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!
A cat and mouse game; no intervals of rapacious edges or carnivore extremes, and he might’ve been inclined to less savage intervals had his first attempts not missed. Speed was a factor he’d have to contend with, even in his smaller form, as she dove and plunged in different directions, no way for him to calculate, to exploit, to sear and simmer in obvious clarity. It might be mere luck that would permit him to prevail.
And wouldn’t it be triumphant, to actually be victorious for once?
He took to the skies again as she continued her rampage into the groves, into the woods, far swifter as the eagle than as the man, the poignant, sharpening fringes of frustration beginning to coil their way along his schemes. But the beast wouldn’t unravel, not just yet, firmly in control of his machinations and movements – no rage, no contempt, no wrath, no pervading overtures but silent irreverence, incapable of permitting her to flee without a fight, without a challenge. The Sword had a mission. He’d see it through until the end.
These trials would be different, however – streamlining above, and plummeting, plummeting, plummeting again, the wind at his face and the earth below his feet, talons hoping to reach, to scorch –
Until he altered again, heavier, broader, without wings but taut with fur, paws, claws, and muscle, all feline bulk dropping down, intending, attempting to land upon her as a tiger, force her into the ground, into the soil, into the snow, where she could be captured once more.
Apparently this was going to become a test of strength regardless of her efforts to escape the general. She grunted as her back first was hit and then slammed into the frozen ground and snow as she twisted to face the furry beast above her. But she did not fear him or his tiger shift (again with the cats – miserable creatures the lot of them and always out to get her it seemed). Instead she shoved upwards with a shout, attempting to throw the creature off of her so she could continue her escape, relying on every muscle she possessed to do so, not knowing if the effort would pay off.
Deimos didn’t measure success by halves or small, minute amounts – it all depended on the end result, triumph and glory, or devastation and ruin, the Pyrrhic victories laden in between. His tiger form had been more a more effective nuance; his bulk a likely deterrent for any more lunging motions. She tried and struggled, and he remained an aloof figure above her, paws and brawn intending to portray their steadfast insinuations, despite her shoves, despite her shouts. It appeared to be for nothing – he stayed; if only a feline nature possessed brows, for his would have surely arched. He understood why she bothered; not many came quietly to arrests, to pending trials and tribulations, the modicums of their consequences and actions. His status, unfortunately for her, was to ensure she was imprisoned until Wessex decided on something else.
He lowered his head to the cuff of her clothing, teeth, fangs, and ivories attempting to grab hold of the back of her collar, the General’s intentions to simply drag her to the dungeons, much like a carcass.
She failed to shove the giant cat off, but he also failed to grab her shirt, the fabric ripping and shredding between his fangs. But her failed effort made it clear that she was unlikely to get the much larger cat-man off of her. The escape attempt had failed, but so long as she could avoid serious injury (something that seemed increasingly unlikely as he tried to grab her with claw and fang) she might be able to get away at a later point. Preferably while people were busy preparing for LongNight.
And so the Captain did the unthinkable. She lifted her hands in surrender. ”Alright, alright you’ve got me!” she said with a huff.
Perhaps there was too much power in jaws, in the elongated fangs, failing to seek purchase on her clothes to drag her back to the prison – they tore instead. So he waited, with narrowed, feline eyes and brawn eager to unfurl and uncoil in any direction, at her attempts, at her trials, at the length of these tribulations. But when Roana lifted her hands in surrender, the depths of his stare were altered into obvious suspicion. She’d already tried to escape once, feigning interest and intrigue in her boys’ departure before bolting off towards the forest – why on earth would he believe her now?
Maybe she knew he wasn’t about to give in. Obstinance for obstinance. Tenacity for tenacity. A root of stubborn, walled potential, once harpooned in winter’s peaks and valleys. He’d survived far, far worse than these measures, and would do so again in a heartbeat.
The beast loosened another growl, a warning, of claws, of ivories that could easily maul, rip, and tear into skin, of more malicious endeavors, far greater, far worse, than these petulant eaves. Retreating partially off her figure, his skull swung back in the direction they’d come from, towards the prison, indicating her required actions, or the foreboding consequences if she aimed for deceit and duplicity again. He’d given her enough opportunities and chances.
As the tiger backed off of her, she slowly sat up. Her hands were still raised by her head, fingers spread, a clear sign of her surrender. Each movement was deliberate as she rose to her feet, eyes locked on the tiger. It wasn't so much that she recognized his unwillingness to lose, more that her odds of winning were slim. And in this case she would rather take her chances with a jail cell rather than a giant cat that had her pinned. With just his directional nod to prompt her, Roana proceeded to walk towards the jail.
He waited – for her to bound off, for her to attempt escape, for a rising, tempestuous whim to come flickering back into their impulses and inclinations. Instead, she seemed incredibly deliberate, as if ensuring his predacious schemes that she intended to follow through on her words, but his expectations were still dubious, cynical, and skeptical; distrust written on the slate of his convictions and gaze. As the beast, he walked behind her, a nudge of fangs granted or given if she hesitated; imploring her to venture back all the way to the jail cell, when, and only when, he could shift back into his human form, reattempt handcuffs, locks, and keys. If she needed more encouragement, a growl might rankle from the depths of his lungs, bestial, barbaric, foreboding promises of disaster if she gave it another trial.
Roana would give the reaper no further trouble, no reason to prod or poke. She walked directly to the jail, shoulders square, head held high, the picture of calm. Even as she was shackled and locked in her cell, she remained emotionless; stalwart and unshakeable. Her shift in demeanor was distinct and drastic, but she gave no clue as to what might have been going on behind her bright blue eyes, silently watching the General from where she stood in the center of her cell.
It was odd, being on that side of the bars looking out, but she didn’t regret the events that brought her here.
