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!
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
They had gotten her stable enough to be moved, to a separate room while she recovers with the watful eye of the Sword. And with it, worry settles in that she might not be able to be fixed – that the last time she had seen Bastien, wounded and in pain would be the last vision she ever had of him. But, despite her uncertainties and her worries, Deimos is there. Zuriel is there. She knows them, and trusts them – trusts him more than she could ever realize.
And at least she can talk now. And she figures perhaps an apology, for the fear of what it must have looked like. And a thank you, for removing the beam from her chest.
“I’m sorry… if I scared you.” It’s quiet, hoarse, gods she’s so tired. “And thank you. For removing the beam. And healing me.” Perhaps he can tell her exhaustion levels with her weariness, with the way she simply slumps, unable to bend her hands at the wrist, unable to see anything. Unable to, well, do anything. At least it was quiet here.
After, after, after, when the actions were no longer required, when healing had been rendered, when beams were pulled and parceled away, there was only the dull, muted ache of apprehension, of residual fear, of agony and despair wrenching along his form. He held it well, like all the other things he’d carried in his form, but it was a crushing, swallowing, consuming, devouring reverberation, a bitter, rancorous etching of the moments he’d experienced over and over again. The ghosts and wraiths of his past simply kept multiplying, shrouds of beings he never saved, veils of phantoms and specters he’d sent willingly to their graves. He never thought Rexanna could’ve been amongst and amidst those parallels, those tangible, flickering granules of dust, bone, and ether, too radiant, too powerful, too potent in her own machinations and endeavors, the charismatic sway, the emblems and banners of persistence. It had frightened him, in the way few instances ever did – because he’d been so close to another engulfing loss.
The beast gave no hint of his exhaustion, mental, physical, it didn’t matter, as he closed the door behind him. Deimos had returned to being sentinel, guard, sword, and fortification, a rampart tall, broad, and stoic, trying desperately not to convey any of the ruminations threatening to release over his skin, under his muscles, through his presence. He only nodded at her apologies as he advanced to her side, then realized she wouldn’t be able to see them; the sockets cold and dark and absent, another clench to his jaw as her hoarse voice billowed and fanned along the room. He would’ve done more if he’d could. He would’ve burned down the sanction, the earth, the world, would’ve scorched and set monsters aflame, would’ve sent everything that had deigned to harm and wound her off into death and demolition again and again and again. His actions had been basic, necessities, while the earth spun and cackled, while the fiends outside still remained. The General sighed, and with it came horrendous burdens and force, pulling up a chair beside her, leaning, leaning, leaning so his head rested on its back, so he only stared at the ceiling. “You are welcome,” he whispered, those granules difficult to loosen, to express, when it should’ve been far greater, far better. His eyes didn’t drift back upon her, because that hurt too – so his voice was pulled from his bones, his lungs, his throat, as if it continued to meet a great resistance, a consignment to oblivion. They were quiet and stark, not harsh, inquiring through his addled, rattled, Machiavellian mind, striving to embody a picture he likely should’ve just left an empty canvas. “What were you doing out there?”
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
He’s correct in that she can’t see the nod given, and simply remains in silence uncertain of where he stands until she can hear the chair pull up to her side. It’s enough to give her a pin point, to turn to face him, to hear the whispered you are welcome, enough of a quiet fear that makes her want to cry for what had occurred. She must have looked absolutely terrible to withdraw such a reaction. Or perhaps it is her closeness with the General, with the once-Reaper turned Sword that has sparked such a powerful reaction.
She doesn’t know, nor can she search his expression to find out.
All she can do is sit back in her chair and reach up with the inside of her hand to press her hair back form her eye-less face. As he asks what they were doing out there, she bites down on her lower lip. “We… Were told that the creatures of LongNight are early versions of the Ascended, before the Voice was able to make us what we are now. I think we wanted to try and talk to them?” She shakes her head, uncertain.
