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!
At least, when they arrive to the Sanctuary, she actually has a decent idea of what the landscape is like. And once her hand reaches the metal of the doorknob, she releases her hold on him with a bright smile. “I’ll get the door.” She says at first, opening it slowly and stepping over the entrance. Inside, he’ll find it relatively clean but with a slight mess of canvas’ and paints, fabrics, delicately placed in a way that’s easy for them both to find – a chaotic mess that made sense to only them.
She lets him in, leading him despite being unable to see. At least here she’s certain of where things are, and she slips around the corners, drifting to the corner of one of the main room where hse imagines it should be safe to place it before she gestures to it and tries to step out of the way. “Here would be great.” She offers, turning to where she’d left him, realizing just now that it’s the first time he’s visited her home since she’d married.
Or was it the first time he’d visited her home at all?
While Deimos had attended other guilds, the Artist’s Sanctuary hadn’t been one of them. Despite Jigano’s insinuation of his more creative interpretations and talents, the Sword most often applied them on the battlefield, cloaking the world with a canvas of blood and ichor, of devastation, of ruin, of malice rippling with conviction. Truly, the only other time he’d even ventured to her prior residence had been to plan her wedding, and something felt a little remiss in all of that; the rest of the void clambering at his doorstep, a peculiar notion that he’d be the one they orbited around. On an inward shrug, he paid it no further mind, senses riveting to her comings and goings. So he watched, waited, and listened for directions, standing wildly along unknown tapestries and worlds, nodding as she opened the door, curiosity compelling him forward with the tank. Wandering within, his eyes traced over exactly what he’d thought to find: paints, brushes, fabric strewn about, naught out of the ordinary in house sanctioned and meant for expression and aesthetics. Which was too bad, because he’d thought this would be an opportunity to tease.
Despite her blindness, she escorted him along with ease, and he trusted in the motions, the Attuned nature of his eyes still glancing, taking larger steps over things that might’ve been in the way. Then he placed the quieted worm and its container down where she wished. Then Deimos pondered over the next intervals, brushing his hands together, wiping off traces of mud and muck once more. “When do you plan to go?” Were there other tasks required of her? Did she need anything else from him?
11-20-2019, 05:06 AM (This post was last modified: 11-20-2019, 10:50 PM by Rexanna.)
am i running through that mind of yours at all?
i have big ideas for you and me
She can hear the tank as it hits the floor, delicately, and she reaches for a fabric she had worked on before she had lost her sight, imbuing it to be a kind of black out type of fabric before she drapes it over the tank and turns toward Deimos when he speaks. “Thank you.” She says quietly, earnestly, reaching for his arm to squeeze in the hopes that she’s deduced his location correctly. But at the mention of what else she needs, she slips over toward the couch to settle on it, gesturing for him to take a seat wherever – she didn’t know what wasn’t covered with canvases or fabrics at this point without her sight, before she clears her throat.
“I need a glowstone, but I already planned on asking Amalia to help me with that.” A quiet smirk sent his direction. Oh, she planned on getting to know the baker a bit better, to learn about who had taken the icy heart of the Reaper turned Sword. “And then I plan on bringing Loren with because I need ice that’s magically frozen. But I need to speak with him still about it.” A quiet shrug, but based off of their conversations from LongNight, all has been forgiven.
“And that should be it… But I won’t know until I get the glowstone.” She says quietly, tilting her head as she sits up slightly and folds her legs beneath her.
Her fabric ghosted over the rim of the tank, blackened, Stygian, like a veil, like a shroud, either furthering the quiet of the creature within, or tricking it until the infinite days weren’t any longer. “You are welcome,” the monolith said in return, continued gestures of faith, trust, and convictions hastening from his existence – those that were close gained his assistance in any and all matters, earned fortitude, and might. Thereafter she seemed to settle into the couch, and he was obliged to take a seat as well, listening, pondering over whatever schemes were concocting in her mind, while removing a blank canvas and some paintbrushes from a chair.
Once he’d claimed the seat, his head pricked upwards, and though she couldn’t view or glance upon it, there was a certain semblance of dread crossing over his frame. Amalia’s opinion on the Ascended hadn’t heightened in recent events (nor had his, really), but Deimos’ credence went back to prior lives – faith and trust in Rexanna, in who she was, in her capabilities. He wasn’t truly certain what would come of the meeting – the baker eternally kind and benevolent, but the latest conversations with Wessex had blown apart some other affirmations. He narrowed his eyes at her smirk, then wondered if he should simply be more concerned about his own welfare in this charade. Hotaru had already teased and taunted, Kiada did so on a regular basis, and now Rexanna’s inclusion seemed to be another foreboding faction. The Sword had half a notion to snarl. “Sounds like you have everything in order.” And it was too bad that the entire events or actions had to happen at all.
