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 smiles and the frowns pierce along, he watched, waited, listened for other intonations, cues to continue or to simmer, withhold or refrain. The latter was the easiest and the former the hardest, good assimilations on Kiada’s recovery, an exception taken at the notion of Ru’in. He wondered what it meant for Hotaru too, if things pieced together, if the Harpy was successful, if the poor, beleaguered crafter would ever gain a chance, an opportunity, for a life beyond meager means and spread remnants. The beast clenched his jaw in thought, furrowing his brows in idle formation, wishing again for something to do with his hands instead of simmering on the edge of his chair. There was no note of him staying here, of the obvious lack of his presence as Kiada went off to sear and scald in the dark; he hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t either, but the insinuations had always been there. Overprotective and hovering, desperate to harpoon things out of the way for anyone and everyone in his life – but that wasn’t how they could all live. She was strong. She was enduring. She was a storm, a tempest, an inferno. He’d just have faith that the world would see that, comprehend that, understand that.
At her surprise though, he reared slightly back, as if expecting the sly motives of Hotaru’s all-knowing grin to come in mirrors, reflections, and reverberations back at him, and some kind of vicious assault to follow. Half the time he never told of any vulnerabilities, of any contentment, because he didn’t crave for them to be utilized as weapons, as munitions, as assailments for adversaries and enemies.
But Rexanna wasn’t either of those things; and he bore witness to the bright grin instead of the duplicity, instead of the expected speciousness and glorified siege suddenly in his wake – setting him at ease. His shoulders came down, his spine lost its taut, tethered rigidity, eyes flickering downcast as he contemplated where to begin. A certain amount of shame existed in his chest at the notion that Rexanna had simply never known (when it’d been nearly a year before – his furtiveness purposefully cast towards those of Jigano’s ilk, and unfortunately, to some of his greatest friends too; old habits struggling to fade), a dash of red hues along his cheeks thankfully she wouldn’t be able to view. “We are together,” he shrugged, even in the midst of his following smile, as if it was nothing when it really was everything. “Since last Fiat Lux,” which ended on the slightest chuckle, chagrin and amusement and some portion of contentment winning over the indignities of his flaws and defects. The mountain did not press over his luck, did not share in the thoughts of being undeserving of the Shield’s affections and devotion; the Thief was one of the few to know him the best. To fathom those unspoken layers. To interpret the enamel, the lacquer, underneath, just how far he’d come from Reaper to Sword (or how quickly he could shift back again).
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
There is no need to comment on it for her, she knows Kiada well enough to know that it’s not Deimos’ fault he isn’t with her. To know that the Harpy and her stubbornness could go further than the Sword would be able to bend. A fire, a flame, much like herself. But where Rexanna tended to be far more forgiving, Kiada had the tendency to become as solid as a board. As solid as a statue. As solid as stone. And when she wanted to do something, she went for it, regardless of the consequences.
Perhaps the pot is meeting the kettle.
So she’s thankful for the shift in tone, the quiet admittance that they’re together. And her head lifts in quiet surprise, lips forming a smile of amusement. But her jaw drops when he tells her since Fiat Lux, and she has half a mind to forgo the splints and reach for him, if only to smack him on the arm. “Since Fiat Lux?” And he hadn’t told her? She chews on her lip quietly with a small snort. “I met Amalia when I was cursed. She told me how to prepare for my first LongNight. I think… I might have weirded her out perhaps.” So much flirtation, so many innuendoes, for such a new Outlander.
“I would like to meet her again, officially.” She admits, if only to make true amends, and perhaps some girl to girl firepower to flit back at the Sword, if Kiada hadn’t told Amalia all the secrets. Luckily for the Penumbra, she’d been around the Reaper longer than Kiada had been. And she knows a thing or two the girl might not. Still, she turns her head away from him in her quiet surprise. “Wow, though.” A pause, before she laughs lightly, a chimed relief. “I bet you two are cute together.” She admits with a brighter grin. And suddenly, it all makes sense.
“Wait, is that why you were so giddy when you came back with my cakes?” Head shifting toward him in mock offense.
