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!
Melita began to add blue to scene, which Bastien admired - she certainly was bold with colour! Though he cringed a little as the blue on the still-wet yellow began to create a greenish hue at the edges, which he was pretty sure she had not intended. Pointing at it, he gently said: "If you wait a moment, you can paint without the colours mixing on the canvas like that. Unless you mean it to, of course."
As for his sanctuary... "Everyone is cut out for it. We welcome all skill levels, experiences...if you wish to make art, you can join us." He promised with a smile, gesturing about the hall at the paintings hanging about, not all of them masterpieces, but each one special to him.
"Of course. There is no doubt in my mind Rexanna can do anything she wishes to." He smiled, a soft laugh escaping him. "It may take a while, but she will see again. I am trying to make sure this house is as beautiful as it can be for her when that moment arrives."
Waiting had clearly never been Melita’s forte. Or patience. Or anything requiring her to simply stay put for anything more than half a second. But therein, she could see what Bastien meant – her beautiful oasis suddenly tinged with green, something that had never happened in real life. “No, I didn’t meant to. The oasis was always the brightest blue.” She frowned, putting her paintbrush down for a moment. The restless itch was back within an instant, and she was suddenly apprehensive she’d ruined what little triumph she’d gathered simply by the smattering of eagerness. “How long does it usually take to dry?” Maybe she could go over with more blue, and then it wouldn’t look so bad? She’d likely have to leave it up to the expert – her ignorance about as incandescent as her cheeks, embarrassed for her blunder.
The fact that he still extended an invitation into the guild after the error displayed a lot of his character; she half-smiled in turn, still incredibly uncertain about her role in anything at the moment. “I’ll think about it,” she insisted, to chew upon, to mull over, when her munitions didn’t call so openly, when vengeance and havoc weren’t such a siren song.
His love for Rexanna was clear too, no doubt, no question, and the youth grinned again, for both of them, glad they’d found one another. “An admirable goal. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
Bastien watched with approval as Melita put down the brush, admiring the patience it took in a new painter. "Oh, several months." He said casually at first to answer her question, though he could not suppress his smile for long: "A joke. It will take a few moments. Once it is tacky but does not come away on your finger, it is ready to be painted over." Truthfully he was often less patient than he was extolling the virtues of, but he had enough experience to know how to fix and work with the smudges of mixed colour when they occurred.
"Ah, I am glad. Do come to me if you decide upon an answer. We do have wonderful parties." He promised, not sure if that was Melita's sort of thing, but it had been a good incentive for some memberships in the past. "Plenty of merriment, drink and laughter - tell me, how old are you...?" He asked, unsure if she was old enough for him to reveal the secret behind-doors elements of these parties.
At his first statement, she blanched, jaw dropping, because the rumination of months caused her to blindly, blankly, nearly stammer in protest – except he smiled, proffered it as a joke. A small sigh eased through her chest, and she billowed a soft laugh. “Phew.” Her fingers went to it almost immediately though, ascertaining it might’ve been more than a few moments, taking it away to see none of the hues’ residue on her fingers. “Looks like it’s ready!” She chirruped, before applying the brush back to its fold, neatly placing more blue over the green fringes. Thereafter, she meandered back to the sky, deep, pressing azures and cobalts, not a cloud in the sky, as if the sun was pressing down upon the rest of the land for eternity.
“Oh, I like parties!” The mention of such festivities caused her grin to brighten again; remembering the grand celebrations they’d shared amongst the Dragon’s Throat, Ampere’s makeshift alcohol that she’d slipped (far too young and dumb), enjoyed, and then passed out; not remembering a thing. She presumed Iskra probably picked her up and put her somewhere safe. They’d had Fiat Lux too, which had been enjoyable and freeing, flower crowns and dancing and lighting small fires. She wasn’t certain why he asked her age (a fair inquiry on his part, truly, considering the bizarre lines of maturity she zig-zagged over and around; experience in lethality, and barely anything else), but answered without fear or shame, completely unaware of anything and everything she’d ever dodged or missed on her way to survival, gaze back on her painting. “Nineteen.”