His welcome is received with a bright smile while she settles in on the couch, gesturing for Deimos to take his pick of the seats available, certain there’s something that’s available for him. She hadn’t seen the canvas’, the paintbrushes, but she supposes it’s probable that Bastien had left some lingering around between his hours spent painting the portrait of the Voice.
She explains her thought process, unable to see his face – how she registers, how she gauges Deimos’ reactions for most things since he doesn’t speak all that much aside from what’s necessary. And while he has such a hardened exterior, she’s gotten quite good at understanding the little things that give away the wheels turning within his mind. Without her sight? She’s mostly clueless. “I hope so.” She offers quietly, uncertain where it would go, hoping it ended up with sight restored.
“How is Kiada?” She asks quietly after a moment, biting down onto her lip. “People were talking about something she had to do over LongNight. Did she go out?” After claiming to be the Harpy’s mother, she certainly kept terrible tabs on her daughter. But she’s sure that Deimos has kept every inch of her aloofness with his own attachment.
Inquiring about Kiada’s status wasn’t a surprise; he seemed to be the messenger between the pair, though more to Rexanna’s benefit than the Harpy’s, who likely would’ve seethed and growled at him for bothering to keep her mother up to date on the latest debacles. A sigh filtered its way through his lungs; Kiada hadn’t fared well during LongNight either, though she hadn’t been brutally scarred, impaled, or missing her eyes; her more of the inward damage, a soul-rendering, crushing blow, and he wasn’t certain whether which was quicker to recover from. “She did.” It truly wasn’t his tale to tell, but the girl wouldn’t have relented to the Penumbra anyway. “She went out to try and retrieve Ru’in’s soul, with Jigano. They were not successful.” The statement seemed incredibly final and lacking; but Rexanna would know, would understand the pain, the torment, the anguish, of things falling apart, of crumbling, of loved ones still existing beyond and away and elsewhere, without the means of getting to them ever again. He didn’t say how Kiada had fallen apart. He didn’t say how she would likely dare to complete the same actions again – when she was stronger, when she was mightier, when she was better prepared, hardened, scraping against the earth and granules and ghosts. The General permitted the notions to rest there, presuming further and further inquiries would barrel onward, his eyes pinpointed on the floor, then on the walls, on tapestries, on bright, illustrious hues he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Maybe she’s losing her mind, maybe she’s just forgotten that debate with Jigano a few hours before the Guildhall had burned down. Maybe she’d forgotten it among the more important things of lives and not being left behind – though would anyone really have left her behind? She wouldn’t have blamed them if they did, but she knew Deimos wouldn’t leave her behind, not if he knew she hadn’t gotten out. And as Deimos explains Kiada’s quest, it comes flooding back to her as she nods to the Sword, teeth gnawing at her lower lip briefly before she shakes her head.
“I just remembered I spoke to Jigano about it right before the Guildhall burned down.” She admits, quietly, a bit sheepishly at having forgotten because her writer is an idiot, round two and she inhales deeply despite not needing to. “He said they needed Ascended upgrades to bargain. Do you happen to know if it applied to technology as well? The upgrades… They’re a part of us, they’re built into us.” She frowns deeply here. “In order to get the upgrades you’d have to tear us apart to get them, scavenge them from us.” Shoulders rise and fall in a quiet shrug. “He asked about Bastien’s hoverboard.” A slight sigh before she shakes her head.
“I want to help her if I can, but… I think she may be right that it might try to create a new Spire Demon.” Another quiet admission.
It was easy to forget the distant haze before the fire at LongNight; though his sharpened mind had been busy, tending, controlling, contorting the flames, ensuring everyone was out and safe, then tearing the rest of the guild apart. A part of him still regretted the entire scenario, less now though, after he’d gone to Remi to apologize, and the alchemist assured him there’d been no need. The monsters, the demons, the infidels pressing in on them would’ve done something disastrous anyway, could’ve clawed, maimed, brutalized, and murdered, without the inferno they’d caused, and he’d tended, eating them whole. He listened though, to her inquiries, to her responses, to the admittance of discussing the matter with Jigano – the Sword had yet to do the same, having gathered the information from Kiada amidst the doom and damnation of her quest.