Stone and flame, fire and ice, rock and rubble and ruin, rising up to scrape across the surface of rime, snow, and glaciers, mountains upon mountains – all of them segmented and scorched into some semblance of potent characteristics. He hadn’t asked to come along out of faith, out of conviction, out of striving to see her fly instead of being moored and dragged alongside; believing in Kiada’s convictions, in her strengths, in that unfurling sense of persistence and perseverance, in the ringing defiance, in all the things the beasts considered grand. Emboldened, fortune sometimes favoring the bold, the intrepid, the brave, the sure – and it wasn’t his right to permit or to pursue. Only her wishes, only her creeds, only her beliefs, crossing into the Stygian roads and ramparts, embarking on her own misadventures, were marks and measures of note.
Deimos waited while the other ax fell, arching his brow, pondering if it’d been a mistake and some notion of upheaval was going to descend upon him again. The intonations beyond the surprise, the amusements, the appeasements, or the jaw dropping, likely meant he would’ve been skewered on the spot had she been healthy. He laughed instead, easy and genuine, listening at her meeting Amalia, when cursed (and here the Sword couldn’t even scarcely reflect on those times, likely completely out of touch by what she’d been even marred with). The general shrugged, because by now all of them had seen and experienced far-worse things; death, desecration, destruction, rebellion and revolution, everything notched and scorching in between, no even scores for them to outline or mark upon. He’d even begun to consider what sort of reunion they’d have (or how to keep Hotaru far, far away from the baker), before she chimed off other ridiculous accords. “Cute?” He muttered, brows furrowing again, as if he couldn’t fathom or understand the word.
Then the other implication caused him to snort, wrinkle his nose, altogether very boyish in the dropping of pretenses, reticence, and guises. His tones were deep and dark, as if he’d been mortally offended or wounded. “Giddy? I have never been giddy.” His eyes raised back up to the ceiling, along the walls, across the accord of the room. “Happy.” He’d been happy; a damned rare occasion.
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
He questions her comment, and had she had her eyes still, she’d have rolled them at that particular question. Huffing a quiet sigh, she smirks, aiming to look toward him. “You know, adorable. Like… Bunnies or…” She trails off, knowing full well the likelihood of anyone calling him cute is next to none. “Oh, puppies!” She grins to him, fanged and enjoying this distraction.
But she calls him giddy and there’s some offense taken, his voice dropping lower in offense and wounding, and she laughs at that. “Oh, you have now though.” She teases him back. She’d definitely call it giddy. Regardless of what he thinks about it. And he tells her that he was happy, and her smile edges a bit more crooked, girlish at that, a look that Kiada’s own true smiles are born from. “I’m glad you are happy.” She tells him, before that crooked smile shifts toward a smirk.
“But happy doesn’t make your cheeks that red, and you smile that much.” She responds with as much of a knowing look as she can muster. And silently, she wonders why she hadn’t seen the signs before, seen the shift in him toward happiness and boldness versus the quiet aloofness she had been so used to once before
This wasn’t the first time he’d been openly mocked or chided, but the notion of them being compared to bunnies, puppies, or even chiseled as adorable actually made his spine crawl. He loosened an involuntary shudder through his form, shaking his head, petulant and childish, a return to some semblance of youthfulness, amusement, and diversions they hadn’t procured in ages. Perhaps this was primordial and age-old in his bones too, the spiraling configurations of some life found in loss and devastation, capable of returning back to these thresholds as the Sword, but never the Reaper. She couldn’t see his openly mocking face, the wrinkled nose brought back into fruition, along with curled lips as if they were raised hackles, mouth parted as if courting and curling words but silent just the same. Zuriel lifted her head at his antics, arching an imperial brow, and he shrugged, not ashamed.
Glad you are happy was such a phrase he never thought he’d hear or have flickered over in his direction – the Lord of the Basin’s contentment and satisfaction had been riddled in melees and bloodshed, how far, how fast, he could drive his blade through an enemy’s chest and watch them fall at his feet, how many plots they could unravel, how much bedlam they could ensue. The General of the Hollowed Grounds had found rapture and reverence and despite it being a bizarre rumination, after everything he’d done, after everything he’d concocted and schemed, that he even had a semblance of those things, and actively worked for them, was overwhelming. Moments he held with grasping claws and avaricious plumes; but something to savor, something to safe, something to hold. “Thank you,” he murmured, at her fanged smile, losing his derisive overtures, returning to less Cheshire, more boyish, mischief prowling behind his eyes.