Bastien laughed at Melita's reaction to his joke, remembering when he had used it many times for his students in Venice (though there with the oil paints and often poor qualities of canvas, at least weeks could be accurate). "It does." He agreed, watching her correct the accidental colour, thinking the slight amount of green that bled through actually added a nice edge to the blue now, a variation in colour; how wonderful in art that even mistakes could add to the beauty.
"Then you will fit in." He grinned, glad there were at least some people in town that could appreciate a good time (he had never understood those that seemed dedicated to their own misery).
Nineteen. It felt young to him, but it was old enough for her to know what happened behind closed doors. "Then you should know there is also often a Bacchanal element to these events...or well. A sexual party, in a separate room. Open to members that wish to explore those kinds of things with others - obviously, you choose if you would wish to participate and shall not be judged either way." He made sure not to look at Melita, not wanting to seem like he was pressuring her at all about this, adding to his painting a few small details.
While she worked on adding tiny dragons into the backdrop, as someone might fit in miniature birds, she listened to the notion of fitting in, which sounded wonderful, the smile blooming back on her face – another hum under her breath. Parties were great distractions and diversions, lovely with friends and family.
But as she worked, Bastien informed her of other contortions to the festivities – and it took a few seconds to sink in, as she maneuvered her paintbrush, as she contributed to lithe, little wingspans, dipping the bristles into a smoky obsidian hue, before it truly dawned on her. She didn’t know what Bacchanal elements were, but sexual parties in a separate room were not something she was accustomed to. A flush rose over her cheeks, just as embarrassed as she’d been when Adam had mentioned one night stands ages ago, and the girl’s face was likely as red as her damned hair. She had no experience with any of those things. There’d never been any insinuations, any time in the Rift, trying to survive, and then any other time just hadn’t occurred – panic began to take hold in her, a stammer on her mouth as her eyes swerved back over to him. “I…I don’t. I’ve never -,” then she stopped there, uncertain of what she was even trying to say. “Um. So. So we can leave before that happens, right?” Or should she just not go at all?
Bastien watched her add the dragons with a smile, thinking of how back home that would have immediately marked the work out as something of fantasy. Here he just accepted it, wondering what kind of dragons Melita had had in her world and if they had been similar to the ones here, which had been rather more cute than he'd expected.
He could feel right away Melita was embarrassed, though that didn't mean she'd necessarily refuse; he had seen many times that even the most determined prudes could go wild when in the right setting. She did though, so he nodded. "It is all behind closed doors. If you did not want to participate, you would not even know it was happening. It is by no means a required part of the guild; just a hobby of some of our members."
It seemed Melita had had a life with a lot of experience in some areas, and none in others; how it often went, Bastien thought. "Tell me of the place you're painting, then. Did you visit there often?"
She nodded, accepting of the fact of their parties, glad that if she had absolutely no inclination towards it, she could merely leave. No force. No singular choice. A portion of her felt grateful; because there might’ve been other worlds, other contortions, that held no such offering, and she swallowed down the apprehension, loosening the breath she’d been holding, steadying her hand on the brush. The wings curled along the surface, and then, feeling bold, she made them broader, some red like flames, like the cliffs, and some black, like obsidian and coal, Stygian oblivion across the sands – power, precision, might.
Her eyes lifted back to the artist as he asked about the tapestry, and she tilted her head, considering it – if the brushstrokes even truly embodied the land and all it’s worth. “I was born there.” And for once, when discussing the land, her voice wasn’t full of sorrow, but of radiance, able to at least convey it’s distinction, it’s prowess, it’s everything, with what little talent she had to offer. Her smile bloomed and blossomed, as she conjured red sand along the oasis shoreline, as she pressed vitality into a world that wouldn’t ever see it again. “It was wonderful, powerful, and ferocious.” Her gaze went back to the tapestry, pondering how else to convey the scene, how else to regard it, full of light instead of shadow. “But it’s gone now.”
