits. After all, if someone from the Hollowed Grounds killed a luxere, Loren didn’t know exactly what would happen, but he knew it would be bad.
He broke into a run, the herd parting before him, all thoughts of planting his Rose forgotten. Astra bounded at his heels, her small legs nevertheless able to keep up with his charge. All he thought about was how he might stop her from loosing that arrow, and so he ran through all the creatures at his disposal; any number of them might suffice, but if he had to subdue the woman afterwards, he needed to pick something that could do that without being too lethal. After all, there was still a possibility that this all might be a misunderstanding.
Of course, it wasn’t the luxere Melita was after. Even in her blight-hazed mind, her senses didn’t think to carve a niche, a blade, a staff, an arrow into the innocent creatures – their light beckoned across channels of heartache and strife, across menace and malice. So she laughed when the stranger waved his hands at her, beckoning and pleading for her not to shoot the glowing beasts – high-pitched, addled, diving further into the grass to untangle the notched arrow from her bow. She slung it over her shoulder at a frenzied, swift pace, whipping along the long blades and the snow as the herd dispersed all around her, joining the cavalcade, the stampede.
Did he plant the flower? Or had it been remiss in all the action? In all the fervor?
She met the closest tree, hands and feet scrambling along the bark, a hiss on her lips as she glanced over shoulder at the other man; utterly wild and savage, as if she’d been born in the woods, never domesticated, never tamed, weapons bounding against her spine. She swung up further into its boughs and canopy, clearly there, no leaves to cover her in winter’s chill, all fallen just like the rest of their souls. But away, away, away from him, her fingers like claws and her manifestation like a blade – nothing coming out of her mouth but the torrent of growls, staring down at the stranger.
Well, the good news was the woman didn’t seem to be hunting the luxere; the bad news was, she was now fleeing from him rapidly, making her way to the trees in the distance. Loren would’ve cursed, if he could spare the breath, but running was not his strong suit, so he just conserved his energy to keep his lungs and legs pumping. Even so, he couldn’t catch up to her before she scrambled up into the canopy. Skidding to a halt, he kept a wary eye on her—and her weapons—while tucking his Rose back into his belt, where it would hopefully be safe. Astra, not even winded from their jaunt, peers out from behind the Launceleyn's back, eyes wide and wary. If Loren turned to look at his companion, he'd see that she did not like the red-headed woman. But he didn't.
Needing a moment to catch his breath, the summoner examined the woman up close. She looked positively feral (and sounded it to), and the way she clung to the trees like she belonged there gave him pause. Still, it looked more like she needed his help than anything else: the only danger she posed right now was to herself. ”Miss, are you alright?” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. Of course, she couldn't know that it meant nothing to an Abandoned as powerful as him, but it often soothed even the most wild of souls.
For some reason, being able to outrun the man, made her laugh, made her sputter with some idiotic, manic glee. She giggled from her tower, from her canopy, from her boughs, wrath and savage exuberance rapaciously drowning her lungs. Her eyes, gilded and gold and ignited with fever, eyed the rose on his belt, but said nothing on its front, on its existence – hands could reach to grab later, to snag, to obliterate.
She chuckled again at his voice, kind and thoughtful when she didn’t have the ability to understand or comprehend what it was like to be compassionate – not now, not anymore. Her gaze flicked back upon him, and in some singsong mime, she mocked, she chided, she sneered; any grins turning devilish and irreverent, phantoms of sweetness and beneficence disappeared in the ether of disease. “Miss, are you alright?” Complete with a turn of her head and shaking curls, snicker turning into a dour frown. His gesture might have been placating, but hers was not, nearly hanging off the side of her chosen branch with a snake-grip, asp and viper when she’d only ever wanted to be powerful enough to stop those daring to hurt her friends.
Perhaps, his answer would come then as blackened blood began to drain out of her nose, steadily maneuvering downward, stark and vivid on her pale features, a wry cackle bursting from her throat.
Well, the way in which she mocked Loren wasn’t exactly encouraging. Still, he soon had much bigger problems to worry about: a speck of black appeared on the woman’s nose. Loren felt his own blood drain from his face and behind him Astra made a worried noise. As he watched, the woman’s transfigured blood continued to ooze out of her nose. Apparently, this woman had the blight, which, well, explained all her behavior. And also meant Loren might be in danger.