“Samuel wanted help with it, Bastien and I agreed. And we left the Temple, but Bastien was hurt immediately. I sent him back and went to meet Remi and Samuel.” Her voice is quiet, wavering, wondering if Bastien had even made it to the Temple. “But Remi created a net… And we caught one.” She frowns. “And were attacked.” They took her eyes. And she pauses here, waiting to see if he has any questions, wanting any clarifications.
She needn’t have worried about his presence – he would always be a stalwart sanction beside her.
His eyes ghosted back to hers, riveted briefly on the emptiness where eyes he’d known very well – full of expression, duplicity, a specious gathering of subtle mayhem and calm parameters, eternally aware of her powers of persuasion or overall potency. There was nothing there now, but that didn’t make her less, just altered. So he listened, his head still on the back of the chair, gaze settling away from her broken proportions and onto movements, motions, reminders of who she was and why she’d gone out into the ominous contortions.
Now Remi’s insinuations about the Ascended made more sense – the fire, the press of yesteryears and primordial things before – ancient pieces christened and anointed, then left to rummage their way through the darkness. But to what ends? What had been the point in discussing things with monsters? What answers would they have received? “Did you learn anything?” Or had it been all for naught – injury after injury, near-demise settling into their roots and spirits, chiseling its way through their foundation, new machines meeting old, and the tokens not well-received?
He breathed, easing an exhale, processing the information granted and given. Bastien being hurt immediately, likely back at the Temple (since he hadn’t been seen here), caught monsters (where the hell was it now?), nets, and then taken, scarred, bludgeoned forms. He hoped it wasn’t for naught.
The monolith might’ve murmured something else, in between the inhales and the unknown, had Zuriel not expressed avid discontent along the corner of the room. There was a discordant squeal, a draconic snort, and as he watched, arching a brow, she seemed to turn around in rapid motion, swishing her tail. What is going on? was some repeated juncture nowadays, floating through their companion bond. She seemed quite perturbed and irritated by the situation, and on curiosity, on inquiry, he rose from his chair to light the hearth – logs waiting, kindling already stocked and based, not bothering with matches or flint, with the newfound magic hastening through his veins. Unfurling heat crooned from his palms, scorching, searing flames, gesturing over the dried wood and filling portions of the room with heat and light.
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
His question gives her pause, in the events that occurred after. What had they learned? Had it been all for nothing? She bites down on her lip, resting her head back against the back of the chair and lifts her now healed legs up beneath her to sit upon them despite the shuttering that happens within her systems at the movement because of her ribs. And it takes her some time in this position to think through it all, to see what they’ve learned.
“They told us to give them everything and we could live.” She recalls, a soft sigh. “Our… upgrades, I guess, started to vibrate within us. I think they wanted them and were ready to take them out if given the shot.” A shudder courses through her body at the terrible vibrations. And she hopes she never has to feel those very same uncertainties that she had before. “’Your items for your lives.’” She reiterates the monster, having only but hearing to guide her from there, blue eyes shifting to black and disappearing.
“I summoned a Luxere to help Remi, since Sam and I were invisible. And he told me to go ahead on the hoverboard, to ride it straight forward and I’d reach the Luxere and Remi. And I didn’t.” Shoulders rise and fall in a small shrug, as if it didn’t mean anything, despite the fact she had been so close to losing her life.
She spends another few moments, unaware of Zuriel’s discomfort, the wary looks, only the sounds that come from the unicorn as Deimos starts the fire. “They told us we were marked.”
Though if it’s any connection to the events occurring, she does not know.
Ultimatums from monsters, from fiends, from demons sprung out of the Voice’s experimentation – perhaps either far more intelligent or greedier than the stories and myths proclaimed. Had anyone else ever wandered so close, had anyone else ever dared? Or was this the price for the trials and attempts, an open display of nefarious properties and fiendish outlooks, a brazen trace of things beyond claws and fangs? He remained standing by the fire while he listened to the anomalies of discord, the motions and maneuvered they’d utilized simply to try and get away – bad luck or Machiavellian designs orchestrated by devilish coils. It made sense, for those that had come first, incomplete, unfinished, left to reside on their own when the evening became eternal and greedy, rapacious, avaricious for the ones who’d been rendered far more complete.
