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!
11-11-2019, 06:36 PM (This post was last modified: 11-11-2019, 06:36 PM by Amun.)
amun
Some people might’ve called Amun pilfering the supply closet of the Infirmary stealing. He just called it liberating people from the burden of their unused belongings. Unfortunately, after rifling through the offerings, he’d only found one thing of value: seeds that had been stored right next to the ‘medical’ marijuana. Now he wasn’t sure that they were actually marijuana seeds, but he’d pocketed half of them regardless.
Then, once it was dark, he’d made his way down to the Fields. He figured no one would notice a small plot of the stuff amongst all the other green and growing things. Which was why he was kneeling and mucking about in an empty spot. By now, he was well used to the extra work the mud made of everything. However, what he was not expecting was for the ground to be so hard this early in the season. And obviously he hadn’t brought any tools.
So he was reduced to scrabbling in the dirt and growling at it, as if that would make it respond.
She hunted in the middle of night, presiding like a mistress of the evening, covered and cloaked in twilight embers, the flame of her arrows the only light, the only assurance of her existence beyond eldritch whims. The youth was alive in the spring’s distinction, rather than winter’s unholy ventures, breathing and existing, emboldened by the notion of something more, more, more just over the horizon, and not inert, not withering, not decaying again. Never again. The bow of her string was taut, the tip of her arrows were ready, and there was a fervent, ethereal slide to her gait; a stride perfected from the intricate dance of survival, fortitude, and endurance, lending, blending, into the designation, haunting, masquerading –
Then there was a grumbling, growling, scrabbling along the dirt, the thawing turf, and she ceased, desisted the midnight anomalies immediately; a sharp inhalation to her throat, surprised, taken aback, and irritated with herself for it. Fangorn, who’d remained silent in their stalking ventures, bounded and leapt forward, following the noises and nuances; together, they maneuvered along newly sprouted grass, until they came upon a man, crouching in the dirt. “Hello?” She called, curiosity beckoning, clawing, twisting its way through her; the form unfamiliar, wondering if she was sliding into ominous regions or nothing at all. “What are you doing?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Focused as he was on his task, he didn’t hear the woman approaching until she spoke up. When she did, though, he glanced behind and gave her a bright smile, with just a bit of mischief behind it. The fire arrows would’ve given any Ascended pause, but there wasn’t a sign of discomfort on his face. ”Hey there, spitfire.” He tilted his head. ”Is there something in the water here that produces all these beautiful red-headed women?” He let out a soft chuckle, and though his voice was teasing, it was light and not at all intended to be offensive.
Standing up, he brushed the mud off his hands. ”Just planting some medicinal herbs.” He held up the pouch with the seeds in it. ”I figured they might be useful to those Halo folks.” Giving her his most charming grin, he gestured at the hard ground. ”Unfortunately I seem incapable of digging a hole.” He batted his eyelashes and pouted at her. ”So would a mighty huntress like you be able to help out a poor guy like me, spitfire?” Though his acting was a bit over-the-top, there was nothing but joy in his potentially mocking words.
At his mild insinuations, and the Cheshire grin, she unfolded one in return. Maybe she should’ve been more guarded, more wary, more apprehensive, but she shrugged and laughed instead at the notion of spitfires and the conflagration of red-headed women, wild and free and untamed; savage tendrils and snaps. “I wasn’t born here, so I can’t give Caido credit on that.” Her eyes lifted and skull momentarily distracted by the notion of all the others she’d known – Lily, a definite Outlander, but she couldn’t recall anyone else. Perhaps the blight had truly isolated her from any others.