Immediately, he made earplugs to block out all noise; while he was depriving himself of one sense, it was necessary. As far as he could tell, there was no reasoning with those afflicted with the blight, not anymore, at least not around the Rose’s. And his need to protect the precious plant on his belt far outweighed any worry he might’ve had for the red-haired woman hanging upside down from a branch. ”Please go.” However, he knew she’d be more persistent than that, so Loren backed away slowly, making sure to put the trunk between them as quickly as possible.
She could hear the worried noise the luxere companion made; caused the irreverent edges of her smile to quirk upwards, even more distressing and pressing, malicious, villainous. Where there was once sunshine and exuberance, there was only an uncanny trace, ash, soot, and cinders, embers under her feet, crawling over her insides, resting there in the beats of her nefarious heart. She thrived on the paling of the man’s features, on the apprehension pulsing and persisting, a roughening glow surrounding her vicious essence, as she rolled over, back upon the branch, legs dangling back and forth, back and forth, feet raw, red, and bloodied too.
Melita laughed again, higher-pitched, shrill, as tone-deaf as the rest of her songs, but without the fanciful lyrics of her mother’s refrains. This was more subterranean, made for purgatory and Hades hounds, eerie and enigmatic, otherworldly in the sense of spine-tingling notions; like banshees, like harpies, like those banished to denizens of devils and might. “I will,” she intoned, a slide of her cryptic gaze pinpointing, slicing him in two. “If you give me the rose.” Wasn’t that a worthy trade? She wouldn’t bother him anymore, he’d be free to continue cavorting with glowing deer, and she’d be able to destroy the gilded flower with its poignant thorns. Her hands went to her bow then too, a threat, an omen, an illustration of what’d she do; he’d seen it before.
09-02-2019, 10:52 PM (This post was last modified: 09-02-2019, 10:52 PM by Loren.)
LOREN
Given the earplugs, Loren obviously couldn’t hear the red-headed woman. So he just shook his head when he saw her mouth open. However, from the looks Astra was giving the lady—and from his experience with Ronin at the Spire—he assumed it was more of the same raging blight speak he’d heard from the king and from the woman earlier. There wasn’t any reason to listen to their ranting, he knew that now. They couldn’t be reasoned with, and didn’t seem to listen to anything but force.
Still, he was reluctant to hurt those who were not in their right minds, which is why the spell he is currently preparing was non-lethal. However, as her hand creeps towards her bow, he jerked to one side, firmly putting the trunk between them while still backing up. If she wanted to get to him, she’d have to reposition. Keeping one eye on the tree she’d climbed and one eye on Astra, who’d hopefully hear any movement on his behalf, the summoner continued to back up, all the while letting his magic build.
She followed him with her eyes, movements akin to predator extensions, barbaric and bestial measures once grown from protection, now scarred, mutilated, and unfurling; no longer a picturesque scene of youths fighting for what was right. Now she was wrong, wrong, wrong. He didn’t respond to her – which was a bummer, because manipulative tendencies would have been far easier to deal with; instead, her bow balanced lightly on her arm, the quiver of arrows on her back ignited and ready. It was his fault he hadn’t listened.
He kept backing away though, so she advanced, along branches and boughs as if she were a part of its earthen roots and fortifications, not even bothering to hide her motions – monster, monster, monster, once a dream and now a reality, no longer in control of her irreverent intuitions. She notched an arrow onto the rigid, taut line, crawling along ancient, primordial timber. Her aim was not for the luxere – because some portion of her compassionate heart might’ve remembered the light, beatific creatures, how she’d fed them apples from her hands, how she’d sung hums and hymns under her breath, striving to pulse her mother’s whimsical chords.
It was for the rose.
The youth pulled the string without a second though, the blaze of the arrow’s path directly solely for Loren’s belt, where gilded petals and thorns laced their way into protection - oh, not for long she wanted to shout and scream and howl into the day.
09-06-2019, 12:27 AM (This post was last modified: 09-06-2019, 12:27 AM by Loren.)
LOREN
As the red-headed woman scrambled through the tree and drew her bow, Loren’s eyes narrowed. Apparently, she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Stil, as she fired her arrow, he kept his head; as fast as the projectile was moving, it wasn’t as fast as his thoughts. He caught it with his telekinesis as soon as it came in range, then held it to one side as he retaliated with the spell he’d been preparing.
