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!
Guildmaster had never been a title bestowed upon either Reaper or Sword. The former had risen through soldier ranks until a crown was placed on his head, and the latter resolved to collect and assemble himself in a variety of contortions, until, once more, the General’s mantle was placed on his shoulders. It was certainly a more comfortable role, familiar, habitual, nothing to fall out of his training regime and routine, the stalking, predacious lines, or protective emblems. However, he pondered if being in charge of the Artisan’s Guild was any more of an alteration – just different means, different measures, different modes – and now he wandered through its avenues, streets, and stalls, studying kiosk after kiosk. Before he’d merely ventured in to bother Remi for a variety of reasons, or to ascertain to specific tasks (wedding planning oddly the most utilized).
Along his perusal though, for whatever means, seemed to be a large assemblage of cats – perhaps drawn to the attuned quality of tiger formations in his blood, and once he’d meandered into their path, they harried and hurried over to his motions, to his feet, stopping him in his tracks. The beast furrowed his brow, staring down at the Lilliputian versions of his shifting abilities, before crouching, bending to their will. His hands proffered pats, pets, and scratches, listening to the rumbling purrs, the distinction of hunters and carnivorous beings, some ambling along alleyways, pouncing, mighty and ferocious despite their size, earning the slightest chuckle before returning to his spoiling of strays. The monolith’s glances were a quick perusal, a study, an examination in their motions; because he’d only ever either sparred Amalia, completely inexperienced, or dropped from the sky, in the larger feline formation.
The last thing Loren had been expecting was to see Deimos with a veritable clowder of cats. The summoner’s arms were piled with children’s clothing and toys. He’d brought them to the market on the off chance someone might need them. However, the sight of the General stopped the Launceleyn in his tracks.
Staring at the other man for a moment, Loren finally shook his head, then approached. "Deimos. A word?" Glancing around at the crowd, the summoner lowered his voice to the barest of whispers. "In private?" He jerked his head at a nearby alleyway that seemed abandoned. Assuming the General was amenable, the Launceleyn would lead the way.
Then, though, his natural curiosity got the better of him. "Also, what's with the cats?" Loren gave them a friendly smile
Perhaps the same could be said for Deimos’ expectations of Loren, his eyes flickering briefly at the sight of the summoner and his collection of children’s clothing and toys. He wisely said nothing, especially as one of the strays managed to clamber along his shoulders, rising from his crouch very carefully, parting away from the collection, aside from the one who’d made itself at home. As for a word, in private, could mean a variety of things, and he nodded, following along, away from the crowd.
In another world, they might have all gathered within a furtive tent, created and concocted to allow a sound to permeate from its ether.
Here, they weren’t so lucky.
“What is going on?” a rumbling utterance, spine straight, taut, and rigid, expecting something to unravel, to unwind, to unleash, some other storm and tempest rising over the promises, the convictions, of spring. His jaw clenched, tightened, briefly, skull spinning with all the possibilities and parameters.
At the mention of the cats, however, he only arched his brow, shrugged; the cat remaining on his shoulders shifting abruptly with the movement. “It might be an effect of becoming attuned.” He really didn’t know – the summoning, the compelling, had never been fully explained to him.
As he led the General into the alley, Loren ran a nervous hand through his hair. Once they were out of earshot, he spoke in a whisper, though it still managed to contain quite a bit of outrage. ”Zariah came from Halo through the portal in the Spire.” The summoner’s hands clenched into fists. ”She disowned me and threatened to kill me before taking Beatrix and Jace with her.” Expression dark as his tone, the summoner crossed his arms as he stared at Deimos.
Then, though, Loren’s eyes flicked towards the cats. ”I don’t have that problem.” The Launceleyn’s voice came out distractedly, and his brow furrowed. Finally, he frowned. ”At least not yet.” He knelt down to give the felines a closer look.
So there it was – the rumors and speculations true, the Merciless back, winding her way along their avenues and settlements, sparking derision, scorn, and insurrection again with every step she took. Were he any other cretin, he might’ve snarled; his face remained utterly nonchalant, despite every inward motion clawing and brewing its way to the surface. Wrath and rage for the threats once lingering on loved ones and friends. Contempt for the position she placed others in. Bitterness over the memories and moments cluttering his skull, for the rebellion that never quite was, for the coup that couldn’t take place. He watched as Loren’s outrage sparked and sizzled, and the mountain remained as if he were in a world of calm – when it was just a remarkable glacial wall conforming over his senses, composed, plotting, coldblooded calculations rising to the tempest, to the forefront. Sometimes he’d truly never left the Reaper world behind, always slightly below the surface, ready and fervent, to vanquish realms and destroy adversaries. “What do you want to do about it?” It would be Loren’s place to decide – which action to take, which way they could unravel and unleash – since he’d been the own disowned, left in the latest tyranny, but all of them were stronger, more capable now, than before, when the wicked witch had taken over with her iron fist and manacles.
