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!
Reconciling with what he had done had been surprisingly hard. He had worried about hurting others when he first found out about his magic, but was basically assured that all would be well. It wouldn't be the end of the world....so why was this so hard? Why was it so hard for him to deal with these confusing and conflicting emotions? He and Amun weren't anything special. Hell, were they even friends? Was it the fact that he had feelings for Amun that made him feel so bad? Or did he actually have guilt over hurting someone?
He had plenty of time to think about this, laying alone in his bed alone with his own thoughts, walking around the Hollowed Grounds, or really doing anything where his thoughts could haunt him. Eventually it got bad enough to where he wanted advice, he kept changing what he thought and felt and things hadn't gotten any better. There weren't too many people he felt like he could go to. Obviously, they should be an Abandoned. Someone he knew or at least had spoken to once or twice. Then, they must at least have been an abandoned for a long time, to have tons of experience. That drastically narrowed it down to a very select set of individuals. Loren...Loren he couldn't go to, no. Remi as well would be a bad choice, simply because he'd be too embarrassed to admit what happened. That left Deimos.
Deimos should be a good choice, though, Oliver is now under the belief that if he chooses to reveal everything, any friendship that might form between him and Deimos would be lost. There's no way Deimos would want to be friends with a man who hurt others with his magic, especially in the way he had. Maybe he was too close to Loren or Remi, afraid of losing them. Deimos was someone hadn't formed an emotional attachment to....it'd be fine.
The barracks was the optimal place. Yeah, Deimos could stab him and kill him, but also they'd be alone. The guildhall was far too public and Oliver figured people probably wouldn't be going to the barracks often. With his heart pounding in his ears, Oliver arrived to the military base. "Deimos? Are you here?" He called out, looking around for the man who would hopefully be able to soothe his worries.
Mid-morning found the heathen in the clutches of the barracks, shifting the armory shelving, restocking their wares, before finally grabbing hold of a sword to practice. He maneuvered along the outskirts of the training grounds, eyeing the catapult tucked along the corners, but relegating himself to the proportions of the targets instead of the volleying sweep and force of the ballista’s menace. Today it was his strength, his precision, his malice alone; a roll of his sleeves, long hair twisted back, an undulation of his muscles, a roughened contortion to his motions as he stood before the re-shaped mark, drawing the blade, and beginning the act of honed memories and inherent abilities. Crafted from time beyond time, from lives beyond lives, sharpened and harpooned from days spent along battlefields, amongst campaigns, within tirade after tirade, blistering and scathing amidst tempests and ruins. A figure meant to unravel, meant to devastate, meant to vanquish, his sword cut and twisted, thrust into irreverent lacerations, gone and gone again, fortitude and might behind the potency, the puissance, the pernicious collisions. He only ceased when the pieces of the target were slashed and ribboned again, thoroughly destroyed, left wondering he should create something that could self-repair after they were all said and done with their ramparts and eaves – and then a voice curled over the backdrop, calling for him.
He didn’t expect anyone at this hour, or ever, really, the barracks essentially vacant for now. He wiped his brow, took one last look at the distorted shape, before reconfiguring the echoes, the reverberations, of the voice resounding through his skull. It sounded like Oliver – the particular keen, the slightest puncture of anxiety and apprehension, and he shrugged, maneuvering along the fringes and boundaries until he was at the front portion of the defensive threshold. His guess, estimation, and prediction had been correct, the familiar shock of pale hair and consternation drifting along the front. “Oliver,” he addressed, rounding the corner, the sword sheathed and tucked back into his belt. “What can I do for you?”
Oh shit. Maybe it might not have been the best choice to bother Deimos at a military barracks. a place filled with weaponry where he could easily get stabbed if Deimos were surprised. Luckily, the man wasn't cut off guard and soon the sword was sheathed on his belt, rather than in his stomach.
Trying to regain his composure and not show the fact that he was a small bit intimidated by the idea of Deimos with a sword, Oliver let out a sigh before speaking. "I need some advice...if you're free, that is. If not then I can always come back, don't want to stop you from doing your work and stuff." Yeah, he really hadn't thought this over all that much. Was this really going to go well? Probably not. Hell, Deimos hardly even knew him, why would he want to help him out with his relationship and magic drama?
