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!
The inevitable seared and simmered with warrior footfalls and militia endeavors. These were not his usual modes; his preference was laden on battlefields with scorched earths and swinging blades, with swords thrust into chests, with armor brandished across shoulders, with glory and triumph sizzling in their minds, with catacombs and sepulchers behind them, awaiting the ominous depths of their pulsing, pervading predilections. Instead of bestial wrath and clinging abhorrence, instead of vehemence and contempt, there was only the notion of the warrant in his pockets, the Queen’s scrawl of detailed offenses and crimes, and a calm, composed motion from the General – as if he were composed, sculpted, and carved from steel, from iron, forged from the ramparts of fortifications of ice, living, breathing weaponry and upheaval, now only gone to spread a sovereign’s sedition.
Between his calculating efforts and Machiavellian irreverence, he could understand both sides of the situation. For whatever reasons or motives Roana had surmised, the comprehension was clear as to why she’d been seeking to prey upon the Ascended: the rumors had been heightened and slashing through the tides of frustration when the blighted individuals grew steadily worse, pinpointed on the particular species. Had it been to cease the torment? Had it been to punish those believed to have spread the pestilence, to have caused so much hurt, harm, and despondency across their grounds? The woman had seemingly always been a person surmised in action; but some had consequences. Unfortunately for her, Wessex, an Ascended, was in power, contorted and controlled the throne, and had reasons to surmise the impending arrest – protecting her people, her kin, her comrades. Rexanna was amongst and amidst those too – extended family for the Sword. Though he knew she could take care of herself, and quite well, a portion of it rankled in his skin, in his flesh, in his blood.
So he chose no side but the document and writ along his person, the necessity and notions collected in their movements. The beast’s stare settled on Loren briefly, conducting some sort of plan in his skull along the way. Deimos was already aware of Roana’s weapon, capable of taking his Life Drain enchantments and riddling them in a reverse of power and prowess; there would have to be other measures taken if worse came to worse. He swallowed his sigh too, as they strode closer and closer to the house, to children likely playing within, to pieces and portions of life he didn’t think he’d have to encounter again. With another glance to Loren, upon their ascent to her doorstep, he raised his fist and rapped his knuckles along the aperture.
Deimos kept looking at Loren, which probably wasn’t that surprising. The summoner had changed since the general had last seen the Launceleyn. The most apparent difference was in his appearance: he was as gaunt as ever, but instead of covering it up, he was accentuating it with dark and form-fitting clothes that showed off his lean muscles and sharp edges. But the most shocking change was in his eyes. They were cold, and hard, lacking even an ounce of sympathy or empathy or kindness.
Indeed, Loren looked like the other man’s shadow, dark except for the pale skin of the Launceleyn's face and the icy blue of his eyes. Even his blonde hair was covered by the hood of his cloak. As Deimos knocked, the summoner took up position behind the general’s shoulder and off to one side. A chilling smile lurked on the Loren's lips, and his magic sang, begging to be released. The smile, he allowed. The magic, however, he kept a tight grip on; he was in control, now, in a way that he’d never been before. Time to see what Roana would do.
It was only a matter of time really. Roana was prepared.
From within, the sound of the boys play came to a halt, dead silence all that remained. Soon though, it was followed by the sound of heavy boots approaching the door. The former captain answered, expressionless, eyes steady. Her bright blue gaze drifted over the Launceleyn briefly, but fell on Deimos, her stare hard and unwavering. It didn't take anyone particularly intelligent to figure out what was going on here. The two lone members of the Queen's pitiful army at her door? Not long after Amalia and Remi came screaming at her about her charge from Ludo? Yeah. She knew what this was about. She was just used to being on the other side of the door. Instinctively, her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. The only thing more precious to her than it was her sons.
"General Ignatius. Mister Launceleyn. How might I help you today?" she said calmly, ready in case they might try anything that would endanger her boys. The three triplets watched warily from within, keyed in to the tension between their mother and the two men outside.
