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 didn’t want the cloak removed; the youth begged for the mantle to cover her form for eternity, to hide, to shirk, to conceal, to lock her away in the dead of night and throw away the key. On instinct and some amount of self-preservation still remaining in her frame, the youth curled into a ball, dragging her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around herself, desperate to evade Wessex’s eyes. It was shame pressing into them now, embarrassed, humiliated, that she’d fallen apart, that she’d lost control, that even amidst impetuous and impulsive natures, she’d truly sacrificed every notion of command and authority over her own soul. It’d been blackened and tarnished by beatific, tempting, enticing lines of dreaded shadows; something she’d once openly embraced, tucking herself into their boundaries to draw weapons, to scale heights. Perhaps that was how she’d been savored by the blight, so easily, so pathetically, inveigled and strangled by its teeth, by its fangs, by its entity until she was just as much a part of it as the rest of the pestilence-ridden, rattled and conformed, nothing left of Melita but the emboldened audacity to break things apart.
Defiance chiseled its way in her blood as she nodded her head, but didn’t want Wessex to take hold of her chin, to wipe away any signs of blackness; wearing it like a brand, like a distinction, dangerous and feral, stupid and inept. Emblems and banners of weakness; fumbling semblances of a girl who had only ever wanted for the world to see her as strong, as tenacious, as obstinate –
She shrugged at the insinuation, too irritated, too burdened, too saddened to do anything in response, opening her arms up to Fangorn as the poor vampire gourd ambled over, tucking him against her chest.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
There is nothing to do but let Melita go to the ground and curl up into a ball. There’s no disappointment in her face - if only the girl would look at her, she would see that! At least, there isn’t until her concern and affections are shrugged off. And that? That stings. It doesn’t matter that her mentee may still be blighted, that it’s shame running through the woman, an emotion she's relatively unfamiliar with. What's the point?
Wessex pulls away and straightens the hood around herself, still aware that even though the sun is weaker in Deepfrost, it can still burn. “Suit yourself,” she says, soft and cold. Even now, the real Melita seems to spurn her, and the Queen is weary of it. Not that she’d wanted appreciation for her efforts, but - well, yes, she did. Just a smidgen, even if the desire for appreciation is more or less grossly misplaced. Wessex can understand defiance, but why it’s directed at her, she can’t understand.
“Will you come inside, at least?” Her hand extends to the crouching, ruminating redhead, there to help her up or be cast away. It’s her choice.
For the moment, her ruminations were not on Wessex or the possibilities that she felt hurt and cast aside. The youth had a number of things to waver and wander between, a mire, a field, of blighted contentions still springing up over her form and chiseling their way down her spine; hatred, abhorrence, a distinction of cold, cold, brutality she had to shake off repeatedly just to remain on the chilling, Spire floor. She bowed her head behind Fangorn’s frame and simply trembled, a distinction amidst the war for control, and she could feel herself losing again. Bite, rip, tear. Why don’t you cut and slash her to pieces? Why don’t you, why don’t you, why don’t you-
She didn’t even see the offered hand. Her promise to Phoebe was long since forgotten, the sludge a distant haze, as if it never even occurred or happened, not that it mattered, not now, not after all of this – the stabbing of thorns too, nearly gone and for naught. Instead, she inclined to her full height without the Queen’s measures or extensions, and sprung away, away, away, over stones, Fangorn clutched in her arms and hissing, growling, reaching back into the sunlight, into the forlorn hell, before she could hurt anyone again.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