“I am not certain,” he shrugged; incapable of saying for sure. He knew next to nothing about an Ascended’s upgrades or technology, what was imbedded into their bodies and souls instead of beating hearts and inflections of pain. The fact that they’d have to be ripped and torn apart to get at these things left him bristling slightly, beneath the layers and lacquer of well-forged reticence and reserve. The apprehension and consternation didn’t fetter or flicker into his voice, the practice and pretenses worn into his routine, into his vessel, hidden, unattainable. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the bard had asked about snagging something instead of going back another time; but much like Deimos’ previous inclinations towards Kiada, the notion of creating one more Spire Demon had them reeling back from those thoughts and munitions. “Something we do not need.” His eyes wandered over the room again, processing what to do or say next, before finally settling into potential. “Kiada and I discussed her growing stronger, and possibly attempting again. When she is ready.” Whether it be the next LongNight, or the one after that.
He’s not sure, and she understands as well, that had she not been Ascended and learned the difference herself, she would have likely thought the same. But during LongNight, she could feel her upgrades internally shifting, vibrating, as if the shadowed creatures of the longest night would tear them right from her flesh. Instead, they’d taken her eyes, retaliation perhaps for not getting the pieces they wanted.
Perhaps Deimos should know too. “The creatures we fought over LongNight wanted to take the upgrades.” She says quietly, softly, head ducking slightly as she thinks about it. “I could feel them vibrating within me as they tried to reach for them.” She offers while her lips twist into something akin to a grimace at the memory before she shakes her head, focusing on the Spire Demon version two that could come from it. “No. Not at all.” She agrees at least, that a second one would be against what they were striving for.
“The Voice told Sam that the creatures over LongNight are early versions of us. That they can’t be reasoned with.” A light frown. “She gave us an upgrade to use one time only that would make us invisible to their eyes.” Information he may need for next LongNight, when it inevitably happened again. When he might need to know about it for the next attempt at Kiada retrieving Ru’in’s soul. “She will get stronger, I believe in that.” The ghost of a smile crossing her face, a mother’s pride and knowledge despite how terrible she’d been.
“Let me know if I can help in some way.” She says quietly, contemplatively.
Her explanations made sense, gave new life to the myths surrounding the LongNight creatures. He’d heard similar ministrations and machinations from Remi, that the failed Ascended experiments roamed and raged during the eternal twilight, and now there was comprehension as to why associated with it. They were hungry. They were craving. They were greedy. They wanted what should’ve been theirs long, long ago, before the Voice turned them into the darker shades and left them by the wayside (and a part of him wondered, in that particular line of dread, if it was doomed and damned to happen again, and the current Ascended were just one more pieces of the puzzle, one more sketch and outline, and if history drove onward, longing to repeat itself). “They likely aspire for things they could have had.” Wasn’t that the same for most? He didn’t feel empathy or sympathy for the cretins who plucked out eyes, who scorned souls, who murdered friends – but the nuances and connections were there, clearer now, than the previous year, when they’d just been fiends knocking at doors. When they’d been warning signs stained in blood.
Can’t be reasoned with; so the entire notion of Jigano’s threads and methods, to gain access to other upgrades and technology, would be an eventual bust. They’d only yearn for more. They’d only spiral for more. They’d only rise and rise and rise again as beasts and hollowed, haunted fiends. “Then we will not pursue that angle.” Better for Kiada to become stronger anyways, than to rely upon creatures melded and molded into duplicity. Who was to say it wasn’t another snare, and the moment their claws and talons could rip into the reformations, they’d destroy anything and everything in their path, no promises fulfilled?
The General’s eyes lifted to see, bar witness, to the wraith of a smile; still Kiada’s mother, still wanting the best for the Harpy, and just…avoiding it? Not stepping into it? He’d tried to instigate and provoke a reunion before – and wouldn’t do it again. His gaze meandered around again, slowly, contemplating, pondering how Rexanna might be able to help. In the end, he could only shrug. “She needs time, patience, and practice.”
Deimos’ words reach her and she nods lightly, agreeing deep down that everyone, everything in the end was similar. Wanting things they either did have or never did, perhaps just to see what it was like, or to see what they could have been. She was the same, in a sense, wishing for simpler things, better times, a life she had lived before being thrust before crowns and a brutish husband. A life where she could have only served, lived her life, been happy to.
But the past was the past and there was nothing to be done about it now.
She nods again when he says to not pursue that angle, before a thought hits her. “Next time… if there’s more people that accompany her, perhaps an Ascended could go to bait them?” She muses. All the upgrades, all the technology, wrapped in a bundle on a platter before hopefully they end up destroying it. She frowns lightly at it, hoping it would be a viable option, though it is dangerous.
Huffing a quiet sigh of her own she listens while Deimos tells her that Kiada needs time and patience. Perhaps she should reach out to her daughter again, show her and prove to her that she isn’t the same. That she wouldn’t be the same, not anymore. “I can try to talk to the Voice and gather some other ideas.” She offers, perhaps the Voice might know better than the rest of them how to attain something from one of her own early prototypes.