His gaze did roll at the last statement – because no, he could control himself in public and he definitely hadn’t been blushing (maybe smiling; a hint), another snort brandished, unmuffled. He didn’t even deign to answer that one, moving on and forward, away from the teasing. “All right. Attuned abilities or mountains.”
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
Honestly, she’d give literally everything she had to be able to see his reaction to her teasing. To see the crows feet at his eyes wrinkle with his disdain, his annoyance at being called something so adorable. But she can see it, beneath the hardened mountain chiseled exterior. The glacial presence, the sapphire eyes that mimicked her own, resolved to muddled messes and soft boyish charm. She sighs at the thought, deciding that now she has some fire to shoot at him when she gets her eyes back. When she has a chance to actually see how her words are received.
Not well, but entertaining enough.
And he doesn’t give into her teasing any further, a small sadness reaching her at that fact, but pushing it aside for later as he brings up Attuned abilities once more. And she grins to him. “Attuned. Have you joined this terribly small hybrid party?” She asks with a tilt to her head, a small hum of laughter burning beneath her chest.
The open mockery was gone, extinguished (and likely never to return once she’d actually gained her sight back), but his features still softened, less reticence, less reserve, less and less and less of those hardened exteriors and more and more and more of the Sword’s layers peering through downed walls. Her choice of the Attuned notions caused his brows to lift slightly (he would’ve picked the mountains, but then again, he always had), before the eager grin found its way back to his mouth. “I have.” Party of four – if he was correct in their assignations: he, Remi, and Ashetta amongst the fold of blood entrenched in incantations and shifting prowess, Rexanna being the only one centered amidst the Voice and Abandoned. “I went to see Safrin.” At Amalia’s encouragement, after he’d fallen apart and flickered into so many damned pieces, a promise to try, with no expectation of success or triumph. “I asked for more strength, more power.” Something he’d savored in Helovia, the rush of prowess, the deadly spirals and coils curled amongst his veins, a persistent, poisonous vexation of peril and prestige; the world had known exactly who he was by title alone (the Reaper they whispered, the Reaper they screamed), the intimidating factions brought to life when he fostered death. Rexanna would’ve understood; his need, his craving, his desire to bring the world down to its knees when it was necessary, when bedlam was in his sights, when something needed to be demolished.
“She told me I had plenty within.” He paused, recalling, remembering those moments of derision, of defiance contorted in his frame, in his chest, at war with divine inspiration and pursuits. “Then gave me one chance before dropping me from the sky.” Thereafter there’d been ghosts, endless phantoms haunting over his eyes, as he fell and fell and fell, plummeting through the twilight, wraiths pulling, pulling, pulling, water and fire and rain screaming at him to fly. “I turned into an eagle.” A shrug, as if it were nothing when it’d been everything. “I can also shift into a tiger.” Another laugh, a chuckle made and immersed in warmth, in disbelief, gaze downcast.
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
“I have.” And her head tilts with her wonder, her surprise. A smirk crossing her face at that. A small party made up of so little – ones she didn’t know very well. Ones Remi had told her she had joined. But she stays quiet, listening for his story, mentioning that he went to see Safrin – a goddess she had tried to visit once and been denied. It wasn’t surprising, given her Abandoned status. But for him? It was perhaps a bit surprising.
What he wanted to get out of it draws another smile. She had said a similar thing to the Voice. “We are so similar, you and I.” She offers with a knowing nod. A king and his thief, planning and plotting, and gods how she missed those days. Gentle teasing from Hotaru, the quiet aloofness of Deimos (though she much prefers this version of him to the last, if only because she can effectively get a rise out of him) and her, sat around plans laid out.
