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 the blight eased, no longer a pulsing void down the back of her neck, or streamlined into her blood – the youth grew more despondent, miserable, a certain anguish scorching and touching the remnants of pestilence. She’d once longed to be a monster, and given the chance, given the opportunity, given the ease in which she’d sunk –
It turned out she’d just been awful.
Her memories were flickering barbs and sparks, none of which were good or transcribed in great detail, just enough to make out the situation; her gnarled fingers crushing flowers, her staff wielded against precious, gilded petals, her weapons a means to an end, yearning to tackle, to destroy, to menace – when her heart had been compassionate, her body had orchestrated and composed none of these things. She’d been a goner, incapable of swaying or bending into the light, into the pathways of life and all its grand gestures. The youth had divested and coiled knots and nooses in herself, and they were so hard to unravel.
So she tucked herself away, in the niche of trees, while she recovered, her staff flourishing across the void of sky and winter’s abyss, channeling the trepidation, the consternation, the sorrows, the affliction, into some raw entanglement of being better; because the past month had assured everyone and anyone that she wasn’t. Fangorn nestled himself into the snow, watching, quiet, likely afraid of her after devilish antics, after wayfaring moments, after her hands still trembled and her heart wanted to break. What a joke, she chastised herself in the gloomy eaves, as she swung against boughs, against leaning branches, trying to salvage some means of accuracy and precision in the vicious haze, in the unrelenting force of upheaval.
Loren had made a bit of a habit in training in the out of the way places of the Hollowed Grounds. The woods, the labyrinth, even the underground: they all called to him, the solitude speaking of his time away. Even though he’d returned from his long disappearance, the wild, secret spots still calmed him, even though once they’d driven him insane. But now, surrounded as he too often was by people and complicated problems that had no solution, it was nice to get away for awhile.
Besides, if he practiced in hiding, no one could see how rusty and weak he’d become. So, staff in hand, he’d once more set out for the woodlands, the path—even covered in snow as it was—familiar and well-trod. Astra trotted along by his side, and even though he didn’t want company, her presence was always a welcome one.
Making his way through the trunks, a familiar whacking sound reached his ears. It sounded like someone was fighting the trees, which is how the Launceleyn usually burned off some excess energy. Walking more warily now, he picked his way forward cautiously until he spotted an oddly recognizable shock of red hair. It was Melita, the woman who’d accosted him and attacked him when he tried to plant a Rose.
Immediately he slowed, watching her frenzied strikes against the trees. The blighted were mostly better, but sometimes they had shocking relapses. Hopefully this wasn’t one of those cases, as there wasn’t a flower in sight to help him if there was. ”Melita. It’s Loren. Are you alright?” His voice came out concerned, and the luxere by his side peered at the red-headed woman curiously. Hopefully she was fine, and hopefully she remembered him; he was still a bit fuzzy on how coherent the blighted were when it came to their actions while sick.
Mostly, though, they seemed all too aware. Well, he was getting good at talking them through their lingering issues, at least. The first step was distracting them. Lifting his own staff, he smiled gently at Melita. ”Looks like you know what you’re doing with that. I’m a bit of a novice, so mind showing me some tricks?” He walked into the clearing and settled into a defensive stance. Surely, inexperienced as he was, he proved more of a match than some trees. Then his eyes caught a vampire squash and he gazed at it, confused what it was doing there, not attacking. Still, it wasn't as much of a threat as the formerly blighted woman, so he dismissed it.
She swept another movement of her staff along a branch, listened to the crackle, pondered how long it would take her to fall apart again. She struggled with composure, she strived for something beyond her fumbling fingers and trembling hands, swallowing and wallowing in the roots of all her horrific antics, when a voice shifted over her senses. Surprised for a moment, completely distracted and unaware of anyone’s approach, she scattered a few steps away. Fangorn blinked, opened one eerie eye, then tucked himself back into moss and snow. The youth, however, afraid that somehow, someone would be hurt again at her machinations and ministrations, thought about fleeing into the brambles and nettles, leaving before another was caught in her thorns. Her eyes swam from the canopies, to the understory, to the forest floor, and then back to Loren, blinking rapidly, panicking, cowardly when she'd always been brave, prone to completely out of character intervals because she didn’t know what else to do - was she alright? Hadn’t Loren helped her before? The memories felt like fog and mist, murky and muddled, but there, if she yearned to grab hold of them. Her staff was suddenly tucked back into her grasp, held along her chest, tight and clenching, as if it could offer her solace and comfort in the consuming unknown.