A peculiar creature appeared: it showed up by his side, coming up to his knees, with a too large body of a sparrow and the head of a beautiful woman. Its mouth was open, and though the Launceleyn couldn’t hear it, he knew there was a song rising in the woods. The summon was a siren, that ancient peril of sailors that lured them to their doom. Hopefully it would entrance this woman as easily as it did most mortals. Astra, at least, stared at the siren adoringly.
Her breath bristled as her fiery arrow hung mid-air, caught by invisible strings and tethers. A savage growl loosened from her throat, and she wondered about firing another, if the mage could control and contort more than once in their powers. Perhaps she should’ve brought her staff, and could’ve tried beating him into submission, the entanglements of Wicker Woman sap and fibers whittling it into sharper, hallucinatory etchings, a strike with more than bruises and lacerations.
But the notes scratched and clawed away the moment something else occurred: her eyes rapt, caught, as she balanced on boughs and branches, at the summoning of sparrow bodies and beatific ladies, her head tilting in feral curiosity and bewilderment. Melita had never come across a siren, though had felt its effects more than once – drifting towards ghosts and phantoms, yearning, imploring machinations to try and destroy, distort, and unravel – this one, however, kept her in place, stunned, spellbound, shaking her head to rid herself of the song, but it echoed and meandered, slinking through her brain, over blackened, charred bits and vitriol exploits. It gave her pause, still standing on her tree limbs, less monstrous, more consumed by ulterior considerations, blackened tears springing to her eyes on a sudden swing, and then she leaned down, crouching, and if the branch were wider she’d be kneeling. “Stop. Make it stop.” Her hands were over her ears, but she couldn’t tell what she was asking to cease and desist – the siren’s tunes or the antagonistic blight infiltrating her psyche.
The siren had at least gotten the red-headed woman to pause in her reckless assault. However, it hadn’t totally taken her over, it seemed: though Loren couldn’t hear the woman’s words, he could see her covering her ears and speaking. That meant he still had work to do. Before anything else, he made sure the arrow’s fire went out by chucking it in a deep snowdrift. Then he commanded the siiren to keep singing and as he approached the tree where the red-head was still cowering.
There had been something the gods had instructed the Launceleyn to try. So carefully, he worked his Rose from his belt, and held it up. Then, holding it in a gentle grip with his mind and his telekinesis, he floated it up quickly to the woman above; she wasn’t so high, especially given his own height, that he couldn’t reach up to her with his magic. The strain of maintaining multiple spells was wearing on him already, but he had enough energy to direct the flower’s thorns into the fingers of one of the woman’s hands where they covered her ears.
If he was successful in his efforts, or if the woman showed any sign of trying to destroy the rose, the Launceleyn would pull it as far away as he could with his magic.
Consumed and devoured by two things simultaneously, her mind scraped and scavenged, barely capable of forming anything other than incoherent, solemn punctures and mumbles, croons below her breath. She curled further into herself, trying not to sink into the siren’s wail – either by blight machinations or her own self-awareness striving to peek through, a desperation grating along every sense as the sable tears kept streaking from her eyes, down her cheeks, balance precarious on the limbs, losing her sense of place, her sense of purpose. What was she doing here? Why was she within the canopies? Why was her quiver on her back? Why was her bow out? Stop her brain echoed and unraveled. Please make it stop.
She hadn’t even realized the stranger approached again, below her, beneath her chosen branch. She didn’t know he’s summoned the singing creature. She was lost and clueless, ignorant and helpless, controlled and contorted by too many means and measures at the same time – bowing until her head nearly touched the timber, shaking, quivering, trembling in the strain of her body’s breaking conjectures. Please kept pulsing, kept pervading, kept residing in her skull, rattling around in the Stygian webs and corresponding vitriol; as if she were breathing down the ghosts and wraiths of old, the feral interwoven laces of the Rift, where she’d tried so hard to do something, and here she fettered and unwound.
Then there was a prick against her skin, along the outstretch of her hand, and for some strange reason, an odd sense of relief as more blackened blood pooled, dripping from where the newest wound opened – the pain almost not there, numbed and bound. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she cried and murmured, barreling between the strands of the siren’s melodies.