The cat purring along his shoulder was almost a forgotten thing in the notion of Loren’s announcement, but there were layers and lacquer confined in those words too; a sharpening, narrowing of his eyes in speculation. “Not yet?” His head tilted; the feline did so in turn. “Have you acquired attuned skills as well?”
Loren felt a snarl come to his lips, one he very carefully contained. However, the frustration in his voice was evident. "I want to throw her in the jail she built for her crimes against the people of the Hollowed Grounds." Then he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "However, she seems to have a position of power in Halo, likely because my twin is in charge there."
Glancing at Deimos, the summoner schooled his features into a neutral mask. "In the interest of not getting banned from yet another land, I think we should keep an eye on her while she is in the Hollowed Grounds. At least that way when she tries something we can detain her with cause." His nostrils flared before he took a few deep and calming breaths.
The dark look in his eyes lifted somewhat, and the corner of his lips quirked up. Shifting, he gazed up at the General with an amused look, or as amused as a honey badger could look. The actual feeling of amusement he sent helped. That I have. Even now, given the conversation they'd been having, the Launceleyn couldn't keep the joy and delight at his new form from spilling out.
More shambles and messes, distortion and ruin, Launcelyn intrigue and infamy; wondering for a moment why that damned family couldn’t just leave the world alone, the frustration pooling and curling along the alley. Of course Zariah would have tucked herself behind power again. Of course she would remain on the unattainable, unreachable pinnacles, dangling potential onslaught and oblivion, foreboding threats and ominous incantations; the same as always, vexing, irritating, and lethal. The seditious pull of his blood refused to believe they couldn’t somehow conquer her though – not with their growing strength and brawn, might and dominion. They’d been startled and surprised at the initial alterations and change, the tyranny pressed into their shoulders, their spines, their backs, but hackles had been raised, changes had been placed, and no longer were they wallowing cretins discussing their machinations in basements. Perhaps it would still take the right time, the right place, the right moment, and maybe they needed more, but the potential was still there. There were too many of them to back down and away. “We can try,” he proffered, though his last arrest hadn’t gone smoothly and he doubted Zariah would be any easier. Would the Merciless care? Would she be cautious or careful? Or would it amount to nothing all over again?
In that beating, revolutionary heart and soul, he bristled.
Thereafter, there was an abrupt shift, and before him was no longer Loren in human formation, but as a honey badger. The demeanor and platitude altered as well, as if the amount of enthusiasm and exuberance for the newfound ability overshadowed the foundational layers of his family’s heritage unwinding and unfurling again. “Congratulations.” The cat on his shoulder hissed, he swatted at it with a large hand. The slightest of smiles, as if it lacked the audacity to linger on his features, especially after the latter bits of conversation, appeared, flickering and dissolving with a tip of his head. “Which god granted it to you?”
Sighing, Loren ran a hand through his hair before giving Deimos a determined look. ”We will.” The summoner crossed his arms, before the corners of his lips quirked up. ”She told me my days were numbered. Which means she’s going to try and kill me at some point or another.” Lifting his chin, he grinned at the General. ”Key word being try. I’ll be ready for her.” The grin broadened. ”We’ll be ready.”
Then the grin became toothy as the Launceleyn turned into a honey badger. Thank you. Besides the gratitude, there was a great deal of honest joy, a sort of revelry in his new form. Frey. Who gave you your shifts? The grin slipped away as he tilted his head, giving the other man a curious look.
Threats and taunts had been a part of Zariah’s existence: a deluge of torrential potential should anyone cross her. It’d happened time and time again, ominous warbles, overbearing tactics, forcing them all to barrel onwards in their predilections and ruin. So there was no surprise along the Sword’s face at Loren’s proclamation, a shake of his head, indicative he’d heard it all before. “Are you going to take her on?” The Sword smirked for a moment; because it was high time someone could take her down, and though he was entirely unware of her strength and fortitude, he knew the summoner’s own might and fortitude had been on the rise. Maybe it was time. Maybe there would finally be an end to her ridiculous, tyrannical nature. Helovia had its challenges, its spars, its assaults and sieges, where lessons were fraught and pegs were taken down; and perhaps this would be the beginning, the genesis, of the same.
The joy and revelry, rapture instead of a constant barrage of malice was a polarizing, bewildering phenomenon, but he took it in stride, absorbing the contentment. Frey – perhaps Loren’s preference? Deimos knew next to naught about the deity except stories surrounding their capabilities, which in turn made him never want to set foot in their direction. Safrin he supplied; sent into the stars and dropped from their cosmos.