Bastien had always been of the opinion that anything pleasurable only stayed such if all people involved were willing and eager; to involve those that didn't want to be involved was only cruel to them and worsened the experience for everyone else. He had taken great care to separate the two cultures his guild inspired and harboured, to make sure consent was given freely in his back room.
"I see." He looked over the image she had painted. The touch of red was lovely, inspired, added a contrast he very much approved of. Bastien pointed to the brush stroke: "This colour looks very good here because it is complimentary to the green tones in your water, which are subtle but there. So in a way, your impatience earlier has actually improved the work. Each painting holds the soul of it's creator, mistakes and redemption all."
To hear the land was gone though, that was sad; it had clearly been a place of import to Melita. "What happened? And perhaps you can take comfort in knowing it still exists here, on this canvas."
Truth be told, she had no idea what complimentary colors were, and had zero knack for anything remotely subtle; so anything positive from her work had been completely coincidental. But she listened, smiling at the notion of her impatience drawing something decent instead of its usual errors, flaws, and miscalculations. “Oh,” she laughed, a warm giggle away from earlier apprehension and distortions, naught claiming her soul but the thought of paintings, canvases, and tapestries containing the soul of their creators; and all the particles laced in between. “That’s a nice way to put it,” and she winked, as if understanding he was trying to make her feel better about her blunders and oversights. She plunged on ahead thereafter too, adding more touches of red to the cliffs, and then switching hues entirely for a segment of brown and sienna, wood of the magical bridge, collected keys, pieces and portions locked away so no one could trespass.
The echo of what happened only caused the slightest damper to her mood – eyes still tracing over what remained, here, now, in her thoughts, transferred, as Bastien had said, upon the sketches and outlines. “A false god tricked everyone.” Kisamoa: I am Kaos, no one seeing it, no one hearing it, until it was too late. “Eventually, even our deities couldn’t conquer him. He destroyed everything, and those that survived were plunged into the Rift.” A snarl might have appeared, unbidden, just on the notions and memories alone – she breathed it away, concentrating on the contortions of wood, not allowing any pressing shadows to touch the fibers.
Melita's wink and the phrasing 'a way to put it' implied she did not really believed what he had to say; Bastien simply laughed, shrugged and accepted this. You could not convert everyone into an artsy philosopher and that did not mean their work had little value. In fact, he loved to see the art made by people who were self-professed amateurs, who had never done it before in their lives. There was always an honesty to it, something that got lost after years of practice and learning how to deceive an eye.
Her work was especially interesting because of the way her emotions in the moment seemed to effect her brushstrokes. Slow, for this moment of sad reflection.
"I see...it seems the Gods in many worlds are the cause of a lot of conflict. It was the same in mine, though different, because they were...ah...not so visible." He hadn't even been sure if he'd believed on Earth. On Caido there wasn't really a choice. "Do you find you can call this place your home, now?"
The girl finally meandered over the glories of the sun, dipping her brush into a chaotic blend of orange, crimson, and yellow, yearning to embody fire, heat, molten, infernal splendor – a conflagration that set hearts aflame and protected, guided, their efforts. Prices to pay for a world embedded and ensconced in desert – except not to her, who simply prayed and reigned amidst the grandeur, the opulence, the splendor, of bliss in the cinders. They were light touches and strokes at first, like days spent in her childhood, airy steps and skips over the particles of sand, the granules of vehemence, laughing and playing, until the rays were stretched, broadened along the horizon.
While she worked she listened too – pondering over these Gods of many other worlds. “Not visible?” She inclined her head and wrinkled her nose, possibly trying to imagine; though in some cases, weren’t the deities here intangible too, encompassing their omniscient, omnipotent wiles into the vestiges? The girl pondered, hummed under her breath upon reflection. “What were they like then?” Cruel? Vindictive? Absent? Sometimes Helovia’s shrines had been cracked and fissured, marks of abandonment for seasons and cycles – and then the notion ceased, when Bastien maneuvered into another query.