“Um. Maybe. I…I don’t know.” The youth shrugged, then shook her head, feeling less and less, like she was small, like she was finite, like she was dust and dirt and soil, never to be noticed or seen or understood again. “I feel a little better.” But that wasn’t much of an offering; no longer bleeding black from her nose, from her eyes, and the horrific nature of her exploits nearly over. The rest might come with time, but she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.
Then the man lifted his staff, a smile she didn’t deserve reflecting back at her, and the girl’s eyes widened a fraction, trust in the scale of her munitions, of her weaponry, giving and granting some confidence back into the fold. He wanted to learn from her? After she’d tried to set him on fire? After she’d hissed and growled and acted like a damned menace? Melita couldn’t fathom the sudden onslaught of tears threatening to rage over her eyes, so she looked at the ground instead, blinking and dashing them away, before pondering over the measures. She always needed more practice, but was it the right thing to do, when she was barely recovered? When her rage could blister back over her mind, her movements, her motions? Her eyes followed his defensive stance, yet, she remained rooted, solid, entangled along the moss and snow. “Are you sure?”
As Melita clutched her staff to her chest, hugging it as if it could protect her or provide some small comfort, Loren’s heart went out to the red-headed woman. He gave her a gentle and soothing smile; whatever troubles there were in his own life, he could do his best to radiate calm for her. Even at his darkest, he still did what he could for others. ”I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better.” Although she was scared, he could already see that she’d been making progress. For one, she wasn’t trying to hunt him down with a bow that materialized fire arrows.
At her question, he nodded encouragingly and without hesitation. ”I’m sure.” Pausing, he searched her face for some indication of what exactly was bothering her. Then again, even the Launceleyn, as bad as he usually was with other people, could guess this one. He just didn’t know if he should say it or not.
Only one way to find out. ”You won’t hurt me. I promise.” After all, she’d come after him while fully in the thrall of the blight and he’d fended her off. With only the remnants of the disease in her, he was fully convinced he could do it again. ”Besides, it’s been too long since I got any training.” For a while, ever since his return, he’d been pretty much left to his own devices when it came to improving his martial and magical skills. It would be nice to have a partner for once, especially if Melita was as skilled with a staff as it seemed.
She didn’t deserve his kindness. She didn’t deserve his encouragement. All she’d earned was something like distrust and acrimony; and she’d openly welcome it at this point, not understanding how or why he’d insist upon remaining in her stead. Self-hatred mutilated her throat now, clawing and binding, and the girl suddenly wanted to do nothing more than curl into a ball and be left alone with her thoughts, with her malice, with her menace upon her own soul, completely out of depth with lacking control. Where there’d always been impulsive and impetuousness, it had reached a broadening new level of debacles and vitriol, plunging towards those who hadn’t been warranted her rage or defiance. Her eyes darted back and forth, from the rush of leaves nearby, a promise of hiding, of running, of rampaging elsewhere, and then back to the man, who hardly knew her at all – before the blight, when she hadn’t been so stupid, so worthless, so bound by disease and regret.
You won’t hurt me, I promise sounded great - but she’d been in trainings before, with Kiada, where they had intended to maul and maim one another, neither inflicted by the blight, just by their own abhorrence of one another. Where was the guarantee she wouldn’t relapse? That he could fend her off again if something awful entrenched itself into her blood?
