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 was glad Melita appreciated the gold leaf. Admittedly it was not difficult to enjoy the appeal of shiny things, but her enthusiasm made him smile; he missed being young and easily excited by anything he liked. He still enjoyed, still thrived, but there was always an element of maturity to it now, the wisdom that it was to be savoured now before it went away. As Melita eagerly added it to her work he thought how he would spend hours agonising over the placement, and yet her moments consideration had created something so much more spontaneous and beautiful. "You are welcome. What a wonderful use of it."
What did he think of the Gods here? While his devotion to one in particular was obvious, he often wondered about their existence as a whole and how it had taken over his life, in the same way their presence seemed embedded into every stone of the Hollowed Grounds. "When I first arrived, learned that Gods here could be seen, were real...well. I became very sure I had to make myself one of them. After all, if they are physical beings, almost another race, then I thought it may be possible. Over time, though...it seems they are often unreasonable and petty; the reason I chose to stay with The Voice was her relative calm and kindness. If I can become a God like The Voice, I think I would like...ah, I've gotten away from your question." He laughed, shaking his head. "Basically, my opinion is mixed. What about you?"
He returned to his work as well, trying to be more gestural, in the moment. "I wouldn't take it for granted. After all, none of my companions from Venice came with me - there was no chance for me to warn them I was leaving, even." Sighing, Bastien wondered for the hundredth time if his old friends thought he was dead. "It is partly this reason why I take such care to remember and take notice of each moment I have with her. Of course, I would do it anyway as I love her, but there is more reason to for knowing we could have it all ripped away in an instant, if the world so chose."
Perhaps this was too heavy for a 19 year old who had simply come to paint. "...But it has not happened yet, so there is no point in despairing. Would you like to take your artwork home with you, or could I have the honour of displaying it in here?"
She beamed and blossomed beneath the regard of the gold leaf and its lacquered gild – pleased and satisfied when she leaned back to view it in all its splendor. Was it an accurate reflection of the Dragon’s Throat, the sun’s haze, their primordial beacons and deity stretching out his power, his dominion? Or was it too amateur, too much semblance and weight behind nothing, no substance, no presence? While she studied and agonized over the notions, her eyes lingered back on Bastien, on gods, on his chosen siren.
Unreasonable and petty seemed accurate – Melita’s experiences had warranted much the same before she traversed here (though she’d never had a desire to become one). She’d had her favored ones within Helovia, but she’d also been young, naïve, and ignorant; somehow still drifting there, but amidst a harsher glamour. It was intriguing though, to hear a different aspect of the Voice – other than the one who prospered an opening of portals, of murder, of mayhem, of spread blights and diseases. Calm? Kind? Perhaps just to her followers – and everyone else left in the dust? Was it the same for the other heralds and celestial bodies? The complexities drove along her mind, but she didn’t give voice to them. Instead, her gaze swindled back to her canvas, a tilt to her head in thought. “I had my favorite in Helovia – the Sun God. He was powerful and wonderful, but only to those he favored. Then with Kisamoa…I’d had enough of deities and their powers for a while.” And then she’d drifted, wandered, strived to pursue angles and intrigues. “The only one who ever answered me here was Ludo – and all I’ve received is kindness and opportunities too.” Maybe it depended on the creatures, on the cretins lurking within their bones.
She listened to his experiences in other realms too, Venice, which sounded beautiful, just by the string of sounds and syllables in its name, and the way he honored Rexanna. Her smile was ebullient again thereafter, for living in the moment, for cherishing what he had. “I think that’s perfect.” The Penumbra probably felt the same; but Melita couldn’t speak for her, couldn’t acknowledge that. It was a glimmer between the pair anyway. And even if the topic was heavy, she’d had her fair share of loved ones ripped away from her, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how determined and melded and molded she’d been – just as ferocious, just as tempestuous, just as driven by conviction – in the end, it hadn’t mattered.
But she didn’t give him that piece of information either.
As for the painting – she thought how it would best be suited. “Could I take it home?” Because it was another venue of refuge, of sanctities, of sanctuaries she’d no longer have – a memory, a light, a benediction. Would anyone understand it, if it was left here? Would anyone even know what it was, or care?
"A sun God. How radiant. Perhaps that is why the sun is so prominent in your image, hm?" Bastien asked, pointing to the large sparkling sun in Melita's painting; perhaps he was placing meaning where there was none, but he had always loved to read into things. As for Ludo's kindness, he could not say - he had never actually met the death God. "I have never seen Ludo...or at least, not to speak to. I will take your word on it. It is comforting in a way to think one of the arbiters of death here is a kind soul."
Perfect, sad...he could not spend too long dwelling on the possibility he might be taken from Rexanna or he would fall into despair, which would be terrible for his image.
A little disappointed but not showing it, Bastien nodded. "Of course. I would recommend you leave it here for a few days to dry so it is not damaged on it's journey, but then it is yours. Though, may I make a request?" He pointed to a blank corner of wall to the right of them. "You are a skilled image maker and I need something to fill in that space. Come back soon and paint me something for the corner."
Melita gave no indication if Bastien’s suggestions were on the mark or not – she wasn’t quite sure herself, the heat, the rhapsody, the polished sunbeams an eternal figment and fragment in the back of her mind; scorching and igniting, beautiful and incandescent, everything she cherished and wanted to be. “It was always there.” She applied with a shrug and an impish smile, then turning her head to still admire the gold, gilded flecks streamlined along the horizon, intertwining with the clouds and draconic melees.