Loren was sharper; angles and bones, swept along marrow and tissue accentuating hollowed portions, and the Sword wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant, but it was likely not a positive sanction to their already tense intentions. So he waited in the silence, listening to the sounds of movement from within the domiciles, rustling motions then spun into quiet, inaudible measures, an ax falling, the apprehension of reality stinging, nettling, and settling. As the door opened, her eyes appeared steady, flickering from Loren to him, an undaunted expression, and he met it in return with a warrior’s stare. Only for a moment did his gaze segment upon the sword, the way her hand rested there, the preparation for anything and everything keen in his muscles, bunched, coiled, taut, and tethered, capable of bursting into any direction or movement; a predator’s swiftness. He noted the boys too, the proximity, the way they tucked themselves back – smart, reading into the underlying tides.
“The Queen has given us a warrant for your arrest.” His voice was calm, composed, one born from the ether of mountains, a stoic vibe, steady and stalwart, there to complete their assignment. One hand remained still, but ready, while the other retrieved the document from inside his furs, unveiling it for her to read, but not to take, not leaving his palms even as it unfolded, the weight of a monarch’s words pressed into the paper. “You are charged with threatening a member of the community and the Ascended race.” And in those moments, his stare didn’t leave her; watching, waiting, for something to press into vitriol, vehemence, or acceptance; but he rarely believed in the latter. There were no antagonistic bounties tucked into his vocals, collected and self-possessed, intending to ease the knives and daggers in the air. “We are to take your weapons and jewelry, where they will be put into safekeeping.” Deimos respected anyone’s munitions – they wouldn’t be scattered or scorned upon, tucked away until these moments were resolved. “The children will be unharmed.” He paused, then proffered an option. “Would you like them taken to Phoebe?” Or would she bother with it at all – and instead, fight, fight, fight, slash, rip, and tear her way to escape, to strive for evasion? And how, with the boys in tow? It was up in the air, and either militia member would be fervent for altercation or compliance.
A warrant for her arrest from the Queen. Now there was a phrase she never thought she would be presented with.
Roana remained quiet, unshakeable as Deimos stated her charges, glancing at the warrant briefly to confirm the allegations matched the writing. "I will come, but you'll have to forgive me that I don't trust my valuables to the same Queen that stole my sword once before, General." she said in a low tone, looking back at the General. Her grip tightened on the blade of Krosis, not willing to part with it the name of this Queen so easily. But she glanced back towards her boys, at least glad for that concession.
"I trust Mister Launceleyn to take them to Phoebe, if he would." she said with a glance towards the man. She might not trust his family as a whole, but based on their interactions, she trusted him to not lash out towards children like Zariah.
Good news: Roana wasn’t resisting arrest, at least not yet. Bad news: she was getting hung up on her sword of all things. In her shoes, Loren would’ve been far more worried about saving her skin and her children than he would be about a family heirloom. Then again, he had a very different relationship to his family than she did. Deimos had already covered pretty much everything important, but the Launceleyn figured the general didn’t know the history or the significance of the blade. So it was time for Loren to interject ”I can hold onto your sword for safekeeping, Roana. I’ll keep it as safe as your boys.” If that was her only objection, he figured it was best to just get the blade, then figure out what to do with it later. And honestly, he didn’t mind holding on to it if that made Roana happy. He was supposed to babysit her anyway, so he could show her he still had it periodically.
On the subject of her children, the summoner craned his neck so he could see them hiding behind her. He tried to make eye contact with one or all of them. ”Would you like to go visit Phoebe?” Loren didn’t bother smiling. He knew how chilling his smiles were these days, and they were trying not to scare the boys, after all.
