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!
Bastien may have been trying to use his art to provoke and improve his relationship with the Voice, but that did not mean he was no longer interested in the more humble goals of his guild, like introducing art into the masses and showing average people how knowledge of aesthetic could improve their lives.
For that reason he had begun to leave his door open more and more often during the day, keeping plenty of blank canvases out in case anybody would like to come in and try, either with or without tuition. After all, he knew how claustrophobic it could be to paint with someone breathing on your shoulder, but some people liked to be guided. Pittore was definitely a free spirit, needing no encouragement to swiftly begin to lay down scribbling lines on anything put before him.
"Ah, Pittore, you are a wonderful heir to this little empire, but I fear I may need a protege more versed in the art of conversation." He said to his companion, who only replied with a few babbles and squeaks, wrapped up in his purple swirl of paint. Bastien turned back to work on his own piece, a little sketch painting for an idea he'd had, waiting to see if anyone would come.
Melita was by no means an artist. The youth could conquer any number of things: devastation, ruin, annihilation, false gods, and heavy, cumbersome losses – but trying her hand at anything remotely aesthetic hadn’t been successful. She could scale walls, she could fire arrows at moving targets, she could rapaciously edge her way into rebellion and disaster, but talents in singing, pretenses, any resemblance of elegance, or exquisite taste, might not have resided in her soul.
This didn’t stop her from trying. Few things ever did.
Curiosity was a boundless thing in her entity too, and she sprung along the boundaries of the settlement, amongst residences and market life, Fangorn striving to keep up with her leaping strides again, when she came across the guild. The door was wide open. Inviting, enticing, an inveigling, specious route – practically begging for her to enter. She had stopped outside the threshold, half-inclined to poke her head in out of natural wonder, pondering over the complexities of such a world, of such a place, understanding Rexanna and her husband were housed here, but naught more. Fangorn hissed at her heels, and she considered, hearing babbles and squeaks somewhere nearby, eyes flicking back and forth over blank canvases and tapestries. “What do you think?” She whispered to her gourd companion, who merely grumbled and growled something in return.
The sound of a whisper by the door drew Bastien's attention and he turned to look, seeing there a young woman with bright red hair and...some kind of puppet? Or perhaps a gourd she had carved to be a pretend friend. Though it was moving...regardless, he did not think he had met this woman before.
With a smile he left his canvas, brush haphazardly tossed to the bottom leaving a mark (he liked those little accidental touches, blobs of colour that told more the story of the process than of the finished image), and walked over to the threshold of the door, nodding a greeting. "Ciao! Would you like to come in? I have a blank canvas and paints waiting for you, should you want to use them - or indeed clay too, or pens and paper for writing." He was well equipped for any medium, had made it a personal quest to be before he started off his guild.
Before she could ponder anymore of the discussion about whether to proceed, or not (fly off into the ether, hunt down something with rapacity and sheer, determined will), a man, completely unfamiliar to her, loomed along the aperture. Her eyes glanced up and up, towering over her lithe, nimble form, uncertain over what to expect, guarded for a moment, as she’d been standing on his doorstep, and he’d be free to growl, grumble, hiss, and chase her off. However, the friendly nature, unexpected, instantly maneuvering into her more amiable qualities, a smile blooming, hastened. “Um, sure!” Because she was audacious, bold, and something entirely reckless, maneuvering into the sanctuary with wide eyes and the promises of art; not a talent she was disposed to by any means, but inquisitive enough to learn.
“I’m Melita. Are you Bastien?” Rexanna’s husband; a wedding sadly and sorely missed while she’d been blighted, but no one would have wanted her there – not in that treacherous, lethal condition. She bounded and leapt further into the confines upon the invitation though, remnants of apprehension scattered in the wake of potential. Fangorn followed close behind, eerie eyes cast at the larger stranger, before ghosting along, nosing at brushes. On a flurry of excitement, a gasp, she reeled back towards him. “Could I try the paint?”