But gods, how she wanted to fight again – to feel like herself instead of this distorted, misshapen menace. For all the times she’d yearned to become a monster, she hadn’t yearned for this, out of control, out of her element, seeking out those she cherished and ensuring they were harmed. That had never been her dream, her motive, or anything she’d stood for. “Okay,” she mumbled, taking her staff back into her right hand, the familiar hum blistering beneath her fingertips.
Then she lunged, a rush, a rampage of movement, an exploitation of fierce, swift upheaval, back into her essence, the beautiful weight of her weapon across her palm. The girl remembered her training, the way Wessex and Alistair had told her to root her movements, her motions, the notion of precision, the weight of her impact. She shifted back and forth, before attempting to swing the staff at Loren’s right shoulder.
09-22-2019, 06:27 PM (This post was last modified: 09-28-2019, 09:35 PM by Loren.)
LOREN
Thankfully, Melita agreed to the training, or sparring, or whatever this was going to be. For a moment, the Launceleyn hadn’t been sure that the red-headed woman would say yes; although he couldn’t exactly blame her for being uncertain, both because of the blight and because he was a stranger, he liked to think that his gentle encouragement and promise not to let her get out of control did the trick.
Then she settled in, and he noted that her posture and the way she held her weapon was much more sure than his way. That notion, that she was far more skilled at this than he was, was simply reinforced when she swung her weapon in a rush. He barely got his own staff up in time, blocking her strike, and the wood of their weapons clacked together. Immediately he felt the painful vibration travel up his arms and his eyes widened. She was much, much stronger than he was.
That just meant he needed to evade and deflect rather than parry. He stepped back rather than trying to push her away, instincts taking over, and swept his staff in a horizontal slash towards her chest. While he was pretty sure the blow wouldn’t land, he was trying to force her away or off balance, so he could use his superior reach to fend her off.
The notion had been easy to forget, when the world devoured and ate away at one’s soul, when disease spread and hands trembled and friends were suddenly adversaries, enemies; a contorted conclusion of anomalies and apologies. Before the blight, she’d been an incandescent fire, eager and ready to take on the earth, the moon, the sun, the sky, and the heavens, with enough brandished inferno to keep everyone and everything alight. Now, it was a distant ember, striving to coax itself back into kindled, stoked spirits.
This helped.
Melita didn’t smirk as the man’s eyes widened at her assault, even as he took it in stride, relishing the alteration, the surprise in his gaze - yes, I could take you down an essence in her entity, a savoring, scintillating motion to sink her teeth into – pushing more and more upon the blockade.
He stepped back then, which she couldn’t really blame him. But she persisted, she pursued, a predator on the hunt now, intending to sizzle and immerse herself back into the fight. He slashed at her chest, attempting to push her away, and she glided off to the side, earning a small smack on her shoulder for a slower pace, a rebuttal, a notion for her to try another tactic. Had he wanted advice too? She wasn’t entirely certain. From this angle though, she switched hands, intending to whip the staff, speed, speed, speed, swift and uncanny in her motions, smaller than him, dipping low, arm stretching and extending upward, aiming for his ribs.
09-23-2019, 01:09 PM (This post was last modified: 09-23-2019, 07:46 PM by Loren.)
LOREN
Despite the woman’s surprising speed and strength, the summoner wasn’t too worried about her skills. After all, he was deliberately holding himself back, relying entirely on his physical prowess (which sucked) and not upon his magical abilities (which were stronger than most). If he’d actually been worried about her dealing serious damage to him, he’d have summoned something to take care of her. Besides, given that his healing magic had progressed shockingly far, and he was tougher than he’d ever expected to be, he figured he could take a few hits without too much trouble.
Which is why, when Melita ducked under his strike—though he scored a hit on her shoulder—he let her weapon come for his ribs and didn’t dodge out of the way. Instead, he just raised his own weapon and brought it back down towards the shoulder he’d already hit, hoping to take it out of commission. He could always heal it if he actually managed to hurt her. When her own staff slammed into his ribs, he heard a sickening crack and felt a spike of pain there; though his breath came far too short, but he immediately sent a burst of healing magic to knit the bones and muscles back together.