Home? Was this home? She’d managed to survive a year here, despite illness, despite monsters, despite all the other things thrown their way. “I suppose so.” A smile, a shrug, because it wasn’t Helovia, and she was grateful it wasn’t the Rift – and perhaps she simply needed more time here, when the weight of yesteryear’s memories weren’t so daunting or precious. “What about you?” Now that he was married, with a guild, and everything else?
Bastien watched carefully as Melita went to paint the sun; there was some raw talent in this fighter, it seemed. An understanding of what to glorify, where to spend her time. She had obviously not been trained, small details like perspective and composition more amateur, but the image was one he found he could not dislike. With a little smile he decided to give her something precious, to show his approval.
"You could use some of this." He said, reaching over to grab a small box and open it, showing thin sheets of gold leaf within. "If you put it on your brush and paint over the sun, it will tear and sparkle within the canvas. To accentuate the light." It had been a nightmare for him to accurately describe goldleaf at the market, much less get it made; he was sure this was not actually the same stuff. But it looked similar enough he did not mind and he usually only saved it for his own work.
Melita was confused by his home's Gods; not that he could blame her: he often had been as well. "Mmm...Well, I cannot say I know. God...or, Gods, in some places...was a figure that some lived their lives by strictly, from a book he had left many years ago. Others ignored him entirely...some used his words for evil. Some for good." He shrugged. "No one has ever seen him, though. Or at least, no one I believe. It was a shock for me to come here, where the Gods are so easily met."
He smiled softly as she said she supposed this was home. He knew it was a difficult transition, especially for one as young as Melita, who probably felt snatched away from the developing life she'd had elsewhere. At least he had known how to settle down, had had experience in putting down roots. "Yes, this is my home now. It is where I have flourished artistically, met my wife...married my wife...my only worry is that we could be forced to move on from this world as we were made to move on from our last - and will Rexanna come with me?"
Per Bastien’s suggestion, the youth followed his movements, the opening box, the gold leaf tucked in its enclosure. She gasped, eyes wide with the distinction of awe and inspiration – the picturesque ripples and undulations of gilded formations, the perfect arc and triumph of the sun’s touches, fringes, and grace upon the scene. “This is beautiful!” Melita beheld it with equal reverence, light strokes of her brush polishing and caressing into its sanction, before she placed it upon the canvas, watching as it broke apart into its shimmer, into its emboldened features, accenting, spotlighting, on what could’ve been the Sun God’s rays, power, and distinction. It almost made her cry – a hushed little breath notching its way through her mouth, imagining those days stretched out beneath the arcs and swells of the molten world. “Thank you,” she spoke again, a little quieter, as if too enamored and astonished to pour more of her radiance into the sanction; afraid to spoil the glimmer.
Then she listened to the notion of gods elsewhere; books of their written words, ignored or faithfully applied, twisted or distorted, but nothing seen, nothing immersed, nothing quite like the ones here, the ones in Helovia, She could understand how the way heralds and deities appeared here would’ve been bewildering and confounding. “I’m sure! What do you think of them here then?” The girl left the bitter, rancorous indentations of his chosen lot out of it - since he was an Ascended, since he’d be partial to the Voice – though Melita had never heard of him being involved in anything quite like Wessex.
While she took up painting once more, her head tilted to the side to study, to ponder, she listened to the way he described his roots, his settling; far different from hers, because she rarely ever had time to pick apart the earth and find room for her in it. The fear laden in it though caused her brows to furrow, another wrinkle of her nose in thought. Bastien had been quite successful here in terms of Rexanna, in his art, and possibly in other aspects he craved in life; but the what if always remained. Maybe it was the same for Melita too – the dread of picking up and maneuvering again, leaving things behind, the carnage, the wreckage, the fallouts. “I’m sure Rexanna would always go with you. Or vice versa?” she added, golden gaze alight and pinpointed on him, the truth and veracity coiled in a mischievous smile.