The General didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have anything to put her at ease. He didn't chide or reprimand. He didn't lecture or shake his head. Bygones were bygones, no sense in repeating the scars she likely already hurled upon herself, amongst the outward, newly hastened lines. His silence wasn’t a balm; but a devouring weight along brawn and might, the unknown a perilous void that painstakingly carved its way through any of their futile exploits. Plans had gone up in flames. Triumph had been measured in decibels of survival, ultimately, rather than their machinations for sagacity, for wisdom, for alleviating some of the accursed motions of LongNight. It was a daunting experience, over and over and over again, to not find success, but failure.
And for some reason – he remembered the mountains, because in some way they’d altered confusion into victory, and it was nearly on his lips, scattered amidst the rime, the snow, the sanction to be revered – not the Basin, never the Basin, but something else -
Her last line though, as he glanced over his shoulder, as he looked to where Zuriel still stood snorting, her eyes narrowed in suspicion, the unknown searing its way through their connections, gave him pause. The summits could wait. “Marked for what?” Were there other sinister proportions looming along the expanse? A more vile evil or vehemence pressing in amongst them, a conviction in callousness, in extended graves, in finishing what they’d started?
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
She doesn’t know what they’ve been marked for, but the shrieking reverberates in her mind. The terrible sound of her crunching and breaking, bits and pieces of her left along the streets of the Settlement likely long gone now. She wishes so desperately for the comfort of touch, despite not being able to reciprocate it well, and she wishes that perhaps she shouldn’t have gone out at all, maybe she should have gone back with Bastien in the end.
But then what would have happened to Samuel and Remi?
There’s too many what ifs that she can’t accurately think of what would have happened without thinking of the worst because of how she had turned out. “I don’t know.” She says sadly with a frown, eyeless face angled toward the floor. She wishes she could be more helpful, rather than a deadweight to the rest of the guild hall, and she huffs quietly to herself.
“Does it look bad?” A quiet question after a moment. Her face, her body, the clothes that are still torn and warped around the edges because she hasn’t had the time to find more. At least beneath the puncture hole in her shirt, scarred skin remains intact. Small mercies, in the end.
10-25-2019, 11:44 PM (This post was last modified: 10-26-2019, 10:18 PM by Deimos.)
DEIMOS
The enigmas and quandaries continued amidst the despair, the melancholy, and everything else laid between. He wasn’t used to her being the one caught in traps, snares, and webs; only the ones she’d spun herself, on duplicitous perimeters and Thief calculations. He was usually the one on the frontlines, marred, injured, blemished, scarred again and again, taking each line upon his frame as an outlier of protection and destruction. They were emblems and banners, flags of brutality along waves of less-scalded flesh; tales of survival. Was that were hers would become, eventually, when the weight of it all crumbled off of shoulders, when she’d met her Goddess and had everything set to rights? He considered the notions from the fire’s expanse, the curls and coils of flickering light, the potential bounty and prowess simmering in his hands. I don’t know reeled in their sanction, and he couldn’t contemplate the reaches either, leaving it to spin and spurn into silence.
He glanced back over his shoulder to watch her angle her head downwards, distorted contemplations of another kind, and he had no idea over what to do or what to say, his efforts always circling over action, action, action, motive, motive, motive, rinse and repeat gestures of either defense, protection, or vehemence. With the upheaval slightly altered, changed by expanse of healing and mending, he had difficulty regarding his place, stood tall and broad in the proximity of her existence, willing to lend his assistance, his helping hands, if given suitable direction. Her inquiry threw him off though, tilting his head to study, to examine, arching a brow she couldn’t see, lips twisting into a small smile; pondering if the subject matter was based in a sensation of vanity, or merely because she couldn’t ascertain the expression of emptiness, what the absence of eyes did to another’s appearance. But the monolith didn’t look away. “Different,” was all he supplied, a quiet chuckle ricocheting off of bones and brawn, off of chest and lungs. “I can make you something.” Eye-patches or bandanas, if it truly bothered her.