Bastien clapped his hands together with joy as Melita agreed, stepping back into the room to let her come forward and choose her medium of choice. When people came to his door, only a few of them chose to stay. Often they seemed embarrassed, as if trying to create would reveal something about themselves they did not want to show.
"I am indeed. I have seen you around sometimes, I think - what is it you do around here, Lady Melita?" Asked Bastien, smiling at her eager excitement for the paint and gesturing for her to go ahead, going to work on his own canvas while she got started. "Do you do much painting? Or are you coming in here fresh?"
So she was correct – and this settled against her heart like a warm balm. At least Rexanna seemed to have a nice husband. As for what she did around here, other than helping or defending when she could, her brows furrowed slightly, not entirely sure how to answer. “I hunt monsters,” she supplied instead with a massive grin, before turning and twisting along with ebullience and enthusiasm, pondering over what mediums to use. His inquiry was justified; and maybe he’d shoo her out of the door when he realized just how little she’d experienced in the way of art. “I painted in the mud earlier!” This segment came across as very proud and irreverent, a haphazard little shrug granted and given, ready to be viewed upon as a tiny heathen.
The youth eventually nosed her way towards some paint embedded in vibrant crimson and warm, scorching, hot hues and colors. “Can I use these?”
"Monsters! How impressive. Are you perhaps a part of Ronin's guild...?" Bastien asked, surprised that someone as sweet-seeming as Melita could be a monster hunter, though not commenting on that. He'd seen much, much stranger things in Caido than a chipper, young girl who stabbed hulking beasts.
The enthusiasm with which she told him she had painted in the mud drew a smile from Bastien, who always admired those that were happy and proud of whatever they had done. "Ah, I was wondering earlier if it would make a good medium, but I must admit I ended up deciding I would rather use my brushes and paints. Perhaps I am growing too old and set in my ways - tell me, how was it?"
Melita chose colours to match her hair, which made him chuckle. "Of course! Any colour you like. I will not limit your palette - tell me, what is it you intend to paint?"
11-24-2019, 07:28 PM (This post was last modified: 11-24-2019, 07:28 PM by Melita.)
MELITA
“I am!” She announced with such a semblance of pride that one might think hunting demons and monsters for a living was far greater and grander than most other occupations – though she hesitated internally. It was no longer Ronin’s, and no longer standing. The honeybee child withheld the comment threatening to sting and sink on her tongue, allowed it to meander in her membrane instead of unleashing it upon an individual who didn’t deserve it. The bright smile remained in its place, liberated from the wall of judgment and dread fortifying itself in her skull.
Bastien didn’t seem to mind the use of mud and muck as a painting medium, the grin there matching and embellishing hers. “Interesting! I used my finger though. I’m afraid it would likely destroy your brushes.” Leave too many clumps, too much dirt and debris that probably wouldn’t come out no matter how many times washed. “It looks neat when it dries though!” Only to be washed away by potential rain and snow; a transient form.
She hadn’t thought of the hues matching her hair – only the fire of her old home, the crimson sands, the incandescent sun, the illustrious, vibrant wake of scorching lines and colors. “My old home – the Dragon’s Throat. It was a desert.” Her smile failed to dim, despite the heartache of the world’s absence. Better. She could be better. Humming beneath her breath and grabbing her supplies, she turned to him, utter curiosity embedded in her gilded eyes. “What’s your favorite thing to paint?”
"Ah - and have you hunted anything particularly fearsome lately?" Bastien asked, fondly remembering making an agreement with Ronin long ago that the man would bring him trophies from the beasts he slayed, for painting. He had only received the one, in the end, but Ronin was a busy man.
Bastien did not really mind if the brushes he had nowadays were 'destroyed', not when magic was so prolific in the Hollowed Grounds and when the brushes he had were hardly of the highest quality. Still, he appreciated Melita's willingness to get messy with her hands. "I am sure it does. Where was it you made this masterpiece? I would like to see it?"
