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!
The blonde nibbled on his lip as he looked away, clearly conflicted. Part of him knew that Deimos was right, but the other part of him was stubborn as fuck. He had hurt someone. Loren said that he personally didn't want to use magic for pretty things, rather for being useful. Shouldn't he follow in his footsteps and do the same thing? Turning to look back at the man, Oliver started to nervously tap his foot, unable to really handle the pent up energy he had started to form. "Would it be okay for me to do that? Like....to not use my illusions for fighting? People wont get mad at me or something?" Genuinely, it was something he had considered, but now he was so afraid of hurting others by using it.
"I....I really would like to practice away from others, use it as a performance art...but would it be okay if I just refused to use it in combat unless absolutely necessary?" it was clear that Oliver was searching for confirmation, verification that he was allowed to continue on in this way of life. He didn't want to succumb to his emotions. He wanted to be more powerful and move on past this. Of course, he'd still be extremely worried about Amun, but a small part of him knew that Deimos was absolutely correct.
"I still want to train....I do, trust me. Learn to fight and defend myself, just not using that magic."
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
The inexperience contorted wildly there, in the midst of other people’s opinions. For the Reaper, for the Sword, who’d never given a damn about how the rest of the world saw him, allowing actions to defy who he was, who’d he become, who he’d always been – this was nothing short of bewildering and perplexing. Why wouldn’t it be all right for Oliver to practice his incantations, his enchantments, his invocations, in the way he saw fit? Why not alter them, since he had no intention of utilizing them offensively? Why not lend and blend them to new tactics and fabrications, instead of letting them fade and waste away? “Yes. It is your choice.” If the youth wished to change his mind later, if something occurred where he was required to utilize them in a different way, what did it matter then? They were his possessions, his talents, his potential, and no one else could take that away from him. Deimos had always owned his abilities – death had been in his skin, in his blood, in each and every movement, and kingdoms had known it, had shied away from it, had maneuvered in its wake. An inquiry still managed to rumble from his chest, arms crossed, the reign of nonchalance still alive and well, though Oliver had managed to notch the slightest inclination of his brow. “Why would people get angry with you?” Better yet, why did Oliver care about what anyone else thought?
The General stared openly at the lad, blinking once or twice at the sway of emotions revolving around the same dilemmas – how he was judged, how he was perceived. The fact remained that only Oliver could give them that ability to hold sway and torrents over his dominion – one person’s opinion shouldn’t have shattered, shouldn’t have broken. “Yes,” again and again, it was okay, it was fine, it was something he craved to achieve – so take it. “The training grounds do not have to be for combative purposes. You may go try it as performance art there.” Where if he lost control, no one was harmed. Where he could hone his capabilities without fear. Where there were few to become audience members, and the ones who wandered amongst its midst wouldn’t grant him any negative connotations. But he couldn't force him - the decisions, resolves, and determinations were of Oliver's own volition.
Gods was it hard to talk to Deimos. Not only did he feel like he was talking to a brick wall, but a very angry and judgy brick wall. He felt like the man was staring into his soul, able to tell whether he was telling the truth or not. It brought out a new side to him and made him reconsider every single little thing he wanted to say. Did he truly think it? Was it actually smart to say it? Nothing Deimos said was easy to respond to. Nothing at all. "I mean....you all are just so much more prepared. You guys know how to fight, you have jobs and careers and places in life...I don't. So it makes sense that some people may be mad at me for wasting any magic on something that doesn't help in the same way....only Bastien would really appreciate it, probably." That much was true, or at least in his eyes it was. Bastien would appreciate the art, but everyone else? They might think he was wasting his magic.
Letting out a sigh, he craned his neck to stare up at the ceiling, clearly struggling to maintain eye contact. Deimos was right in many ways and he was starting to calm down, see that he wasn't cursed and that maybe things would be alright. It was just hard to admit how wrong he was. "Am I allowed to come whenever I want? As long as someone else isn't already here?" He said as he turned to look back at Deimos. He wanted to get better, so maybe he'd try coming here to practice. Away from anyone's eyes but Deimos'.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
Deimos was neither judgmental, nor angry (and if he had been, Oliver wouldn’t have survived his abhorrence, his crushing contempt, or piercing, puncturing wrath). The youth had come to him for advice, and his every intention was to deliver it, from his raw experiences, from his primordial, primeval lifetimes, from his manifestations of war and belligerence and everything else locked, loaded, and in between. They were two contrasting individuals – the Sword’s granules of apprehension and consternation were usually limited to battlefield tactics, prowess, and if his family, his loved ones, were under duress, or some ominous, foretold disaster; the rest could be altered, framed, or dealt with amidst tactics, Machiavellian prosperities, or whatever else was necessary, required, to achieve the desired ends. He’d never bothered with anyone else’s speculation of himself – Deimos had always known exactly who he was. It was the future that was precarious, eroding, and incapable of understanding. So he remained just as stoic as he had been, no sudden inflections, no grumbling overtures, no sparks of derision or sedition, still continuing to try and formulate patterns of thought Oliver would understand, could utilize, would fathom.