He listened, but didn’t particularly like either idea. Whether it was the Voice’s involvement, since only portals recently came to mind as anything remotely successful in regards to the New Gods’ machinations, or just the involvement of exactly what the fiends craved, it caused a subtle frown to flicker over his features. He didn’t bother furrowing his brow, staring into a space of wild, vivid color and plotting, planning, striving to uncover the best method. Why they couldn’t simply go and maul it to death with more individuals, or find, uncover its weakness, and bring along someone who could annihilate it was beyond him – like they’d done with the poisonous plants in the Spire. While not everything had gone smoothly, mostly due to the value of risk and reward, endangerment of crumbling buildings and basements, they’d had a plan, a goal, in mind, and executed it. Fire, earth, electricity, and life drain, combining together to demolish things they’d believed orchestrated the blight. But in their ignorance, in their upheaval, in their chaos, they’d at least achieved productive mayhem. It just hadn’t mattered in the end.
The Sword hoped she wasn’t intending to offer herself. His voice was calm and collected, composed, without the layers of apprehension brewing behind them; coated in reserve, in the speculative arts they once whispered amidst Basin ethers. “Do you know someone who would put themselves at such a risk? What would happen if they were caught?” Too many factors, too many factions, too many lives at stake – especially if the monster keeping hold of Ru’in was successful, and there, they would have allowed another Spire Demon to rise in a divergent way; the results still the same, still disastrous, still staring into oblivion. “Do we have to utilize the technology aspect at all?” If they could draw away from that and all its potential hazards, and merely settle into something else – there was always danger, always some sort of ominous alarm, but he didn’t feel the need to throw any other reckless exploitation into the field. Why not fire, if these were earlier prototypes of the Ascended? Why not raw power, better and stronger than the demon they swore to obliterate?
He should know better than to think she wouldn’t offer herself. He’d known her long enough, knew her tendencies, and perhaps she can tell that he does know deep down that it would be her name that slipped from her lips if ever asked by the way his voice forms the words and the questions he asks her. What would happen if they were caught? Well, that was a good question. And one she can’t answer. “I would.” She replies quietly, unable to see his face due to the blindfold, due to the attempts she’d made over LongNight to help wherever needed, and suffered for it.
But at the mention of the technology aspect, she tilts her head slightly. “I’m not sure.” She replies, because ultimately Kiada and Jigano are the only ones that know what the creature had asked for. She could at least help pinpoint it in the right direction, eventually. Huffing a quiet sigh she doesn’t need, she leans her head along her hand, propped by the side of the couch. “Technology could be anything, really. Sam has a cube that’s his technology. Bastien has a hoverboard.” She murmurs quietly, not knowing what Lucas had but wondering all the same. Wessex… Was her adrenaline syringe considered tech of a sort? She didn’t know.
She did know that she didn’t have one of her own. And it was something that she couldn’t offer up because of that. Perhaps it might make for a good bait, one day.
Oh, he’d known, deep, deep down immediately what she’d meant to do. In another time, in another place, he would have immediately forbid it – because when did baiting ever go off successfully? When didn’t it cause another trial, another tribulation? But he didn’t have that sort of power here, no command, no demand, nothing but a small, minute militia and a world of experience chiseled through his chest. She should’ve known better than to offer and extend the notions, the machinations, of this restless, taunting deliberation – the ruminations of amusement all gone, his features a blank canvas while he inwardly growled, while he scratched at the surface, claws longing to be unhinged, unfurled, incapable of doing much else but argue the same points again. “Unwise,” he managed to rumble along his throat, allowing the bare minimum of speech to escape. The frustration toiled over him, because he couldn’t fathom why they wouldn’t just stride forth with anything and everything they already had: more people, more powers, more condemnation in their skin – could his fire do anything? Could his life drain? Could anyone else’s considerations? Then again, how many were they willing to put in jeopardy, in peril? Kiada hadn’t even asked him to go. He hadn’t asked to join. Putting everything in place where he wasn’t wanted – watching her try to become independent, and falter, and stumble, and –
“That is exactly what the monsters want.” For someone to go out of their way, lead them down shadowed roads, and decimate, contort, ravage, and savage until they had everything they required.
He didn’t want any of them destroyed. He didn’t want any of them murdered. He didn’t want any of them gone again.
They’d all lost enough.
He’d lost enough.
That strangled him too, like a noose, dragging over his senses. It made him far too cautious, more so than perhaps he’d ever been – the more family he gained, the more protective, the more stalwart, the more steadfast he’d become. He lowered his head to his hands as his arms splayed across his thighs, burdened suddenly with far too many things at once, shoulders heavy, eyes on the floor.