'Dragon's Throat'. It was an evocative name, one Bastien found he quite liked - he was excited to see how she would recreate it. "Ah. I think that answer changes every day. But...ultimately? I believe it is my wife Rexanna. To paint her is to revel in her beauty and power and to remember that she chose to share them with me."
They hadn’t been hunting lately; but with everything else going on, pestilence, sovereignty uprisings, constant alterations and changes, not to mention the fire during LongNight, there really hadn’t been an adequate time to maul and demolish monsters. There’d been too many other things at stake. Her hands went to one of the brushes, a wider bristles at the end, dipping it into a fiery red paint; brushstrokes of eager portions suddenly on the bottom of her canvas. “Not lately. I helped take down a banshee though.” Awe-inspiring, to witness them all dance and seethe and simmer in the inferno’s light, most of them gone now; she swallowed down the rest of the words, furrowing her brows to concentrate on the tapestry she was striving to invoke.
When she’d covered the bottom, meant to be like the scorching sand, the molten desert, the hot, radiant proportions of home, she started on the cliffs, the ramparts launching out of the ground and towards the sky. “Oliver and I made some pictures on the Bone Bridge.” A little smile courted itself there, a hum under her breath, Fangorn down by her ankles, peeking up and up.
But at Bastien’s answer towards what he liked to paint, her grin churned into an ebullient, boisterous thing again, eyes and ears turning towards him, somewhat riveted by the comment. “Rexanna is wonderful.” The smile fell a little, as she turned back to her work, some moroseness lingering between eager lines and fervent wonder. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to come to your wedding. I had the blight, and I didn’t –“ she paused, choking it away. I didn’t want to ruin anything, the way she’d already done so with others, striking, rampaging, bulldozing her way through unchecked, unclear hatred and abhorrence. “Rexanna helped me when I was sick though.” And what had Melita ever done in return?
The notion churned at her, bristled and blistered; she swung back to him, a jaw suddenly set in determination. “Could I make her something when I’m done with this? That she can have and see when she gets her eyes back?”
"A banshee. I believe I heard about that...it was quite some time ago." Bastien frowned, trying to remember if he'd heard of any other banshee attacks more recently. He hadn't. Not that this really harmed Melita's 'badass monster hunter' reputation with him. One monster killed was still more monsters than he'd ever gone up against.
He watched with a smile as she began to paint, letting her go as she wished at first but leaning over just to gently correct her brushstrokes, showing her with a dry, clean brush on the edge of the canvas. "Softer, like this. If you press too hard you will have bristles fall off on your painting and dents in the canvas, which would be the shame on what I am sure will be an amazing work."
Going back to fiddle at his own painting (though really mostly watching Melita's come to be) he nodded enthusiastically at Melita's appraisal of Rexanna. Though it seemed the girl was about to dip into sadness and he looked over with concern. "I understand. I have spoken to other people who were in the same position - and we said this. In a year, we are going to have a ceremony to reaffirm our love. You are all welcome to attend then. It will be quite the party."
It seemed Melita felt she owed Rexanna something still and Bastien was not about to stop her making more art. "Of course. You can use the supplies here for as many pieces as you like. The only price is my rambling." With a wink, he put down his paintbrush and leaned against the wall. "That is very sweet of you, to want to make something for her. Though...I am not sure when she will have her eyesight returned. There is a lot to do."
Quite some time ago indeed; the comment making her shoulders fall slightly, and then she straightened upright, rigid, as if she were trying to remember how to stay composed. Perhaps it was for the better – to become more determined in her future exploits, endeavors, and pursuits, instead of resting on prior, previous laurels.
She listened to his advice though, watching his expert handling of the brush on the edge of her canvas, striving to apply it in softer amounts, a lighter touch. The tapestry wasn’t meant to be dead and buried under her force, under her power. She’d have to relent, instead of seethe and press. The girl nodded at his insinuations, and then caressed and stroked, rather than obliterating, adding to darker shadows and ghosts of crimson light along the top of the cliffs, as if there were dragons lurking there, wings tucked, quiet, stalwart guards of the world.
