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 arrival of those from the Guild had been a lot to handle. While Oliver was upset that an entire building burned down and that at least two people would be homeless, he also was trying to be positive. Everyone survived their journey to the temple and that was a blessing from the gods, one that Oliver would have to leave offerings for.
There were a few people from the guild that he recognized, Remi being one of them, but the rest were unfamiliar. This was to be expected, considering he hardly knew half the people at the temple. Things were a bit more crowded now, though, which was terribly unfortunate. It meant that he had to be a bit more...creative with finding spots where he felt like he was out of the way.
Thanks to the wisdom shared to him from Bastien, he had decided to work more on his drawing skills. There were a couple of things that he'd prefer to do, absolutely, but he only had very few items to his name.
So, that's how Oliver ended up sitting on one of the tables that wasn't occupied. He was hunched over, sketching away. He would look at someone who walked by and try to draw a human similar to whatever he could take in. Yeah, he probably should use a chair, but he really wanted to perch right now.
The smoke still clung to his clothes, to his soul, ashen and embered, coaled and kindled, a stoked, incensed presence stalking its way through halls and corridors. The latest exploits left him in a flux between exasperation, ire, and rancor; the wrath rising beneath his skin because he thought, he believed, they’d had a damn chance to make it through LongNight, after all their preparations, after all their attempts, without some damned Pyrrhic event. The rue was for the Monster Hunter’s Guild itself, a threshold, an aperture, he could’ve saved, the fire and flames and inferno bristling along his fingertips and palms, controlled, contorted, his and his and his, except for the monster lurking underneath. Except for the flash of fangs and the diabolical scheme of claws. Except no matter what they’d done, if he’d had anything to salvage, they still would’ve been victims of the demons, of the infidels, lurking along wood and moss, foaming and brewing and remaining under their noses. It hadn’t been his to condemn. Yet he’d done it all the same – everyone safe, everyone out, everyone racing and running to the Temple. Safety in destruction. Sanctum in upheaval. Refuge in annihilation. Perhaps all of those things should've comforted him; chaos and bedlam harking straight to his past.
The General’s eyes were downcast, narrowed, brooding, brewing, scorching along the surface in his predacious stride, quick, efficient, hardly paying attention to his surroundings. He passed by several chairs and tables on his way to grab hold of a drink, some water, anything, beyond the means of his healed lungs but parched throat. If he recognized anyone, there might’ve been a brief, barren nod, before passing right by, shifting to snag something from the stored pieces. Zuriel followed, sniffing at strangers, arching her brow at one with ivory hair in particular, and then slinking behind the Sword.
Not really anyone had caught his interest lately, leading to him simply trying to work on vague humans. God he was being so creepy. He felt bad, ashamed for choosing to draw people without so much as asking. With a frown he scribbled out anything that he has previously worked on. It wasn't like it was spectacular. Once he had the chance he's probably use the pages for kindling for a fire. That'd put them to good use
Then he saw someone new, or semi new. He could vaguely remember the man from when those from the Guild arrived. It wasn't hard to notice him. The man was tall and had a very large stature, not to mention he had a beautiful set of hair. As well he noticed a companion, a unicorn.
Chewing on his thumb Oliver slowly placed the pencil to the paper. It wouldn't be bad for him to draw a unicorn, right? Plus it'd help him out with the Luxere. So Oliver started to work on sketching the creature. As much interest as he had in the mysterious man, he didn't have permission to draw him. So instead he'd work on the beautiful unicorn.
Zuriel, because she was Zuriel (and vain, smug, superior, gifted healer of the forest), immediately noticed her likeness being rendered across the stranger’s paper. Instead of snorting her disapproval, she carried herself a little higher, a broader notion of a lifted head, horn pointed straight towards the ceiling, eyes dark and alight with mischief. Were it not beneath her, she might’ve pranced along the hall and across the wooden floors, showing off her impressive nature and movements; instead she slunk closer and closer, attempting to peek.