She nods as he mentions she had told him he had plenty within, before another jaw drop. “She dropped you from the sky?” She utters quietly in surprise, some amount of disbelief. But he had obviously made it, been okay. Hadn’t been resurrected again. He had turned into an eagle, and can change into a tiger, and she smiles brightly to him. “Oh that’s wonderful.” She announces brightly, a grin forming along her face. She recalls Remi’s lion form with a pang of memory, the softness of his fur beneath her fingers.
“Do you get to choose what you want to be? Or is it… Just there?” She asks quietly. “When I drank from Remi it felt different, like I was sifting through a different well of magic to find his and the shapes.” She tells him with a tilt of her head, questioning and wondering all the same.
The similarities were not surprising or bewildering, both once dedicated to mountains and summits, to a world thriving on the potential for dominion, supremacy, and distinction. The peaks had been there to show everyone they weren’t to be denied, rejected, or spurned, never again, with their bellowing howls and wolfish prowls, their stalking forms, their predacious wiles; bestial comrades of the north, of the auroras, of the valleys covered and contorted in snow. Sometimes cold, sometimes lost, sometimes so morosely resolute; he’d been carved straight out of its earth, out of its Siberian walls, out of its illustrious confines, reborn again in its midst, away from the fog, the mist, the shorelines, the crag, Moonlit Tides tucked deep in the shell of his bones, of his vessel, of his hollowed, sculpted insides. They’d had the same goals, the same piques of destruction, the carnivorous sway and hold over monoliths, cliffs, and fortifications. Irreverent, hated, reviled, with the gestures of pride sinking into their teeth and claws, their nails and talons, their fixtures of abhorrence laden by years of refugee status and vengeance. They’d dared the world.
They did the same here. Some things never really changed.
He smiled again, bright, boyish once more, even though she couldn’t snag at it, couldn’t catch its distinction. As for picking and choosing his shifts, he never had; didn’t really know if it was an option. The notion she drank from Remi (hooked fangs into skin) drew the slightest arch of his brow, then naught more. “It feels like it is just there.” Out of necessity, out of fortitude, out of might – the eagle entangled from his fingertips into wings and plumage when he would’ve otherwise died (a second time; uncertain if there would be a third chance somewhere in those fissures and gaps of purgatory, when he should’ve been pulled or stuck in hell). “The tiger form seemed to come when I had to arrest Roana,” and he shrugged. While he’d been successful, it hadn’t really mattered in the end. His massive feline bulk and brawn had snagged and dragged, but she’d found a way to escape regardless. The Sword didn’t say why Roana’s departure or motives escalated his insistence on her locked up accord, let it simmer there. Perhaps Rexanna wasn’t even aware her status, her existence, had marked her as target.
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
“It feels like it’s just there.” She nods silently, mulling it over. The ability to just change rather than having to seek and find, to ensure you get the right one, the comfort of knowing you can shift however many times you like unlike using magic which could wane and drain over time. "That's incredible." It sounds like a great option, in the end. It’s a kind of comfort she doesn’t know. But if it came between being a hybrid with attuned versus the ascended, based off of what she’s just gone through? She’d definitely prefer the ascended end.
At least she couldn’t feel the hole in her chest, aside from the vibration of beam on metal pieces.
Dark brows raise beneath the bandana when he mentions he found the tiger form when he arrested Roana, and her head tilts in a quiet question at that. “What did she do?” She asks quietly, uncertain what she could have done, but knowing that she was related to Phoebe one way or another. What had prompted Deimos to be the one to arrest? What kind of threat did she pose to the populace that required such measures?
Incredible, to some points and ventures, the fact it’d even happened at all, that the goddess had seen him, that he’d come out the other side, that there were new pieces and precision to enact. His smile was boyish all the more, content to revel in the statement for a moment – because it hadn’t been immersed in acrimony, in vehemence, in violence, for once in his damned life. It’d been born from the infernal insides of his convictions, a sort of benediction he never thought he’d be able to achieve. Reapers didn’t hold glory. Swords weren’t enamored by deities. But there he’d been all the same, drifting into the sky with newfound wings, with predilections not so daunting, not so ruthless –
How they were used was another matter entirely.