The preparation note was strange – but if Oliver was tracing over juxtapositions, correlations between one and the other, then that was unfortunate – to place himself all below them, simply due to the weight of their circumstances, their days of prior oblivion. “We have been here far longer than you. We have had more time.” More opportunities, more mistakes, more mishaps, more trials, more tribulations – Oliver was a fledgling in their midst, simply because of when the portal, the Voice, had plucked them from their other worlds. “You should not compare your growth to someone else’s. We all learn and experience things at different rates.” Some didn’t discover their abilities until some fortuitous event. Some didn’t claim a talent, an occupant, until there was a catalyst, a band of movement and motion settling it ablaze. Some tried and tried and tried, until an achievement sizzled into their hands. But none of them spent their hours bemoaning their lack of success – there hadn’t been time. He settled further against the table, leaning into the wood, arms manifested in their crossed position along his chest, a wall of strength, fortitude, and might. “And still, no one would be mad at you.”
The other man looked away and Deimos almost snorted. He waited in the midst of silence, calm and controlled, composed and contorted, living, breathing machinations and carnivore intricacies. Eventually, amidst the hushed platitudes, Oliver seemed to yield a little to the notions the General had attempted to manifest into the air – tilting his head slightly at the inquiries. “Yes.” A pause, pondering why Oliver thought another might have more sway, more say over him, why the fields needed to be completely cleared out, no one there to see – unless he yearned to maintain a furtive, specious, secret edge. “Even if someone is here. You are to free to use this place whenever you wish.” Hadn’t that been the purpose of this venue? To train? To harpoon? To unleash whatever they yearned to practice, to maintain, to uphold and behold skills?
Even if people had been there longer, he still felt like he wasn't prepared enough. It was hard for him to not feel that way, no matter what Deimos said to him. Gnawing on his lip, Oliver turned his eyes to look away, struggling to come up with a response that actually sounded logical. Deimos....was right. And Oliver could try his best to deny it, obviously, but most likely he'd fail. "I mean...if you say so?" He wanted to argue, clearly, but he had nothing to say that wasn't easily refuted.
Sighing, he looked back at Deimos. He was conflicted, still, but what else could he do. Deimos made it clear he still had opportunities to learn, that he should absolutely learn, and that nothing was stopping him from coming here. He had absolutely nothing to argue about and no excuses to not become a better person. "If you....if you had any advice you could give me...something you've learned over time since coming here from personal mistakes or mistakes in others...what do you think I should do to become better?" What mistakes have you seen me make that you know I need to fix.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
If you say so echoed, and his brows furrowed, as if a dare for more arguments and refrains. He wondered if the youth wanted advice at all, if he was tempted to merely quarrel with whatever sagacity was bestowed upon him – but then there were sighs, and he seemed to either accept the notions, or found no use in alleging further claims. Perhaps that was fine too, since Deimos would likely have proceeded in the same venue.
The next question though claimed an arch of his brow, a further leaning back into the table, supporting his weight while he processed, mused, and pondered. He could only guess or surmise what Oliver had experienced – several seasons and cycles of Caido could warrant an assemblage of trauma, successes, failures, triumphs, and everything else scattered in between. His own had been a set of meager glory and embittered entanglements, family found, loved, and cherished, and power, devastation, and ruin battering at his fringes. The depths of his gaze peeled away from Oliver and onto the walls, onto the maps, onto the pieces and portions of this world they’d helped him create, orchestrate, to defend – and then anything else he’d learned over these particles and regions, from portals, to barriers falling, to warnings listed, to falling sovereignties. Had it only been a year? Eventually, his fathoms returned to the younger man. “Be prepared to listen, learn, and grow from your mistakes. Because you will make more, and so will the rest of us. But if you refuse to do anything about it, then nothing will change.” And the revolutions would continue, on and on and on – if they all kept their heads buried in the sand.
Oliver had initially come to Deimos because he felt guilty. He wanted to find out how to handle his magic that had seemingly hurt more than it had helped. Possibly it was him refusing to see the truth all along or maybe Deimos' words had actually helped, but he did feel a bit better about what happened. He had hurt Amun and he couldn't ignore that, but he wouldn't allow his mistake to stop him from ever using his magic ever again. Oliver would be able to learn from his mistakes and end up helping others instead.
The words bestowed on him echoed in his head. They were a bit generic, but also extremely true. Oliver knew that he had a lot to learn. His life in Caido hadn't been hard in the slightest in terms of actual danger, the most he's dealt with were personal issues with other people. He had time to learn, hopefully, before anything bad happened. "Thank you....I'll try my best to learn how to use my magic because I don't want to hurt anyone ever again...only if it's an emergency or others are in danger." Oliver would defend the majority if he could. One person gone rogue was enough to make him actually cause harm.
"I should probably let you get back to your work...hopefully I'll be able to visit here for some proper training. Probably after Fiat Lux seeing as I need to help prepare for it and all." Oh how much he needed training. How badly he'd need the strength and guidance to help him to learn how to defeat the mud monster. Maybe if he had trained more beforehand, things wouldn't have gone so far south.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
Perhaps it would help. Perhaps it wouldn’t. It all hinged, depended, and mattered on Oliver’s ambitions and aspirations; the Sword had granted and given what he could (though, if it was so generic – why hadn’t Oliver thought of it himself?). Being willing to try, to attempt, to do something other than wallow or whine would impact the younger individual probably more than he realized; and so Deimos nodded to the credentials, convictions, and anything else Oliver sputtered in the haze. It might change over time again and again, as more things came to light, as more dangers settled into the fold, as more powers came to him.
Then he seemed to want to make a swift retreat; and so the General nodded once more, deep, rumbling tones proffering the same as before. “You are welcome.” Welcome to the wisdom, sagacity, and the use of the training grounds for whatever purpose he deemed a necessity, for whatever strides he was striving to gain. Thereafter, they could both be on their way, Oliver to wherever, and Deimos back to the swords, back to the makeshift arena.