The Sword felt the alteration in his companion’s mood – the press of eminence, of her regal, formidable nature, turning around from his search for provisions to simply be aware, cognizant, of whatever was occurring. He leaned against the nearest wall and openly stared, before rolling his eyes at her antics and returning to his prior ministrations. “Now you will never be rid of her,” he mentioned off-handedly to the stranger and his sketchbook, hands locating and pinpointing a canteen. He opened the top, turning back to the artist, tilting his head a fraction in idle curiosity, better than the brooding, brewing machinations otherwise occupying his mind, before raising the container to his mouth, silent again in his endeavors of quenching thirst. It pooled and flowed down the back of his previously-aching throat, no longer courted by fire, by smoke, by fumes, but enough of the memory remaining to leave an impact, a certain dissatisfaction.
Just as he was finishing up with the rough shape of the head and neck, Oliver started to notice the peculiar way the unicorn was behaving. She was parading herself around, acting like one of the horses that pulls those fancy carriages. She looked absolutely gorgeous and Oliver couldn't help but grin. The art so far wasn't exactly the greatest, but he was glad that she was responding so kindly to him.
Darkening in the lines to solidify which ones he wanted to keep, he made sure to focus intensely on the head. Maybe he could ignore drawing the body the rest of the way, yeah.
Just before he could finish off the horn, a voice came from a few feet away. Looking up at the man, Oliver laughed at his comment. "That's not a problem with me." it's too bad his skills were lacking. He wouldn't be able to do her justice. Hopefully the man didn't mind a pitiful excuse for drawing his lovely companion.
"She looks very pretty. Love the attitude. The blonde chewed the bottom of his lip and looked back down at the paper, working to finish the horn off. "Wish I could find more models like her. I'd love to draw her more, if you and her would allow me to. It'll be nice to learn how to draw better."
Zuriel was an instant queen, some long-lost monarch or sovereign, a high, mocking deluge of mischief and amusement bolstered and brewed through their connection, and all he could really do was sigh and sneer; she had a large enough head to begin with, pompous, superior, a smug, resemblance to some unmarked deity, believing themselves better than the rest. Though she’d never refused to heal anyone, she had turned her nose up at certain individuals, and he half-wondered if there would come a time where she failed to oblige with his requests. For now, there was a semblance of his irritation sent through their accord, and she snorted in response, but lessened the irritating movements and motions.
At least she appeared to amuse the stranger, who continued their sketching, artistic motions flying across paper. Despite Jigano insisting the General was amongst the oeuvres and masterpieces, he steadfastly refused the comment; preferring to enamel and warp designs across armor, battlements, and weaponry, signs and signatures of their owners, symbols of refuge in audacity. He also had no ambition to cultivate talents any further than those sculpted whims and means; preferring the art of the battlefield, his canvas and tapestry of ichor and blood, a flowing crimson rivulet of disaster, annihilation, and ruin.
Love the attitude gained a snort from the beast; since he didn’t have to oblige or work with Zuriel for eternity. In truth, Deimos was content with the bond, with the musings, with the strange machinations coiled between them – the first and only experience he’d had amongst a companion of his own. Helovia’s treacheries were too dark, too dim, too potent to have ever afforded another pressing into his wake. Caido apparently allowed and permitted him to venture into other means. “Her name is Zuriel,” an offering; then realizing he hadn’t extended his, after refilling his canteen, he concocted to the same introductions. “I am Deimos.” The Sword, the Reaper, the General, the monolith, the mountain, and all other walks of ilk and legend curled against his frame, his figure, his outreach. “You might find the Artist’s Guild to your liking then.” Once they were out of LongNight’s upheaval, once they found a way to navigate around destruction (his hands had already claimed enough for one day – fire pooling in their palms).
The boy was half tempted to show the unicorn the art work, to see if she had shown her approval. It wouldn't be nearly as good as some of those who could draw in Caido, but it was better than a stick figure. If she came a bit closer, maybe Oliver would show her, but for now he'd focus his attention on the other person, her companion.