Perhaps she’d known it was coming, one of those unavoidable tangents thorned into her motivations and aspirations. Under a different sovereign, maybe it would’ve gone ignored; much like some of Helovians and their antics, sometimes events gone by the wayside, either by political maneuvers or used as means for diplomatic dramatics. Where there’d been theater in some of the dimensions, it wasn’t lingering here, and he was surprised to find Roana accepting of her charges, of the pending imprisonment. She didn’t shake. She didn’t fumble. She didn’t quiver. The beast respected the threshold of composure, indicated a modicum of respect for the gestures, listening to her quip about Wessex. It was an intriguing bit of knowledge; he hadn’t known the Wraith had once absconded the massive claymore, but it would grant and explain the undercurrent of abhorrence and contempt the women had for one another. “Understood,” nodding again in acknowledgment, easygoing compliance, potent and powerful measures longing to be kept out of an adversary's hands. He didn’t mire himself in the murky currents, and Loren offered to take the blade, so they waited for the agreement, for the passing of wares and munitions. If necessary, Deimos could provide the fellow militia man with a bag to carry the weaponry and anything else she was required to hand over for a time.
The beast glanced at the trio of boys again when Loren called to them, waiting to see their reactions, not intending to draw their mother into handcuffs or gesture for her to maneuver towards the prison in their sights. It was a waiting game, but he could appreciate the nuances of calm, the acceptance, the tolerance, the lack of melodrama.
It was a fair offer but one she still wasn't sure she appreciated it fully. Krosis was the last real heirloom she had. There was her wedding ring that she now wore around her neck as well. And of course, her daggers. "I appreciate that Loren. Though I would prefer they stay with their respective inheritors, if it is alright." she said, glancing between the two men before her; calm, reasonable, showing no sign of intention to resist or fight back. She was just looking out for her children, knowing the worst might come and wishing for them to have what little she could give them.
"Boys, go get your overnight things. And Ludo's treasure box." she said to them, a hint of command in her tone. The three blonde boys hurriedly went upstairs and fetched their bags, as well behaved as one would expect a former Captain's children to be. They returned with little packs on their backs, Rhett, distinguishable by his glasses, holding a small puzzle box in his hands. Roana turned to her boys to tend to them quickly, giving them each a tight hug and motherly kiss atop their heads. "Momma has business to do so Mr. Launceleyn will take you to stay with Auntie Phoebe for a little bit okay?" she said, to which the boys quietly nodded, still eyeing the two men warily. Then she removed the necklace with the ring from around her neck, and placed it over Jax's head, the bauble hanging close to his slightly chubbier belly. In Rhett's pack, she placed a small satchel which held her daggers. As for Cormac...well...Krosis was a bit large for a 6 year old to carry. So as she straightened, she loosened the blade from her hip and held it out to Loren. "Thank you." she said to him softly.
"If I might watch them go?" she said softly to Deimos, glancing at him. She didn't want them to see what was going to come next.
10-06-2019, 10:35 PM (This post was last modified: 10-06-2019, 10:42 PM by Loren.)
Well, while Loren could understand the ex-captain’s desire for her belongings to stay within her family, he wasn’t sure that would fly with Deimos or Wessex. Still, probably easier to make the arrest and then sort out the possessions later on. Assuming the general didn’t have any objections, he’d leave everything other than the sword with the boys. The mention of Ludo’s treasure box gave the Launceleyn pause; however, he would follow Deimos’ lead here.
Loren remained as quiet as Roana sent her boys off to fetch their things. Honestly, the Launceleyn was surprised at how civilly this whole process was proceeding. The three boys were remarkably well behaved, all things considered. In their shoes, the summoner would’ve been much more frantic. Taking the blade the ex-captain proffered, Loren strapped it to his waist with practiced movements. Turning to the general (and his back to Roana), the summoner lowered his voice so that only Deimos could hear. ”She has a ring that emits light as well. I don’t know of any other items.” With that, Loren turned to the children. ”Come. I’ll take you to your Aunt.” Assuming the general didn’t need the Launceleyn for the actual arrest, he would turn and lead the boys over to Phoebe. This was going to suck for everyone involved.
He watched, ever the witness, scrutinizer, examiner, the scholar in him, as she proceeded to grant the items to her children, minus the claymore, given to Loren. The treasure box and ring were intriguing, because he didn’t know their material worth, if there was something more emblazoned to them, if they were going to have to snag the garb and puzzles from tiny boys; withholding the sigh longing to unravel from his chest. It would be a future regard, not now, not with the potential for fury and might, for fervor and iniquity, for demolition and disaster. On her last request though, he had no tribulations or apprehensions. “You may,” awaiting the moments to gather and pierce together, triplets collected, handling the situation far better than some other inhabitants three times their age ever would.