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
The General managed to maintain a look of complete, utter nonchalance, but the reticence inwardly coiled away in a sensation of bewilderment. Advice? When had anyone come to him for counseling? Planning defensive maneuvers or tactics to invade Spire delusions, underground machinations, and anything else in between was different – habitual, routine, from the days of Helovia and soldier manifestations. Deimos couldn’t even begin to imagine, contemplate, or mull over where his suggestions and opinions were required for Oliver, who always seemed apprehensive, nervous, and fidgety. In regards, the beast remained in his chiseled, calm, composed, and stoic framework, arching only a brow to signify his curiosity. “I can attempt,” to offer direction or enlightenment, but he could think of at least three or four other people that would be better suited. He left that drifting in the ether too – a trial – uncertain exactly what he should or shouldn’t be signifying. The monolith maneuvered to the front door, opening it, an invitation for the younger man to enter. “Come in,” brandished on deep, rumbling tones, insinuating he was neither bothered or terribly busy; morning training’s completed and not moving forward with any more defensive machinations until Rexanna had brought together a council, and he could earn some approval for the diagrams dispersed across the table.
It's kind of amusing how surprised Oliver looked when Deimos had invited him in. He had forgotten that, well, they may actually be talking. Yeah, maybe he figured they'd just talk at the door, but the idea of going inside to talk had completely slipped his mind. With a small nod, Oliver made his way inside. It had been a while since the two had worked on rebuilding the barracks, so it was nice to see what Deimos had chosen to do with the place.
Sadly, he couldn't distract himself with the prospect of seeing what Deimos had changed. Oliver knew he had come here for a reason. It would be unwise to waste the man's precious time, so it was in his best interest to quickly get to the point, no matter how worried he was. Turning to face Deimos, Oliver didn't even bother with asking to sit down or to get more comfortable. He had to just let it out before he changed his mind and backed out.
"I need help with my magic...more specifically, how to better handle it. Everyone says it's a blessing, but right now I feel cursed." Yes, he was skating around the actual problem, but might as well address the general topic. Just to make sure that Deimos was willing to even help him with magic issues.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
It must’ve been exhausting to be anxious all the time. Oliver reminded him somewhat of a bird, nervous and restless, lowering their heads and then peering immediately for predators, the internal mechanisms of their daily struggle to not become prey. He considered this, angling his head a fraction to study Oliver for a moment, before shrugging, casting the sword off his belt and placing it on the table, to be returned to the armory later. Perhaps that seemed less threatening, less voracious, less vehement, less rapacious, intimidating figure. If Oliver were attuned, the monolith might have sent some calm, controlled, composed vibes through the fluid connection all of them shared; instead, however, all he could embody was a collected state, comfortable and confident, leaning against the table and folding his arms across his chest. The pale-haired man appeared to have something on his mind, yearning, waiting to explode, so he merely listened.
Magic – blessings, benedictions, and curses. Deimos hadn’t once considered any of the enchantments blistering through his blood as maledictions; embraced them wholeheartedly, each and every sinuous grind of power and precision, haunting, malicious intentions, factions of destruction, mayhem, and protection. But first, perhaps, to the heart of the current dilemma. “Why do you feel cursed?” What had occurred to label the incantations in such a way?
The blonde most likely wouldn't agree with many of the things that Deimos thought about him. In his eyes, he was just a little cautious and acted perfectly normal. Oliver simply couldn't see how nervous he was, how fidgety he could be and how he looked like he would be spooked at any moment. He'd deny anyone who claimed this.
A weight left his shoulders once the sword was placed down on the table. He hadn't even realized how stressed out he was. It was a combination of him approaching someone he hardly even knew as well as all the pent up emotions he had been creating over this mess.