The unnamed man seemed to put a bit of nonverbal control over the unicorn as she started to relax a bit more, no longer being quite as pompous. It was cute, but Oliver could see how she could get a bit on the annoying side. Still, it must be nice to have a companion with such a personality.
"Zuriel is a pretty name...I like it." It was a weird comment and Oliver regretted it once the words left his lips. He liked the name, but maybe he shouldn't have said anything on the subject.
Oliver had already learned a small bit about the unicorn, however, the other person was what interested him the most. He seemed to be a very quiet type and everything about him made Oliver want to ask questions. From his wardrobe to how little he spoke, Oliver wanted to know more.
Hearing the other's name earned a smile from him. With a nod, Oliver decided maybe he too should share his name. "Nice to meet you, Deimos. My name is Oliver." The name rolled off the tongue nicely. Maybe Oliver was already in a super good mood due to having the presence of an animal, but he felt at ease. Calmed down after having the entire Guild show up at their door.
The Artists Guild had come to mind, absolutely. "Yeah...I might." He sounded less aggressive and more like he was still deciding on some things. "I'm still trying to get a feel of things. As much as I enjoy drawing, there may be something else that is more fitting. I only just arrived so I'm trying to see all the guilds I could possibly join." Hopefully he didn't sound like a massive asshole.
Zuriel was tempted to preen again at her name being called pretty – but then again, she was already far, far aware of its devoted, divine existence, so she merely sniffed and snorted in the air, meandering off to the side, as if to inspect the drawing but not enough to indicate her attention. Subtle, airy, ethereal, things of forest and earth, otherworldly connotations in her existence; Deimos arched a brow and continued to say nothing, only the lightest indication of bemusement coating over the lacquer of stoicism and reserve.
The stranger made note of introducing themselves though, and his eyes slipped away from the unicorn’s antics and back to the artist, Oliver, and he committed it to memory, to machinations, to calculations whenever applicable or necessary. Getting a feel for things indicated some newly-forged Outlander, likely unsettled from portal and straight into LongNight’s reach; not an unfamiliar assertion, given how many of them had done the same the previous year, wandering straight into the midst of danger and treachery, a constant, consistent realm. He shrugged, other areas and networks, not relegated to either one thing or another. “There are the Loreseekers, Artisan’s Guild, Caido Medical College, and the Monster Hunter’s-,” he stopped there, the habit and routine of normalcy warping over his tongue. He’d burnt it down, after all.
Taken it down – the fire searing on his hands, controlled, contorted, everything, everything, everything in his palms –
And the glint of teeth, of claws, of talons.
“You have options.” He considered instead, weighing out nothing else, inward irritation flicking through his chest, bounding against ribs and lungs.
This man was tricky to figure out, for sure. Oliver wanted to know more about him, figure out who he was. He didn't exactly show all that emotion, but he also didn't necessarily sound monotone. It was also funny to see the differences between Deimos and his companion. One showing off her beauty and the other reserved, deciding to speak only a couple of times. It was interesting, for sure. Oliver wanted to know more.
The sketch pad was set down beside him, still opened up to the drawing of Zuriel. He wanted to focus a bit more on what Deimos was saying and knew that if it remained on his lap, he would get extremely distracted.
The Monster Hunter's Guild seemed to be a tough spot. The man had clearly just come from the fire and seen it all burn down. Maybe someday the guild would be able to continue, after all they did need people to kill the monsters that lurked outside.
"Yeah...not sure if medical stuff is my specialty. I've been meaning to check out the Loreseekers and the Artisan's Guild, but it's been hard with me coming so close to LongNight. Almost immediately I had to start preparing to be locked up." Locked up. That's how it felt to him. Like he was in a prison where everyone was on edge and nobody's happiness lasted for long.
The Guilds did seem to be a tough subject. A small frown appeared on Oliver's face as he contemplated how to best change the subject. "Well, enough about me. What do you do here? Aside from the Guilds and stuff." Why not. Maybe he'd be able to get ideas on what he could do with his new life. "Been meaning to try and get a job or something...find a way to get paid. Er, receive supplies? Goods? Whatever you get paid in."