The inquiry settled between them, and for some reason Deimos was surprised Wessex hadn’t told the Penumbra. Perhaps it had been a furtive, secretive measure, but wouldn’t warnings have been adequate, ominous beacons to ensure Ascendeds’ safety? Or had she believed Roana’s efforts wouldn’t have come to fruition, bold enough to acclaim the Accepted not powerful, not potent enough, to take one of them down? “Roana threatened Samuel, and the entire Ascended race.” The why was an unknown, encompassing threshold – he didn’t know the rooted conceptions or genesis of the aforementioned culling; though his suspicions lingered over the spread of the blight, and any other noteworthy thing nestled in between. The information hadn’t been granted to him – just documents and papers, just insinuations of her crimes, just the notion that Rexanna had been amongst the ominous, potent schemes (and perhaps the only reason he acted, cared, at all).
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
If she’s being honest, she’s proud of Deimos. For having reached out, for doing that and branching out – so much different from the Reaper she knew, and yet still remaining the same just enough. She finds that she enjoys this version of him a bit more, still protective but far less standoffish. He accepts the attention that others provide, hears from their very mouths how important he is to them. Like how she had uttered it one winter day among the crisp winds.
It still mattered, he still meant a great deal to her, but she knows deep down he likely means far more to the Harpy. And she’s so incredibly happy that he can be there for her, that he’s taken on the girl.
At her question, however, her head tilts as she listens to Deimos – hearing the words for what they are. “The entire Ascended race.” Is what sticks with her, and she can’t help the grimace that crosses her face for a brief moment. “That’s why Sam told me to be careful.” She mulls over it briefly before she shakes her head. “Where is Roana now?” A quiet question, pleading that the woman isn’t at the Temple where she can gain access to Clemente and Bastien. So far from the two she immensely cares for, uncertain if they can handle themselves in that situation – not like she’d be much more help in this capacity.
Should he have been proud of himself? Or more grounded, more disbelieving, more shocked and stupefied by the movements and motions, less and less of the Reaper (the fringes, the boundaries, still locked and accorded in there, amidst the savagery, the nefariousness, the plotting, the scheming, the calculating), and more and more of the Sword (caring, accepted, tolerated)? The Lord of the Basin had listened, but only to a certain degree, rampaging away from emotions, from ruminations, from anything other than Machiavellian tendencies, to ensuring his kingdom didn’t shatter around him, to protecting, to shielding, to bludgeoning any and all threats nearing the traces of his comrades. The General here was an alteration; how the King might’ve strayed if given more time, more patience –
Her inquiry blended away his smile. It kindled into an indifferent, apathetic haze – memories of triplets, of children racing around, of a mother who protected her kin but threatened a slew of others. An interesting, intriguing contradiction – a refining of beliefs, appreciating her warrior prowess, and aplomb for following creeds and decrees, but not for what they would’ve meant for Rexanna. “Dead.” The vocals were deep and piercing, hollowed granules rumbling from his chest. “She escaped the jail, somehow, and went out during LongNight, to evidently save some other children. The monsters got her.” So in the end, the Ascended were safe from her ministrations and machinations.
and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,
i have been more a battlefield —
“Dead.” Deimos confirms, and she breathes out a small sigh of relief at that. Of course, it’s not the result she particularly wanted to hear, but it’s better than having her worry about Clemente and Bastien, that there’s someone living among them that would honestly much rather see them perish beneath some sort of idea that they’re protecting the majority. Perhaps Roana was right, based off of what occurred at the Mathair.
But they had also given the Fae a choice to leave, and they chose to stay. In the end it hadn’t really been them to have killed all those Fae, so much as it was with the Voice when her goddess had drained them all and sparks had shot out of the tree. In the end… It was a group effort, she supposes. But it still doesn’t give her much comfort. Instead, she nods as Deimos’ words finalize what had occurred to Roana in the last few days.
“That’s… Relieving, as bad as it is to say.” She says with a light frown, shaking her head. She’s not sure what else to say, but she tilts her head toward Deimos after a few moments of silence, uncertain how to bring it up with that previous conversation. And so she shifts it immensely, pausing just enough to bite down on her lower lip.
“What do you know about the mountains?” She pauses, releasing her attempt to gnaw the inside of her cheek as well. “I may or may not share a similar secret.”