Deimos listened too, to the layers and lacquer of lowered decibels, to the insinuation of another ring – capable of invoking and emitting light. He nodded, grateful for the information, then waited; the opportunity to take that nuance would come later as well, allowing the proceedings to unfurl and unleash, Machiavellian tendencies lurking in the back of his mind. While the youths drifted away, his hands resumed a gilded glow, creating makeshift handcuffs, placing them over her wrists once they’d disappeared. “You will have a cell in the prison,” he informed, one arm placed along hers, intending to lead her along, but they both likely knew the direction they were headed. “Until LongNight.” They wouldn’t keep her in there, despite Wessex’s first inclination; needs and wants met with adequate food, water, and shelter until the ominous demolition of LongNight approached.
Upon their arrival, and meeting with the guards, the beast waited for them to unlock a particular cell, closer to the entrance, everything already prepared. With the oubliette opened, she only had to step within.
Roana watched her boys go with the Launceleyn, pain evident in her blue gaze. She loved her boys dearly, desperately; and it was why she was willing to sacrifice everything to make the world a better, safer place for them. One where the gods worked together and they could live and love and make friends with all without the fear that they were secretly spreading the ill-intent of the divine. Once they disappeared she looked at Deimos again, her steady gaze returning.
She wasn't done yet.
As he began to craft the cuffs he intended to put on her wrists, she turned and bolted through the house, powerful legs pushing her forward as fast as she could run - straight through a window at the back of the house. Glass shattered - cutting and scraping and shards imbedding - but she ran without stopping headed towards the Greatwood. If she could reach the forest, she knew she could escape and still see her plan through.
He’d been anticipating something; once the children were gone, once they were safe – but with her sword in safekeeping, out of her hands, it meant more opportunity for him.
So the Reaper followed.
On the crashing of glass, on the movement of human instinct, she threaded her way towards the forest, but so did he – transformed, shifting, eagle plumes and feathers, extended wings, voracious, raptorial prowess and keen senses unfurled, unleashed. He’d chased and hunted prey for lifetimes, no different now, not with her compliance, her tolerance, gone. So was his – predilections and Machiavellian vibes scorching, diving on his plummeting motions, on his speed, on his years spent stalking those who would dare to harm his kin. It was a treacherous rasp along his throat, a silent endeavor, a crooning murmur of irreverence and sedition, two capable of playing the revolutionary game. He was a ghost on the horizon, finessed forbidding, unwinding motions of rampant decadence, treacherous considerations contorted in the tilt of his avian head, in the following of her rushed, haphazard maelstrom.
Then the monolith dove, a pinnacle of reticent rapiers, hushed chords of unsung violence, intending to land upon her, shifting his form back to human; brawn and bulk and hands reaching. He said nothing, silent and steady and armed with more than just weapons - with no sign at all, minatory, eldritch invocations uncoiled from his presence – life draining machinations pulsing, pervading, brewing towards her form, intending to render her weakened.
A diving eagle was no joke, capable of reaching impossibly fast speeds. But it was directional and the former Captain used it to her advantage. As the general dove, she suddenly changed course, not once but repeatedly, zigzagging like a rabbit on light feet. A chase was a fight in a way and this was a dance she knew well. Still, it was by a hair's breadth alone that she evaded the Reaper. But even at this close distance she did not attack. She had no desire to actually fight him, she merely wished to get away.
They both had orders to follow. That they were not aligned was not something either of them could change. It wasn't personal, just a soldier's work.
The magic graze her leg and she hissed as she continued running towards the Greatwood, feeling a moment of weakness. She had to be smarter - a direct hit from that would remove the advantage she had with speed. And so she continued to dance as she ran, with no discernible pattern or reason, save for continuing towards the Fae ruled lands.