With the sketch pad no longer in use, Zuriel huffed around the perimeter of the room, seeking out whatever other idle curiosities she could enamor herself with. The beast, for all his purposes, hadn’t thought to be drawn into further conversation, arming himself with further supplies to disperse amongst those not yet in these corridors, and then to amble off into some other dark corner and brood, brew, contemplate for a while. It was a constant, irritating set of exasperation holding him together on frayed ends and bindings, perseverance, and sheer, obstinate, irreverent defiance. Restless and caged, like a predator, like an animal, intending to wind and ghost his way through the halls until he’d satisfied some contemptuous portion of his mind, unsettled on the flanked contortions of fire, of the inferno still running through his veins. Only diligence and some other portion of reserves enabled him to remain there, taut and tethered and rigid, jaw clenching and unclenching, seeking out either vehemence or the shadows to wallow within.
He still listened as discussion shifted around guilds; were he in a better mood, he might have described the one he resided within: Artisan’s, crafters, those who could make and create and shift worlds between palms. Instead, he simply tilted his head, a note of inquiry amidst his silence and Oliver’s continued conversation. “You will have time in Flowerbirth.” If they all survived this mess. There was a future out there, hours ticking gradually, gradually by, until he could unleash some hell out from his fingertips, before he exploded, before he rampaged.
The subject lancing its way upon him though was another measure to consider; but it wasn’t deep, not riveting, not imploring past anything other than the surface level. Indifference made up his features in clear, tangible methods, the piercing set of his eyes flickering elsewhere, upon walls, upon hearths, upon candlelight. “I am the General. I run the militia.” Of two; one being himself, the other Loren, and what a damned fine mess they’d orchestrated in defending the people of the Hollowed Grounds. Their preparations hadn’t been worth a damn except two burnt-down buildings and a host of dead, lost souls still roaming out there amongst the eternal night. “We barter here. No currency.” Trade for goods, for services; or in his case, and seemingly in many others, simply giving the nuances away.
The blonde shook his head, not really directed towards Deimos, but towards this entire situation. "Flowerbirth can't come soon enough. I don't know about you, but I know I'm ready for sunlight, to be free from this hellish week." Nothing bad had happened to him, but that didn't mean that Oliver was free from negative emotions. Hearing about all the deaths and bad things that happened only made Oliver feel worse and angry. He wanted all of this to end so nobody else would be hurt.
Deimos did look like the military sort of guy. He was broad and clearly had tons of muscles, not that Oliver had looked or anything. "I'd lend you my service but I'm not exactly the most muscled guy here." Oliver probably wouldn't be the most helpful when it came to fighting. "But if you need help with anything that doesn't require brute strength, let me know." Oliver was a bit obsessed with the idea of being helpful. It probably wasn't healthy in the slightest, but he didn't care.
"So if I got a job, I'd probably be paid in goods? That wouldn't be too bad, not at all." Did Deimos get paid for his military services? Oliver would ask but that seemed super rude, so he held his tongue.
Deimos was more than ready to be free of LongNight; without its claws, without its shards, without its nuances, holes, pitfalls, and death, without its locked, corded away discordance, the way they were chained and linked within. Even when he’d flown out of the guild, out into the endless evening with Remi to collect Cera’s broken, mangled body, there’d only been a small semblance of freedom and liberation behind it. Because there were demons out hunting and stalking for them. Because there were deceitful, duplicitous measures seething in the dead of twilight. Because he understood and comprehended the ways man plotted, schemed, and destroyed, but sometimes, not the art of a fiend’s intellect, the motivations, the things they craved, or why they sought and hunted out those daring to venture into their threads. His eyes lifted away from the floorboards, segmenting back onto Oliver briefly, while Zuriel made more of her rounds, seeking out other people beyond, snorting, placing her soft maw on familiar shoulders and encouraging scratches. “Yes.” He didn’t crave the sun so much as the deliverance and providence of its existence – what it meant, what it signified, after all these dark days. “There is a festival after LongNight called Fiat Lux.” Something else to look forward to, if history repeated (benedictions and devotion, promises and convictions; presses of something he never thought he’d have).