He gone too long with denying his magic, and it leapt eagerly at his call. Maybe he'd been willfully weak, maybe he'd been scared of what he might accomplish, but he was getting a bit sick and tired of always holding himself back for fear of scaring others. It might not have been the wisest course of action, and this might not be the best time, but he wasn't even using his most potent spells right now and he could already feel himself gaining the upper hand.
Melita had been underestimated almost her entire life. Brushed aside, likely for her foolishness, in her iniquitous curiosity, thought of as nothing by some elders, ignored by others in the Rift, save for family and friends. Maybe it was because she was small. Maybe it was because she was impulsive and impetuous. But gods, she was driven, she was determined, she was might and ferocity. A part of her had never backed down, had never faltered, had never stumbled into those wayward notions of nothingness; even when the blight struck, there had been a sibilance, coursing and hissing, running through her veins, orchestrating her ambitious, treacherous efforts. So no matter how many times the world looked down upon her, she erupted in flames and infernos, a molten crusade, an infernal endeavor, to ensure the earth remembered exactly who she was and what she embodied.
Strength. Commitment. Perseverance. An irreverent, emboldened tenacity.
Her weapon bounded off his ribs, and she waited for some outcry of pain that never came. Was he armored underneath? Even when he’d hit her shoulder, there’d been some semblance of aches; not enough to cease or desist her motions, but there all the same. Her brows furrowed, but she made no mention of it, dodging lightly, swift of foot, lithe and nymph-like over snow and roots, so his intentions of rippling down her shoulder again were for naught. The hit lingered on her lower arm instead, a bestial hiss pulsing through flesh, bone, and muscle, and she maneuvered her staff to the opposite hand, training with both limbs, to allow it an opportunity to rest in the recoil.
Undaunted, unafraid, just another day with the winds howling at her, with individuals looking down upon her (are you nothing? the demons would ask, smoldering in their bestial wake, and she’d say nothing, continuing to fight, to wage war), she continued with her assaults. From there, she bounded and leapt, intending to swing the staff towards his left shoulder; pondering if she could incapacitate both, entirely ignorant of his healing capabilities keeping him afloat.
His blow glanced off Melita’s arm instead of her shoulder, but Loren wasn’t going to let that deter him. If he could continue striking around the same spot, he figured he’d wear her down eventually. While it was probably a little unfair to use his magic to tip the scales in his favor, she was clearly the superior combatant in a straight physical fight. And he was tired of holding himself back from his full capabilities just to make people more comfortable. Even now, he was using the bare minimum of the powers at his disposal; although magic danced at his fingertips, he held it in check, watching the red-headed woman dash around. If she wanted to waste her energy like that, so be it.
For his part, he remained planted where he was, firming his grip and his stance. Let her come to him. She obliged him: Melita ran forward, and he was gratified to see she was using her uninjured arm. As she leapt in the air, he smiled. She could be as graceful and lithe on the ground as she wanted, and she’d put a lot of momentum into her leap and her strike down towards him.
But she couldn’t change direction or speed up now, and while her feet were off the ground, she was vulnerable. Plus, she’d signaled the move to him, so he had plenty of time to pivot neatly away from the strike to his left shoulder. And he used the momentum from his own turn to swing his staff in a savage two-handed blow towards the right side of the red-headed woman’s chest.
A pivot, a turn, a shift, and he was gone; nothing left for her staff to strike except air. A small growl bubbled and brewed from the cluster of irritation in her throat, but she remained undaunted. How many times had monsters slipped out of her reach? How many times had she been brutalized, only to rise again? How many times would the world have to see her diminished and torn before she showed them exactly what she was capable of?
It was a swift, wise move to utilize his momentum; could’ve been costly for her had Melita not experienced a multitude of eldritch forms, both human and not, leering at her from darkness, from shadows, insistent upon plaguing her figure with pain, torment, and anguish before she succumbed to their efforts. Oh, not here, not today; keen and light and bounding, she swiveled and ducked to the left, the whoosh of his staff just reeling past her ears.