She let the thought go on his laughter, angling closer as curiosity bit and tore. Planting. The last time she’d planted anything had been flowers last spring, beatific varnishes of color and hues blending into the marketplace; an experience that would’ve been pleasant, had Kiada and her’s story not unraveled into a bestial, acrimonious plunge of death, damnation, and her still bitter boundaries. “That’s kind of you.” Then the youth crouched, inspecting, poking at the hard ground. “I’m Melita,” she mentioned off-handedly, perhaps so she didn’t seem so discarded, so unattached, Fangorn bobbing and weaving along the frozen ground nearby. “I can try,” she shrugged, grabbing hold of the staff hooked along her satchel. The girl hadn’t brought any shovels or trowels with her, not for a hunting expedition, but she wielded the weapon with a more fiery expression, lifting it upwards, then allowing it to descend in a force of vitriol and vehemence, pondering if the plunge of power, potential, or potency would be enough to warrant a decent-sized hole.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Amun’s eyebrows rose as she admitted she wasn’t from Caido. ”Ah! A fellow Outlander.” Giving her an easy grin, the Ascended winked at her. ”I should’ve recognized that two such fine specimens of humanity couldn’t possibly be from this world.” He chuckled, the sound dark and low. As she commented that his actions were kind, he smirked. ”Well, yes and no. I’m hoping to use them to trade passage to this new world.” His voice came out cheerfully, and he flashed her a cheerful smile.
At the introduction, the potter sketched a shallow bow. ”Amun Arlun, at your service.” As she started prodding at the ground, he backed off. Then his eyes drifted to the squash by her side. ”Who’s your friend?” He jerked his chin at the gourd. When she slung the staff off her pack, his gaze snapped back to her and his eyes widened. They stayed wide as she bashed at the ground. ”Well, I can’t say I mind anyone who knows how to use their shaft, spitfire.” He waggled his eyebrows at her as he knelt by the hole she’d created in the ground with the force of her blow.
Seemed good to him, so he picked a seed from the pouch and then dropped it in there and covered it. Straightening up, he stepped over the hole to an empty part of the plot he’d selected. ”Know anything about planting? I’m a sailor, so about as farm from a landlubbing farmer as it’s possible to be.” His tone indicated how little he was bothered by that fact.
Friendly and outgoing: she hadn’t met others like that lately, not with blights, not with pestilences, not with LongNight pounding down on their skulls and shoulders. It helped her to settle in, a comfortable, easygoing stature surrounding her presence, much less the huntress now, more the sprite, more the inquiring, curious, emboldened youth. “Where are you from?” He was cheeky, but not malicious or cruel, not savage or cantankerous, allowing and permitting a fair amount of information; and she was woefully ignorant of anything about the upcoming world. “Oh – the new world. Have you heard anything else about it?” She’d been out of the news, the comings and goings, straying far far away from anything once the sickness had spread through her, peeling away all those layers she’d strived so hard to contort and control. Portals hadn’t been on her radar. Enduring, persevering, and surviving had been front and center, and then little else.
“Pleased to meet you Amun,” her features enveloped and sculpted in another airy, ethereal, ebullient grin. While she prodded at the earth, strength undulating in muscles utilized in training, in getting better, stronger, the questions drew towards her bonded, as they often did. Half the time others were wary, due to their own experiences with the goblin exploits in the autumn, and half were simply uncertain about what to make of a living, breathing gourd – fair, she decided. “This is my companion, Fangorn.” The being hissed and growled, a rumbling conflagration that didn’t hold much meaning besides acceptance and tolerance of the man, before proceeding to nestle around her ankles again. Unfortunately, the shaft comment went right over the girl’s head, and she only removed the staff from the sanction when the area was deemed deep enough for planting, drawing it back to another section to conjure and conduct the same actions.
Her nose wrinkled at the inquiry, but only because she should’ve. “Not really. My mother was a healer, but I didn’t pay much attention to the herbs or how she cared for them.” The little garden in the oasis, the way the sprouts still managed to grow despite the sand, rising, rising, rising towards the sun. Melita had been too busy fighting or becoming imaginary monsters in the sea, running, chasing, scrambling around in curiosity – and then, soon after, it’d simply been too late.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Amun smiled at the woman’s question. ”My world didn’t have a name. But it had seas and exotic lands and cities you could only dream of. Gods and monsters too. How about you, spitfire?” However, her next question caused him to shake his head and chuckle. ”Not really. I just know the locals are harsh and demand tribute.” He smirked at the thought.