Oliver’s lending of his services caused his brows to rise slightly, curious, as he proclaimed a lack of muscles, lack of brute strength; that segment of accord wasn’t everything, and there were always measures and means to improve. “I will keep you in mind,” tilting his head, idle scrutiny and pondering. “We are always looking for those to train.” An offer in and of itself – though he wondered if the training grounds behind the Monster Hunter’s Guild even amounted to anything now – something else to peruse and consider.
As far as payment, he’d never thought of it; the generosity, benevolence, and kindness extended throughout the land was such an imbedded quality. They did one another favors. They gave out items. They saved each other during countless, dangerous missions. “Perhaps. Or in other services,” he shrugged. “A majority of people here are very helpful.”
He heard very little about the festival, not nearly enough in his eyes. Most of it was through things he eavesdropped on or through reading in the library. To hear it mentioned directly to him was something special. "What happens during Fiat Lux?" A big question to ask, since it may be hard to actually word the festival, but Oliver liked the other guy's voice, weird as that was.
The offer of training sounded nice. "I think I'll take you up on that. I may not be a good permanent addition, but who knows. Maybe with some training I can be of some help for you and your militia." This Deimos character seemed genuine, a nice person to be around and speak with. However, there were some things that put Oliver off.
Deimos didn't seem to quite understand everything about him, though, as nice as he and his unicorn was. Shaking his head, Oliver prepared himself to explain something he'd already said to so many others. It felt like he was a broken record, but then again Deimos had never heard it. He couldn't expect the other man to know how he felt. "Yeah, I've noticed that people are super kind and helpful here...but it feels weird. I want to find a job or something so that I can be helpful myself. Right now I don't really offer anything that's helpful or a fair trade at all." Oliver already owed so many people, he needed a job or something that he could do to repay them for their kindness.
Fiat Lux likely held different connotations for different people, and he could only convey what he’d learned and experienced from the previous year – most of the nuances tucked near and dear to his heart. “It is a celebration of rebirth and renewal after LongNight.” A chance to see which souls had been saved, an opportunity to be something other than consumed by grief, anarchy, or defiance; it had been an alteration in his existence, but a good one. “Last year we had dancing, music, food stalls, kiosks, and games set up.” Amongst the accord was the Wheel of Fire too, which he found difficult to describe without one seeing it for themselves, ensuring the flames still lived, still curled, still coiled, as more and more people strewn into the venue. After surviving two LongNights, he know understood its reverie, its covenant, its ability to continue the everlasting inferno, its necessity to remain alive and whole.
He nodded at the agreement to training – perhaps he and Loren could set up another sparring session with any other interested party, assess what they had, who required what. A note to jar him out of his irritation, out of his exasperation, out of his own damned melancholy.
At the notion of helpful being weird, it was an adjustment in culture, one he’d struggled with initially too. His experiences with war, with bloodshed, with ruin, hadn’t lent an obliging, supportive blend of spirit beyond upheaval and sedition; but he’d learned quickly, efficiently, that this was how everyone remained intact and whole. “It is how we survive.” A shrug, indifference towards whether Oliver felt out of place or not; he’d be tolerated and accepted just the same, unless he committed to something outlandish, ridiculous, or asinine (a year before; the rift between Outlanders and Naturals had been a stark division, and nowadays, hardly uttered – things altered, things changed, things gradually eroded or sparked). “Do you have any skills? Or magic?” Sometimes it started there – sometimes it started elsewhere, carving names for one’s self by simply lending and blending beyond backdrops and surroundings, a part of the community instead of the ether.
How times changed; when the Sword once would’ve merely clung to the shadows and disappeared into the darkness.