There was no going back now, Deimos was all ears and he knew exactly what questions to ask. Oliver knew that yanking off the plaster was the best solution, no use beating around the bush. "I hurt someone with my magic...and I told myself I wouldn't....but I still did it. I hurt them and...gods they were so scared." It hurt to think back to how Amun reacted, the true fear he had shown. What he had done was terrible and didn't deserve to be forgiven, but he wanted to know how to move on. How to handle his emotions.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
At one point in his scattered lives, Deimos’ entire existence was built around harming others; soldier manifestations, sent to stages of war to ensure adversaries came no further – and the unraveling tides of his incantations had ensured detrimental odds. He’d been a protector of his kingdom, he’d been disaster and mayhem and hadn’t given a damn about who was in his way; singular warnings before the deadly, nefarious, voracious ultimatums cast their wares into entities and acrimonies. Caido had altered him, less condemnation, less nonchalance, less apathy, and less battles to fight; so he’d adapted, molded, and re-sculpted himself, with the aid and support of friends, family, and loved ones. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that if any of the latter were harmed, in danger, there’d simply be a resurgence of the Reaper. And Oliver? Who seemed fresh and new and unfamiliar with the way all of those things balanced? Of what he wanted to do? Of how he wanted to utilize his enchantments? “So why did you do it?” He asked, the tone easygoing, not incriminating, not judgmental, but striving to get to the heart of the matter. Had it been a lack of control, incapable of wielding his abilities properly? Had it been a spur of the moment thing, impulsive and impetuous? Or something incapable of being explained, driven out of his mind because of the fear instilled?
The blonde searched for any hint of a reaction from Deimos, which completely failed. It was typically hard to read the brute, and this was especially true in this case. Not only did his face give little hints, but his voice did little to help as well. With others it was far easier, but he had chosen to seek out Deimos. He should've expected this. It did help to not see disgust, but he still wanted to know if Deimos' opinion on him had changed.
The man before him asked a short and simple question. Was it simple? The answer should be straight forward, absolutely. "We were practicing- err, training? It was simple stuff. And then we ended up on the ground and I just...I didn't think. I created a fake fire, you know, an illusion. I hadnt been told by anyone that fire is the only thing that can hurt an ascended so I didn't know how scary it would be...and he obviously was terrified. And he was mad because I didn't warn him about the magic and I know I should've told him. I was cocky and I wanted to surprise him, I guess." Once more, all of his emotions were thrown up. He let out a jumble of words and rambled on. It was something he'd need to learn not to do. To not speak so much, to not babble on and on.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
Training; basking in capabilities, unfurling, reaching, reaching, reaching for ways to outmaneuver, outlast, and a likely place to error without control. Oliver admitted to an impulsivity in his drawn illusions and capabilities, in the way fire manifested from his mirages and fabrications, in the pretenses, in the notions of a friend’s terror. The beast’s eyes glanced off elsewhere, pondering the circumstances, and continuing to give no visible reaction. Except Deimos hadn’t encompassed such experiences in his life: precision and control, constant, unleashed warnings, and no feeling, no glimmer of sorrow, of anything other than acrimony when it had to be unleashed upon a foe. They’d had their chances. They’d had their opportunities. They’d had their moments to run and flee. But it sounded as if this was not a similar case or accord – merely foolishness, a juvenile precedence, a showing off, without the art of regret until it was too late. So instead of rampaging further down that road, as Oliver had already admitted to a rash, emboldened response, fanning away from clarity until far later – here and now, the piercing, puncturing depths of his eyes riveted solely on the youth again. “Are you ashamed of how you used your magic?” Because if so, then they could apply, alter, and change how it was utilized.
The tension in the air is clear and all of it is coming from Oliver. It isn't a lack of trust, more of him simply being very pent up. He had a lot of energy and emotions he hadn't quite dealt with. Part of him wished that he could use his magic for good, help others with it...but how? There was so little he could do and the one time he had tried to use it for training, everything went to shit. It was almost as if it were a sign that he shouldn't use his magic, at least the illusion based one. Telekinesis was helpful, but as far as he was aware, nobody would ever benefit from his illusions.