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
It goes unsaid, the anxiety of it all. The idea that hollow sockets where eyes should be could be frightening to those unexpecting. Could be tightening for children, especially. And while she doesn’t particularly care what she looks like at this moment, she certainly doesn’t want to be the source of the hushes around the Guildhall, of people ushering others away because of the sight of her. And she chews on her lower lip in the silence until Deimos’ chuckle gives her something to focus on.
Different.
Well, that’s better than awful, and so she takes it, angling her head and body to where the sound has come from, resting her useless hands and arms in her lap. At the mention of him making something for her, she does offer a small smile to him. “A bandana maybe?” Something to wrap around, to hide, to make sure she doesn’t have to deal with the feeling of inspiring fear to the innocent among them.
“I’m sure you could design a perfect one for me.” There’s a tiny amount of humor in her voice at this as she tilts her head. He’s never been one for fashion, but the never ending trinkets of home he instilled in what he makes is far more valuable for her now.
For all the motions and ruminations scattered amongst the room, he said little at all; the eldritch incantations of previous exploits hovering and harpooning, circumventing anything else. The notions of what if kept scratching at his enamel, tiny claw marks against the walls of his chest, of his ribs, of his lacquer, pressing inward on a once-savage, belligerent heart. What if she hadn’t survived? What if she’d been left out in the cold, in the dark, like Cera? The first was an alarming beacon, settling amongst rage and rebellion, a cutthroat insurrection deep in the riotous din of his prowess, of his potential, when everything fell apart. The second would’ve scalded too – and while he shook his head, irritated his notions had twisted down into those brewing, soulless schisms (not here, later, as if he could freeze moments, as if he could keep barreling onward and pretend they didn’t exist), they still remained. In the background, in the haze, in the burning, searing notions that at some point, somewhere, maybe enough wouldn’t be enough, and he’d be facing portions of monumental loss again. His gaze flickered downward, even though she couldn’t see, even though she couldn’t sense, the clenching of his jaw, the choking, drowning intervals threatening to consume; potentially devoured by the irreverent pieces of life – that they would have to end.
The General maneuvered back, footfalls on the floor placed with a heavier step, so she could hear, so she would know his location, before sitting back down in the chair. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, listening, half-smiling because it was either that or fetter away. The beast wouldn’t allow the demons to snag and tear at him today.
Even at her humor though, he exhaled on a sigh, before the gilded glow of his hands returned. Between them twisted enchantments and fabric, woven like canvas and tapestries, the backdrop a deep, dark blue, like the evening sky right after the sun fell back into its hearth, a pressing of twilight endeavors and star exploits. Laden within were snowflakes, of varying shapes and sizes, designs orchestrated so no single one was the same, but somewhere in their midst was an emblem of little flames, for Kiada the firebrand, and a lithe contortion of fireworks nestled in amongst cloaks and daggers. Even if she wouldn’t be able to see it, not until much, much later, they were still imbedded and emblazoned, power, precision, might, and reminders of years where they were the irreverent, and the rest of the world nothing in their presence.
“A bandana,” he noted into the air, before rising again, stretching out his long arms to gently press the cloth over her eyes, and tie it around her head. Then the mountain leaned back, sighing again, somewhat irritated all the more that she should have to hide beneath veils and shrouds. But he’d offered, and she’d taken it, and perhaps it wouldn’t be for long.
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
There’s no words to describe how thankful and grateful she is for him. For the heavy footfalls that give her an idea of where he is in relation to her. And she angles herself toward him when he finally sits – unable to see the clench to his jaw, the trauma that arises from witnessing this, from the what if’s that reverberate around his head over and over again. If she had a choice, she’d embrace him, tell him it’s okay. That she’s okay. But her hands don’t quite work in the way of pulling him to her, and all she can do is just sit there – waiting, unafraid, unflinching because it’s him, and she trusts him so incredibly much that nothing here could fear her with him here.
She sees nothing of the design on the bandana, but as he wraps it over her eyes to tie around the back of her head, she does notice it’s soft, and a smile reaches her face at that. Perhaps when her vision returns, it’ll be better, it’ll be easier, and she can fully appreciate the work, magic, thought, and love that went into such a small gesture. And when his hands leave her head, she lifts it up to look at him imagining he’s remained where he original was. “Thank you.” She says softly, quietly, eternally grateful for it.