Crossing his arms, Loren gave Deimos a troubled and distant look. The Launceleyn's voice came out with a great deal of certainty. ”I will not strike the first blow.” Biting his lip, he spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ”I have no desire to continue the violent cycle that my ancestors began, and I have been told that violence begets violence.” Glancing aside, he lowered his voice, speaking more to himself than the General. "I had been hoping to show my relatives there was another way."
Taking a deep breath, the summoner found himself drawing to his full height and his voice returned to a normal volume as his gaze settled back on the other man. ”But when she comes for me, I will take her on, yes, and teach her that I, that the people of the Hollowed Grounds are not to be trifled with and are not and never have been her playthings.” There was a fierce confidence and anger in Loren's words and expression.
It was a welcome change to feel joy and revel in his new form. What’d she do to you? The honey badger snuffled around, intrigued by the scents around him, before trotting forward to give the cats a closer inspection now that he was on their level.
No instigation for the first blow; despite the already seething provocations? He pondered the matter – the Reaper had always ensued one, singular warning before unraveling, before unfurling, before unleashing a torrential, devastating blow; ominous and forbidding, and eventually others understood he meant what he said. There were always the foolish, the inept, the stupid, striving to roam along his grounds, his kingdom, his sovereign, and threaten the lives of his citizens – but less and less as the years went by, as his crown grew heavier, as the world shifted and turned. Violence did beget violence, and he was an individual that thrived on its hull and harpoons, in its shell and vessels, in its fortifications and assailments. He could only alter and change so much. There were other ways, and they’d all certainly expressed them in things other than munitions; but did that matter to Zariah, when she’d already dealt the directives, pulled at the strings? “Let me know what you need when the time comes.” Because he’d have Deimos’ support; a bestial, rampaging, destructive force – the twist and turns of the past echoing through his ears, through his memories, through his heart and lungs.
But on the notion of gods and their rendered benedictions, he snorted throughout the attuned bond. I asked for more strength. More and more and more, a rapacious edge, sharpened by the need to do something for those who surrounded him, who kept pressing into his orbit, who accepted and tolerated every inch of his discord and reticence. She said I had it within. To cease and desist grasping for things outside, to search into his soul, to see past the ghosts, the catacombs, the sepulchers that haunted him each and every day. And then dropped me from the sky. To fall and die, or to regard himself inwardly; hands extended into wings and feathers, into noble, eagle distinction.
Nodding, Loren gave Deimos a grateful smile. ”Thanks, I will.” Then the summoner let out a huff of laughter. ”Honestly she’ll probably just try to monologue me to death. Woman likes to hear herself talk.” Shaking his head, he gave the General a look that conveyed just how unimpressed Loren was. ”I considered throwing a spell at her just to get her to shut up.”
The honey badger continued to inspect the cats, pawing at one of them gently to see if it would react. Guess you found your wings, then. The words were underscored with more amusement than the summoner would dare show in his two-legged form. Frey asked if I would fight or flee. I said fight. Then they tested me. Shifting back to human, a pleased smile spread across the Launceleyn’s lips. ”I passed.”
At least there was laughter in the otherwise roughened ambience; the stoking of future plans, the bracing of treachery and anarchy all over again. He snorted at the monologue comment, remembering the brief tenors of her actually listening to suggestions, hosting the meeting and conference amongst assembled brethren, and how poorly, disastrously it had struck. There’d been some brief, shining moments, like Emmett’s commentary, but otherwise, much more take than give. “I experienced that with the open forum.” Loren had missed out on those opportunities; but Deimos hoped there wouldn’t ever be another pulsing and pervading from the same tyrant.
The cats didn’t particularly care for the honey badger’s batting, several of them hissing, and others intending to strike back – tough, stray, alley cats, intent on surviving. The one presiding on his shoulders growled in earnest; Deimos fought not to roll his eyes. But he had found his wings, and with their plumes a further liberation, a deliverance, a sanctity he’d never thought to hold or cherish, gliding on the whims of the wind and breeze, intending to roam as far and for as long as he wished – capable of escaping the tethers, the lines, that were always so desperate to sink into his flesh. So you did. Fight or flee, the instincts always well-honed to the latter, and yet, so many of them venturing into the former. Defiance. Sedition. Revolution. Somehow, someway, it would root and tangle them into more than just audacious patterns and assaults. They’d be vicious, they’d be menacing. They’d be enough.
The corners of Loren’s lips quirked up, though just for a moment. Then he tilted his head and gave Deimos a quizzical look. ”What open forum?” Then, though, the summoner sighed. ”On the subject of open forums, what do you think will happen at the one Wessex called?" The Launceleyn searched the General's features for any hint of a reaction because Loren almost certainly wouldn't get anything from the other man's lack of words.
The honey badger snarled right back at the cats. However, he backed off, and when he turned back into a human they lost interest. "Well, hopefully it won't come to a fight any time soon." The Launceleyn's tone was doubtful, though.