She hummed at his response towards Ludo; at least it wasn’t incriminating or damning as the latest Temple meeting had been – in a variety of ways – calm and composed when speaking of their chosen heralds and gods. The girl wondered why it couldn’t always be this way, neither individual pressing, goading, inciting, or instigating. Perhaps there’d been too many lives at stake, too many souls rendered, too many other things at work to appreciate these moments as nothing short of extraordinary; a sigh slipped from her chest, unbidden, swiftly extended and extinguished in a nod towards his directions.
The honeybee child hadn’t thought he’d request something else painted by her; glance following his direction towards the blank wall, stark in contrast to all the other hues and blends of color, tapestries, works of honor, in the sanctuary. “Okay. I can do that.” An ebullient smile unfolding again, ideas already sparking – glassy vestiges of a world below the surface of the ocean, where she, her sister, and Iskra had pressed their noses against reflections and adornments of a moon goddess, where they’d spied reefs and whales and tropical sway, alive and varnished with color.
Melita's answer was wonderful in it's simple honesty. Bastien knew he often got ahead of himself, rambling away on a point connected to a tangent connected to a passing thought, so he could appreciate her succinct response. "I see. Then you have continued that ever-present sun into this world too."
He tried his best, despite his affiliation with The Voice, to not judge the other Gods or followers of them unless he had direct experience (for example, he did not care for Safrin, but not because she was an Old God). While he was sure Ludo, should he actually ever meet the God, would cast him away at least, hurt him at worst, it was probably true for Melita that the death-guide had been kind.
Pleased that she agreed to make him another piece, he grinned and motioned to the many blank canvases lining the wall. "You may come in to work on it whenever you like. Though too many times and I may have to impose a membership with the guild upon you again." With a wink he returned to his own painting just to add a signature. Not one of his best, but it had the memory of this conversation contained within the strokes, so he would keep it.
Something about his first comment made her wonder, made her ponder, made her pause; because sometimes she’d strived to be the light, to be the exuberance, to be the wild, wicked, scorching entity she’d always craved – incapable of being dimmed, of shattering behind clouds and darkness. Or if that wasn’t meant at all – much more literal, and her eyes swept over the canvas and thought about what it was like to be so gilded, so untouchable, so powerful and potent that the world always required their presence. “I tried,” she proffered on a laugh, airy and bright, turning and twisting towards the blank canvases he proclaimed vacant and needing sustenance.
The girl endeavored a smirk, a shrug, at the latter comment; imposing membership into the artist’s sanctuary – which she could comprehend the meaning of now. At least under Bastien’s tutelage and instruction, it had been somewhat of a sanctum, an area to explore and express more than just her wildfire habits and nefarious properties, rooted, quiet, tranquil, and not the least bit frustrating. It was entirely new and foreign to her, to not be gallivanting off with her staff in hand, but a brush, peaceful and serene. “Understood,” she ventured with another round of laughter, ethereal, conjured by flames and sparks, the inward reflections causing her to rethink her disposition towards the guild. Would it be so strange to be a part of an artist’s sanctum and a monster hunting one? She withheld a snort, gaze catching him adding a signature, and on an interpretation and impression, did the same to her own.
Then she stood, suddenly losing the feeling of ease, Fangorn raising his skull to watch her. “Should I come back in a couple of days to get it?”
"And succeeded." Bastien added, eager to make Melita's artistic ego as large as it could get, in the hopes it might make her more likely to return and join his guild. As much as he stressed it was not a requirement, he had found people only wanted to join once they felt they were 'good enough' for the Sanctuary.
She added a signature to her work, which was as good an indication as any she was at least willing to consider her work in a more serious capacity. "Of course. Return whenever you should like. I will, when the canvas is dry, wrap it and protect it until you can gather it." He had sheets of linen just for this purpose, though often members of the public were too embarrassed of their own work to actually want to take it home.
"Before you leave..." He looked down to Fangorn, the strange creature still bothering him. "Tell me about...ah...this."
Succeeded? Her eyes lingered on the canvas once more, standing a little taller, a little straighter, a little more breadth to her shoulders. Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn’t. But it was still there, just the same: the sun and the sand, the glory of a world she couldn’t ever hold or have again. It would remain in picture rather than just in her memories, to be displayed and shared when the time was right. Perhaps that would be enough – when her words matched stories and myths, when there was more than just the lapse of things, when oasis surf and shoal met the free-ranging skies.
Melita nodded at the rest of the directions, instantly grateful all the more. “Thank you.” Humbled again, by the wake of kindness and compassion nearly everywhere she went, the endless support and community based warmth a blessed, consecrated thing; she wouldn’t forget it. Wrapped and protected when it was dry, ready for her eager hands to grasp and hold again. How bizarre, how quickly she’d altered any apprehensive measures on the artistic qualities – an inward shrug and snort to her movements.
She nestled down by the stool to gather the rest of her things, when Bastien’s question settled over her, causing her head to raise, a fey ambience curling over her features. “Oh, Fangorn?” The aforementioned little beast grumbled and hissed, bounding a short distance away from the ascended, eerie eyes going back and forth, scrutinizing and studying in his enigmatic way. “He’s my companion. One of the few vampire gourds that made it out of my first Leafchange here.” A survivor, through and through.
Bastien knelt down to look at Fangorn, thoroughly mystified by the small vegetable. Was this a miniature version of that 'pumpkin' that had so hurt Rexanna? It was rather cute. "I see...then he matches you well." With a kind smile he stood and took a rag to wipe his hands with, taking off paint and grease with a distracted expertise.
"If I don't see you back here, I will put out a search party." He promised with a wink, then as Melita went to leave (with another thank you and goodbye from the painter) he took her work and hung it to dry by the window, sure it might attract some visitors to the guild in the prime position.