A small fanged smile plays at the corner of her lips, as she draws her legs up beneath her to wrap her arms around. “So… Tell me some good news.” She tries to edge him on, wanting something light and happy to think about. “What’s going on with you? Good things. I think I have enough brooding to do on my own.” Her smile grows a bit wider as the reality sets in and she needs something to focus on other than the obvious.
Good news per her request, away from the brooding fixtures, away from the conflagrations persisting, rummaging, rumbling through his existence. In another world, time, and place, the notion itself would’ve been alarming – the Reaper incapable of holding conversations beyond war plans, abducted citizens, or which adversary deserved maiming. He’d been naught more than a safeguard, a meticulous, scrupulous, unrelenting garrison for the icy world, and here…here he wasn’t sure what he’d become. The fact that he was even capable of bearing discourse, of supplying more than minimal inquiry of talents (how can one be utilized, rankings, where their talents could scorch or hurt another kingdom the most) was a massive step forward. Before, he would have snorted, ignored, or merely left the scene. There’d been no extension of his feelings beyond protection and refuge, beyond vehemence and violence. So he sat back in his chair, half-smile even when she couldn’t see it, tilting his head a minute fraction until he leaned back against the headrest again, glance not toward the ceiling, but segmented on her, reaching, reaching, reaching past those voids, those abysses, towards things that weren’t so bleak, things that weren’t so wrong, things that weren’t damaged, savaged, or ravaged. Would it help? Would it glorify things beyond the damned, beyond injuries, marred, severed pieces and portions of their lives – scattered and sketched with malicious patterns, bits and pieces of the reverent in between?
“Kiada recovered from the blight,” he grinned again, as if it was a little triumph in a series of circumstances and events riled and mired in ruin, in oblivion, in so many pitfalls and potentials to go horrifically wrong. He made no mention of the Harpy’s assaults, because she hadn’t wanted melancholy ramparts, however, he did meander through the current state, certain a mother should know about her daughter’s whereabouts and forged motivations. “She is out now, with Jigano. Trying to recover Ru’in’s soul.”
After that particular ax fell, his glance flickered back over to the fire, to Zuriel still snorting at cracks and fissures, at unknown parameters. He did have other things to consider in positive affirmations, which for him was an ultimate achievement, and that he’d be willing to share any of them another sensation of alterations and change. So he leaned forward again, elbows on knees, closer and closer to the flames, and to her, a grin on his mouth, the lightest of laughter on his tongue. “Would you rather hear about Amalia, attuned abilities, or the mountains?”
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
“Kiada recovered from the blight.” That certainly is good news, and she finds a smile coming to her face at that revelation. She had seen a few of the worst blighted, Melita’s attack comes to mind. And she suddenly wishes she’s checked on the redheaded girl since the recovery had started, but that was in the past now. And life had a tendency of moving forward so fast that she had a hard time keeping up. “That is good news.” She agrees quietly, until the ax begins to fall on the least… cheerful news.
She doesn’t know about Ru’in’s appearance here in Caido. Doesn’t know that he perished last LongNight. But she does find a frown crossing her face at that, hoping that she can accomplish her task, knowing how stubborn and strong headed the girl was. There must have been reason that Deimos hadn’t accompanied her, must have been a stalwart effort on the man’s side to not simply ignore her wishes and go with. And so all she does is nod to that, worried now for her daughter based off of what she’s faced going out on LongNight.
Is it still her place to worry?
Luckily, Deimos changes the subject again, and she angles her head to where his voice comes from. He gives her options and she’s suddenly so surprised that her dark brows raise beneath the bandana as a soft hum of laughter leaves her. Amalia, the baker… Attuned? Had he become a hybrid like her? The mention of mountains gives her pause, and so she decides to start with the first. They can recollect their separate thoughts on the mountains later. “Tell me about Amalia.” She gives him a bright smile in response.
Were they a thing?
The quiet, beautiful, natural baker and the roguish, statuesque king in another land far from here?
