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!
For a few seconds more, the youth was still stunned to fathom the hows and whys of the golem’s appearance – stunned, stupefied perhaps, by the agonizing pain coursing through her knee. It ricocheted and pummeled its way through her bones, so much that her head pounded, excruciating, her breath coming in short, feral gasps, until Loren’s apology seemed to ghost through the air.
Then she slowly put two and two together.
She watched, disbelief beginning to settle over her features where misery had been. While his hands glowed blue and the stifling, smoldering, sizzling despondency began to recede, her mind reeled, eyes blinking rapidly. “You – you did that? Why?” Had he somehow brought forth the rocky fists and the thundering, massive body, intending to strike her down, intending to immerse her into torment and anguish? For what reason? What had she done? Hadn’t he asked to train? Hadn’t he asked to implore staffs into techniques? What had this been all about? She’d never been asked to exercise or instruct in such a matter; there’d always been a layer of trust, faith, and conviction, a certainty that the other wasn’t aiming to maim, rip, or tear – but educate (except for her and Kiada; but that was from leagues of history and bitterness).
The confusion gave way to clarity, and clarity gave way to a pulsing, pervading sensation of rage. It spiked and seared along her veins, until her hands were no longer trembling with the fervent, numbing conjectures, but wrath and vehemence – eyes narrowing, the only warning sign he’d receive. “What’s your problem?” The intonations bit and scorched, a fine lacing of ferocity entangling and emboldening its way across her tongue, behind her teeth, where they became savage and intertwined with her sudden, exploding abhorrence. It might not have been a touch of the blight at all – but simply her, bewildered and irritated, exasperated that her trust had been betrayed, deceived, and bludgeoned.
”I’m sorry,” he said again. Desperation and contrition warred in his voice: Loren knew that what he’d done was inexcusable, and that there was no making amends for this. However, given how often he screwed up, he was used to trying to apologize anyway, no matter how futile it was. As she asked what his problem was, he flinched, but kept pouring healing magic into her until he was sure he’d repaired all the damage he and others had done to her. That task done, he let his hand fall away and sat back, giving her the space she probably wanted. ”I got caught up in the training and lost control of my magic, but that’s no excuse for what I did, and I am so, so sorry for hurting you.” Not for the first time, he shrank inwards, terrified of what just one little slip up had done, of what losing his temper and his magic both had done. But in the end, he had no one to blame for this but himself.
So he did. Blame himself. As always. One more mistake for the long, long list of them.
She knew what it meant to lose control – the blight had seared and simmered along her bones, scorched her very soul, inveigled the webs of her mind into reeling bits and pieces of feral, savage intricacies. There’d been no doubt to the pit and pendulums of her wild, savage nature, just anointed, consecrated, and dipped into more Stygian pursuits and nefarious qualities, her conscience erased, her presence ignited.
But he had, for all her ruminations and sentiments, composure and capabilities of being calm – and he’d still chosen to denounce her efforts in such a swindling, deceptive way. Why? Because he couldn’t stand to be beaten? Because there’d been too much hunger in the ferocity? She’d been touched by a damned disease that caused her to lose all inhibitions, and still wouldn’t have thought, wouldn’t have dared, to conduct herself in such a way. Training instilled credences. Training invited faith. He’d lost all of hers the moment he’d told that golem to strike her down. “Then maybe you should figure out how to control yourself.” Her eyes remained narrowed, “Before you keep getting people hurt.” The youth could understand if she’d deserved it; never had any reservations between her and Kiada’s “training”. But here, where he’d asked, where he’d invited, what the hell had been the point? It stung like betrayal, hanging there like a knife, telling her he was not a man to place convictions or credence in; which was a shame, given his abilities.
Melita rose then, the scowl still on her face, the staff still in her hand. For a second, she thought about cracking it over his thick skull, but tightened her fist over it instead; jaw still clenched. She scooped up Fangorn, who’d taken it upon himself to snarl and sneer at Loren, settling him in her arms while she stared the mage down. “Training should be built upon trust. Not tricks. Not deceptions. The only thing I learned today was not to put my faith in you.” She didn’t say she’d accept his apology. She didn’t say anything more at all; just left the weight of it there – in the brutality of the final moments, before ghosting back into the wood, away, away, away from the ridiculous mess they’d somehow concocted.
10-01-2019, 02:45 PM (This post was last modified: 10-01-2019, 02:45 PM by Loren.)
LOREN
At Melita’s words, Loren flinched and looked away, eyes downcast. She was right, and he was totally, totally wrong. Ever since he was a child, he’d been trained to fight savagely, to use overwhelming force and everything he could to take down his opponent. Mostly, he was able to check those instincts, but sometimes they got away from him. And when they did, he hurt people. ”You’re right. I-I’m sorry. It...it won’t happen again.” The last thing he wanted was to hurt people.
And yet he kept seeming to do just that, in every single way imaginable. So he’d stay away from people so he could only hurt himself.
He didn’t move as the redhead stood up, scooping her squash up as she did. As Melita kept speaking, Astra gave a worried bleat and trotted over to him, but the summoner didn’t react even to that. Instead, as the redhead stood above him, he just screwed his eyes shut. ”I know. And I don’t expect you to ever again.” He was just so tired, and he knew that Melita was right. After all, he’d broken so many people’s trust over his life, with his disappearance, and then again upon his return. And unlike others, he had no one to blame but himself. So he did, indeed, blame himself for the untold harm he'd caused. Luckily, Melita walked away before he could hurt her again.