The words cut into him, hard. What the fuck kind of question is that. "Well...yeah, of course I feel ashamed. I mean, I proved even more why people think we're cursed...I hurt someone just because I wanted to win a fight. It was fucking shitty and if I could undo it, I would." Yes, but nobody had the magic to turn back time so there was nothing he could do about it. He knew he shouldn't sulk around, but he just felt like shit.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
The Reaper nor the Sword had ever thought of his invocations as curses. They were weapons, skills, and measures beyond what his muscles, his vitriol, his conviction could produce, a way to turn tides when inborn, inherent skills weren’t enough, or when a shield, a scythe, wasn’t quite enough (the flames in the Monster Hunter’s Guild, the scores of fools rampaging through the Aurora Basin, invasion after invasion). Deimos had hurt many just to win a fight. Just to orchestrate a challenge. Just to triumph. Just to survive. Perhaps Oliver hadn’t experienced those things. Perhaps he would never have to. Perhaps this blunder was just trivial, minor, and minute, one amongst the multitude they would all make further down the roads – forgotten about later on, when the world turned, shifted, and there were hundreds of chaotic imbalances to brace again.
Though, apparently, judging by the way he responded, it was some major, massive blow. The General was half inclined to snort, but with the weight of seriousness pouring from the apprehensive man, he merely remained stoic as ever, presenting options. “Then you wield it another way.” A pause, waiting, pondering if Oliver would simply seethe against the comment, or if they could continue on. “Illusions can embody many fabrications and pretenses. It does not always have to be to someone’s detriment.” Though what he’d experienced, especially in the wake of battles with Confutatis, had been confusion and delusion; a scrape against the senses, trickery and deceit – but there were ways around those too, if one paid attention, if one noticed before reacting. Then, because he had naught to offer by ways of curses (pondering if Oliver had meant to insult him too in such a regard; no offense taken), a final tactic drummed from his vocals. “Learn how to control it.”
To stare at a man who reflected back very little emotion was challenging to say the least. Oliver was so used to being able to read people, to simply pick up on tone of voice, their facial expression, or little actions they did. Deimos, however, refrained from pretty much all of that. He held back and let Oliver know little to nothing about how his mind was processing things. Whether that helped him to deal with his issue would be hard to tell.
Deimos' suggestion earned a wide-eyed expression from Oliver. What the hell was he insinuating? That Oliver had purposefully tried to hurt Amun? How the hell else was he supposed to wield illusions? Oliver knew he needed to control it, that much he could agree with. But with everything else he disagreed strongly.
"How else do you suggest I use my illusions? Other than to defend myself?" His mind reflected back to a conversation with Loren. A man who saw little need for using magic for anything beautiful, rather, it should be used for helpful things. "I was told that magic should be used to be useful. How can illusions be helpful other than for protection? Honestly to me it sounds like I should just continue to use telekinesis like I always have and just ignore my illusion magic entirely." That was a perfect solution, honestly. If he never used it, nobody would get hurt. Simple.
I JUST WANT MY EXISTENCE TO BE MORE THAN TREMBLING
Deimos had always held back; a stoic enterprise, where one couldn’t read the other, where an enemy had no idea what he was contemplating, calculating, or devising, where an adversary didn’t know which direction he’d turn until it was too late. His features sculpted into absolute indifference and apathy had saved him a multitude of times: no one had seen the carnage, the fire tempered behind frost and chill, behind wintry abyss, behind cold voids – and he resumed all those ramparts with those he didn’t know well. It was a composed reserve, carefully constructed and poised until he comprehended, until he understood, until he could drop defenses and walls and fortifications around those he trusted and respected: a number of them had already seen his grin, his mischief, other overtures besides the opus of unattainable, unreachable denizens, but they were family, friends, and loved ones. Oliver wasn’t lumped into any of those categories.
Especially when he asked for advice, but seemed to have little use in listening beyond seething, disagreeing, or staring at him with wide eyes and no ability to process things on his own. “That is your choice,” if he wished to ultimately abandon his illusion capabilities, if they were to be ignored, wasted, settled only into the lay of the land when threatened, when he couldn’t contort or control them any longer. “However, illusions could always be used for art, aesthetics, entertainments, and diversions. You could utilize it during Fiat Lux. Get creative.” He could put on shows, on displays, craft amusements in mirages and images; instead of miring, mooring, and tying himself into only defensive postures, running the risk of damaging or scaring his companions. A portion of the Sword yearned to encourage the youth to think for himself, to experience more than just what others told him, to go out and do, to try, to commit to whims beyond secondhand knowledge. “You are welcome to experiment on the training grounds.”