The subject of their wedding, the shame of the blight, didn’t seem to rankle; though she wanted to diminish and hide under his look of concern. She hadn’t intended for it to appear at all. But a ceremony to reaffirm their love sounded wonderful, and the girl came out of the potential raincloud quickly, swiftly, under the assertion there’d be another chance, another opportunity, to celebrate their union. “That sounds wonderful.” A softened sigh exerted itself in there too, gaze sliding back to her painting as she struggled with what to put in next. The radiant sky, the sun streaking through? The god of the realm himself, towering above all others, strong and enduring, a blaze of infernos and conflagrations? The oasis, untouched beauty? On a whim, she collected herself again. “Let me know if you need any help.” A giving back, instead of constantly taking.
But the lack of eyesight was still vexing and troubling. “What else needs to be done?” Maybe she could assist with that too.
Melita seemed to take on his advice about the brushes; Bastien smiled and watched her paint for a moment, pleased to see her more gentle brushstrokes. It was interesting to him that even after all these years, all the students he'd taught, each one still had their own unique way of putting paint down.
He was very excited for Rexanna and his anniversary party, having already planned out many details of it in his mind. While he was not yet so optimistic to make plans for a 10th anniversary one (not because he thought they would split up, because Rexanna had a tendency to get herself into rather deadly trouble), he hoped to make a well-loved tradition among himself, Rexanna and their friends.
And while he did not know Melita, it seemed she was a friend of Rexanna's, so she was his too. "I will. I was thinking of having some kind of creative element to it, with members of the Sanctuary contributing - I don't suppose I could convince you to join?" It seemed like a long shot, to get a Monster Hunter into his little painting family, but it was worth a shot.
As for Rexanna's eyes... "The Voice needs her to collect things for the process and they are rather hard to find. Though I'm afraid you'd have to ask Rexanna what they are. I forget. I know one was a spherical, magical ball of water? Ah...or something like that? It is good I am not the one with the quest." He laughed, shaking his head.
She paused momentarily to stare at the painting, at the elements already there in either broad brushstrokes, or now more careful ones. Something was missing; the dunes, the cliffs, were all there - ah, one of her favored haunts hadn’t been melded into the scene. The youth reached over for several hues of blue paint, and then dabbled onward, portraying the oasis, where false sea met sand, where she’d once dove down and pretended to be a sea monster, roaring, screaming, shouting about calamity while the rest of them laughed, splashed, acted as honored heroes and fabled legends. It put a light smile upon her face, to retrace the scene, the moments, instead of yearning for the things he couldn’t have –
But she listened too, tilting her head a fraction at his question – as if she’d misunderstood it. Her, in the Artist’s Sanctuary? Was he asking her to join? The girl nearly dropped the brush, grabbing hold of it last minute and tossing it back and forth between her fingers. “I’m…I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’d be cut out for it.” Her entire life had been about chaos, about bedlam, about menace, about violence and vehemence, about reaching, reaching, reaching for weapons, for munitions, to defend the world with, not a damn about herself, not a damn about the cretins threatening those she cared for. Something gentler, something elegant, something aesthetically-pleasing sounded so bizarre and strange – yet here she was, layering down blended colors and definitions of a world long since gone.
Befuddled and bewildered, she could only ease back a breath, calming, composing; wondering if wandering out of her comfort zone would be something she should be grasping, with teeth, with nails, with claws.
Then they were talking about Rexanna though, and she swallowed down the fluttering bits of nervousness and apprehension, collecting herself as she applied more streaks of blue to the water. The tiny grin crept back into place, eyes on the painting, on the canvas. “She’ll be successful.” A conviction, a promise, for the Penumbra, who’d managed to emerge victorious despite missing eyes; because she was still alive, and that counted for something.