”The pleasure is all mine, Melita.” Grinning at her, he knelt down so he was on Fangorn’s level. ”Nice to meet you too, my squishy friend.” Glancing up, the Ascended gave the red-head a mischievous look. ”Or is that squashy?” Straightening up, he backed away as she smacked the ground again. ”That’s alright, spitfire. You seem to have quite a few other skills.” Once the earth had been sufficiently pulverized, he dropped another seed in and kicked dirt over it.
Amun’s lands didn’t sound so dissimilar from her own – high-rising seas and tides, the glory of the salty air, the rush of the desert beneath her feet, hot sand rising between her toes, conflagrations, gods with little mercy except when sacrificing themselves; monsters but not the same as the ones drenched in the Rift. “That sounds a lot like my old world,” her smile softened, still bright and incandescent, but her eyes fading off into histories and images set lifetimes apart. “I came from Helovia. We had gods, monsters, seas, deserts, glades, and mountains too.” Her gaze unfurled to his, a tip of her head at the smirk, at the chuckle. Harsh and demanding tribute; because what world hadn’t? Because they all their demands, all had their rites, all had their commanding echoes resounding across chambers and shadows. She said naught of the bitterness laying along her tongue, rooting around in her mind, tired of being cast off.
Fangorn blinked rapidly at the man’s close approach, but did naught to warn him away except to growl lightly, uncertain, unsure, until Melita’s warm smile deigned the feats fine, and his mouth twisted into some ghoulish fringes of a winsome smile. “Squashy, more than likely,” she teased in return, hands gliding over the rim of the gourd’s surface with gentle, appreciative scratches, gestures meant to appease – because without him, there would’ve been moments of naught more than desolation, isolation, scattered and caught and snared in those primordial woes of nothingness.
The following compliment caught her off-guard, because she’d been more than ready to wallow in her melancholy, in her failures, in her rues and regrets again; head raised from her ground pulverizing and puncturing. Perhaps she did have some other skills: endurance, fortitude, might, and survival, capable of persisting, of living, of breathing, of existing, even when other worlds yearned to assure, to ensure, she didn’t. “Thank you,” her smile bloomed and blossomed, a radiant thing in the hallows of twilight. And then, to meld into further curiosity, she extended the notions and entanglements. “What do you do around here?” Besides plant in the cover of darkness? “How many more do you have?” Her chin jutting out to indicate her inquiry meant towards the seeds, and however many more holes were required.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
As Melita spoke, Amun grinned easily at her. ”Well, we’ve got glades and monsters and mountains and gods here too now, spitfire.” He chuckled, the sound dark and low. ”Not quite the same, though. And no deserts. Or seas.” Winking at her, the Ascended found himself next turning to stare at the Spire in the distance. ”For now.” He stayed that way for a moment, before he smiled and returned his whole attention to the red-headed woman.
”Squasy it is!” The potter gave the gourd the Ascended’s most brilliant grin. He turned it on the woman. ”You’re welcome.” Winking at her, he let out another of his signature chuckles. ”I amuse myself mostly.” Then he smirked. ”Though I’m hoping to open a pottery studio.” Tilting his head, he gave her a curious look. ”How about you, spitfire?”
Glancing down at the pouch, he poured out its contents into his hand, then held it up to Melita. ”Just three.” Closing his hand, he dropped it to his side and stepped back, gesturing that she should proceed at her own pace.
“One can dream then.” She winked in response to his own, to the notions of other worlds, other places, other things unfolding and unfurling in front of them. Whether or not it would prove effective, worthwhile, was something to consider down the line – especially since they’d ventured into the Greatwood, helped mend the broken particles and treaties, only to have them rescinded, redacted, erased, fissured, and cracked away. What about these foretold mountains? Would the same happen – political and diplomatic endeavors rampaging down the lines?