From there though, a little lower to the ground, she opted to try and secure another vantage point. Her staff, cool, calm, and collected in her palms while her mind seethed, while her machinations echoed, while pride managed to instill its harsh reign in her chest, swung back to the right, intending to try and hit him behind the knees.
Melita blocked Loren’s blow, which he couldn’t even say he was surprised about. However, he wasn’t going to stand there and let her recover from her failed leap; nor was he going to continue playing around with her. She was faster, stronger, and more skilled than him with her staff, and he was totally fine acknowledging that.
But he had magic.
So, for the first time during this bout, he let go of the tight grip he’d held on his power: as he danced away from her low blow to his knees by the simple expedient motion of darting to his left and back, while sweeping the base of his staff into the path of her strike, he summoned a golem directly behind her with an effort of his will and no sign of his magic manifesting besides the creature itself. It kicked forward at her right knee while its rocky fist punched down towards her left shoulder.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done so poorly; what she believed was going to be a smooth conjecture, a rapid spin of her staff, ended with him darting out of the way again, and the youth would’ve huffed with a span of irritation and annoyance, had his staff not swung into her path once more. What on earth was going on? Had she always been so plodding and sedate? Was he simply faster than her? Based on height and weight differences, she should have easily thwarted some contortions and portions, but it’d all been for naught. Perhaps the blight had trickled into her veins far more than she realized, and despite its triumphant, treacherous motions, it also seeped and decayed – or maybe she just required more training, more emphasis on speed and diligence.
Intending to push off the ground, back to a standing position to regard her combatant and ponder over another maneuver, she was briefly distracted by Fangorn’s snarl. Her head shifted to glance his way, and the vampire gourd was seething, hissing, rapacious, maneuvering forward as if to warn her, as if to do something other than exist on the snow –
When the girl felt it.
A sudden, agonizing blow kicked at her right knee and she was instantly thrown face-first into the cold, dark ground, leaves and moss and snow sticking to her face, a gasp unraveling in sheer panic and tormented agony. She refused to cry, to sob, glancing over her shoulder to see what had caused such a move, when a rocky fist seemed to extend her way – on instinct, she rolled, rolled, rolled, grabbing her staff and hastening away, dragging herself over sticks and nettles while her knee throbbed in absolute misery. Fangorn screeched and seemed intent on rampaging towards whatever the creature was, and Melita didn’t put two and two together, couldn’t fathom how it’d arrived there, why it manifested within the woods, why it had scorched over her limbs. “Fangorn, don’t!” The youth hollered, ignoring Loren completely, and her pained inhales, exhaled, slipped over her mouth like a dreadful wheeze; hands gong to clutch at her knee, swallowing down the choking bile, wishing she had her fire arrows, wishing she could do anything but throb. The gourd hissed and snarled, before going to her, and she fought, clenched her jaw, her plans sinking into the murk and mire of anguish. How stupid; how ridiculously stupid.
As soon as the golem actually hit Melita, Loren’s heart sank and he realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. He’d given into his anger at how she kept evading him with ease and let his instincts and training take over, the ones his family had drilled into him nearly from birth. They’d taught him to take down opponents and threats with overwhelming force and she’d gotten hurt as a result of his insanity and stupidity. Although he could heal the damage, that certainly didn’t make his actions right in any way, shape, or form.
Even as the red-headed woman rolled away from his summon's second blow, and called out to the gourd, the Launceleyn dismissed the golem and tossed his staff aside. ”Shit, shit, I’m sorry.” Running over to the fallen woman, the summoner called his healing magic up; his hands started glowing a soft sky blue as he knelt by her side. ”Here, let me heal you.” Assuming Melita didn’t move away, or stop him somehow, he would lay his hands on her uninjured shoulder and pour a burst of untargeted healing magic into her. It would repair any and all regular damage she’d taken, and even wipe away all her scars.
But he could do nothing to heal the emotional harm he’d inflicted, or the remains of the blight within her.