Melita did manage another chuckle when Amun described his actions as mostly amusing himself – she could fathom and understand how he’d likely entangled himself into those things – and she probably did the same, bounding back and forth between danger and ruin, without forethought. Hers were impetuous, emboldened moments, streaked and elongated with audacity, a certain, keen sense of recklessness that spoke of children forced to grow up far too quickly. Her eyes brightened at the semblance and creation of a pottery studio, which seemed like it’d be a useful, practical, functional thing to have around Caido. But when he asked her, she didn’t have much to tell – a pattern of impulsive designs didn’t render much of anything but leaping into frays and fervors. “Oh, I mainly just…survive.” She shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “I like to hunt and fight, to defend others,” the effervescent pulse of her righteousness blossomed a little more along her presence. “I’m part of the Monster Hunter’s Guild too,” if that was bound to remain. Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t say anything more; configuring back into her previous motions, unwinding holes from the juncture of her staff’s force, applying it to three more holes.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Amun grinned more than a bit wickedly. ”Or we could work to make that dream a reality.” Leaning forward, the Ascended dropped his voice to a whisper. ”Assuming you want to see deserts and oceans, that is.” Taking a step back, he tilted his head back, his expression and posture languid and inviting.
As Melita whacked three more holes in the ground, the potter gave her a brilliant smile. ”Well that seems quite important to me, spitfire.” Kneeling, he dropped a seed in each hole and swept some dirt over it before scooching over to the next one. After finishing with the third, he tucked the pouch in his belt and straightened up. ”Thanks.” He dusted his hands off, though it wasn’t enough to remove the mud and earth.
She narrowed her eyes at the wicked ploys, at the whisper, at the mischief, but played into their hands too, arching her brow, curiosity incited and instigated all over again. “How so?” She did want to see deserts. She did want to see oceans. She wanted the bright, wide world at her beck and call again, chasing down dragon sonnets and roars across stone masses and peaks, turbulent, ocean waves as far as she could see, hunting down rapacious boundaries and floating amongst the brine; but only halted, only seared, only pondered at what cost. Her gaze segmented downward, staring at the holes, at the punctures in the ground, little rivulets of power meant to help, meant to assist, and all the other times they’d done just that – only for it to not matter in the end.
Ensuring the blight didn’t reach the Greatwood. Healing the Undine. And then they weren’t allowed again. Delah’s hatred and wrath, and whatever Wessex had been doing. How things and times had changed, and then, seemingly, not at all.
Were her actions important? Did they matter? She shrugged at the comment, a fleeting smile beckoning along her lips before pressing back into the task at hand. “You’ll probably want some water.” But she didn’t have a bucket, and she started fumbling through her pockets and rifling through her back, wondering if she had anything that could contain a little liquid and nourishment for the soil, for the plants.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
11-19-2019, 05:22 PM (This post was last modified: 11-19-2019, 05:23 PM by Amun.)
amun
The grin turned into a smirk as Amun gave Melita an appraising look. ”You didn’t think the portal to Halo was the only portal out there, did you spitfire?” His voice came out equal parts joyful, exciting, and teasing. ”There’s a whole world out there, just waiting for those of us with the courage to open up the path.” For a moment, a look of wonder crossed his features, before he winked at her.
The excitement was replaced by confusion. ”I don’t drink water.” He tilted his head and gave her a quizzical look before understanding dawned. Chuckling, he slid his hands into his pockets. ”Oh, you mean for the plants.” He grinned at her. ”I can go grab some. I’m sure you’ve got some hunting to do.” Giving her a cheerful nod, he turned to head in the direction of the Oasis, whistling a sea shanty.
Not the only portal was enough to seize her attention, ponder over what remained to be seen, the curiosity entangling, unraveling, bursting at her through seams of skin and flesh. Would she see her deserts again? Or the ocean, bright, beatific waves beating at the heart of the earth? The possibilities seemed vast and endless, exactly as she’d wished and wanted, glorious in their range, in their wide-open skies. Perhaps it would remain to be seen, after dust settled, after reckonings were completed, after trial after trial amounted to something more than just anger, acrimony, and hostilities. She shrugged at his teasing, at his wink, lofting one of her own smirks and snickers, an embrace into sedition. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Thereafter though, the task seemed complete – he’d grab hold of water – something he didn’t require, and then he was gone; like a ghost, like a wraith. “Good luck!” She called out over the horizon, in the direction of the shanty and notes, tugging her weaponry back into place, glancing at Fangorn at her heels. “Ready?” And then they were off again, her staff in hand, as if the entire scenario were a mirage, a realm of her imagination.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
