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!
Had Loren said anything at all, Deimos would have instantly stopped – a routine, a structure of safety and accord he usually built around training purposes. This wasn’t an interval of massacre and destruction – the Sword knew and understood the difference well – and between the skills displayed, the entertainment provided, he believed Loren would have informed him when too much was simply too much. The swipe of a paw, Loren’s unshifted, still human form, and everything combined together seemed to be just that; a let me know if you do not want to- segmenting through the attuned materials, and not mattering when there was a cracking of bones, clattering, and passed out conflagrations.
A call for Jigano ensued, an intermission persisted and prevailed, and the hulking beast maneuvered back, out of the way for healing to commence. Ravenous and rapacious any predator may be, but the General prided himself on control, and didn’t sink claws or teeth into the already injured man, eyes lingering on the scene, on Rexanna with an ursine nod. Then he lowered himself into an almost sitting position, waiting. Apologies pulsed out too, uncertain if Loren could even hear him. An enveloping power and prowess he hadn’t even been aware of – brutality and barbarity he hadn’t meant to fully unravel.
Jigano was as good a healer as Loren was now, and the bard was able to put the summoner back together in no time. Still, when he finally came back to his senses, he sent a pulse of his own magic through his body. A wave of sky blue rolled over him, chasing away the last lingering aches and pains. ”Thanks Jigano.” With that, the Launceleyn rolled to his feet.
He stalked over to Deimos, the movement distinctly predator. No apology necessary. I take it we’re shifting next. I’m ready. This time, Loren’s thought was only for the General. With that, the summoner shifted into a honey badger and swiped at the other man. The Launceleyn’s claws were aiming for any spot that was convenient after the other man shifted.
Healing commenced, finalized, and ensnared – once everyone had returned to their positions and behind the perimeter, the barrier, the fight ensued and unraveled once more. There was half an instant where Loren seemed entirely renewed, the spirit, the vigor, the fervency of the onslaught back from when it’d started, and the bear regained his stature, maneuvering onwards, no regrets left to utter from either side. The badger took shape, and Deimos was ready.
It was also much faster than his current form; and it made sense, given the size differentials, and no sooner had the ferocious, feral intricacies of Loren’s newfound shape sauntered forth, did his slashing claws rip across Deimos’ left forelimb. The General wasn’t surprised – would’ve expected it amidst the circumstances. The briefest of snarls, hackles raised, coiled over his refrain, but he was otherwise silent in the pain, the trickle of blood, the shearing of fur, something he’d earned, something that could be repaired. He could almost sense a Zuriel eyeroll from somewhere in the midst, another shrug and undulation of his shoulders, maneuvering, rippling assignations of a brutal, barbaric force.
The form still quite foreign to him, he lumbered forward, then wound back the uninjured front paw once more, the long claws and demonstrative strength, power, and might behind the motion should’ve been enough; intending, aiming for any contortion of Loren’s figure.
Loren was quick, yes. But not quick enough to avoid the swipe of Deimos' paw; it took the summoner in the side. While the thick fur and layer of fat on the honey badger protected him from serious damage, it did open three long gashes on his side.
Worst, the sheer force of it sent him bowling across the ground. Eventually, he rolled to a stop, some distance away. Springing up with a snarl, he sprinted back towards the General.
Leaping into the air, he shifted into a goose mid-leap, wings pumping rapidly. His target was the other man's face. He was aiming to peck around the eyes, batter them with his wings if he had to, basically anything he could manage to damage or irritate.
Astute and scrutinizing even beneath the bear contortions, the Sword watched as claws met fur, gashes slashed into the honey badger’s side, the ferocity, force, and vehemence sending him spiraling along the ground – a slight inward wince for the summoner’s latest upheaval. No time for any other measures – the fellow hybrid shifted once more, a form he hadn’t seen before, and the goose came sailing for him – a distinct notion of his face, his eyes, anything lacquered there as the designated target.
Naturally, since he was in no position to move quite as quickly, quite as swiftly, he ducked. Shoulders hunched, head tucked, the goose’s talons went sliding over the top of his cranium, gliding over fur, but nothing else, like a petulant breeze. A close call – and a proclamation that with Loren’s already newly-gained wounds, they should be maneuvering towards an end. A finale. A show.
Magic now? he proffered and extended, shifting back to his human figure, still colossal and mighty, but not nearly as lumbering as the bear designations. No need for the armor, the blade, or the shield at his feet however, waiting, presiding, the warning given and granted, giving the other dueler time to adjust, before a ball of fire curled in his hand. It echoed in pieces of a burnt-down guildhouse, of power and vehemence, of things he still couldn’t save, portions of legacies and lineages passed down in latter stages. His eyes glanced down at its flaming remnants, then back towards Loren, grounding himself, a breath, an inclination towards precision, before throwing it, just aiming, intending, for it to the summoner any place it could sizzle, sear, and reach.
Deimos avoided Loren's wildly out of control attack via the simple expedient of ducking. The summoner, not expecting this, and perhaps overestimating his flying abilities, or underestimating the severity of his injuries, went sailing past, flying labored. Then the General's voice distracted the Launceleyn further.
All that was to say, in pain, distracted, not skilled at flying, he was barely able to control his course. Which is perhaps why he crashed into the edge of a weapons rack. He slid down it, cartoon style, and somehow managed to hook a flailing wing on one of the practice swords. The sword was pulled down, and it bumped the shield next to it, toppling that as well. That led to a chain reaction where the entire set of practice weapons fell down in an almighty clangor.
Stunned for a moment, Loren finally pushed his way out of the pile. Yeah. Magic now. I think that would be good. Shifting back to human, he stalked closer to the other man. As the summoner walked, a sky blue wave coursed through him, healing the damage he'd taken. That doesn't count. With that, the Launceleyn settled in for a real fight, calling upon a different magic entirely.
Before he could do much of anything, Deimos sent a ball of fire winging towards Loren. In response, the summoner sprinted to one side, and the fireball missed by a hair, though heat singed his back. Let out a cry, water exploded from the Launceleyn. It turned into steam, and he sent a wave of it coursing towards the General.
Deimos pretended not to see the absolute wreckage of a crash into the weapons rack, an inward cringe sufficing for a nonchalant reaction – distracted anyways by the inevitable rush of magic searing and sizzling around them. It was unfortunate the fire contorting through the air, snapping and crackling, missed, though he’d long since grown used to the lamentable surge. Perhaps he ought to have trained more in those precise skills, and he made a mental note of it for the next round of training along the barracks. Otherwise, he scrutinized, watched, and witnessed as water come pouring from Loren – a wave of steam churning, barreling towards him.
He maneuvered quickly, but it didn’t matter – the rush of hot, sweltering steam pummeled at his already injured shoulder, burning along the fabric of his clothes, scorching the skin underneath. Despite being used to conflagrations, being blown up on occasion, and the general simmering touch of the magic billowing in his veins, the pain still curled, contorted, and lamented, placed on top of the bruising filaments. He didn’t release any outcry of misery or woe, clenching his jaw, fighting the vitriol with a rushing torrent of air through his lungs. A commendable effort on Loren’s part – because it was truly an agonizing rasp along his flesh.
In response, the beast remained rooted to his spot along their makeshift battlefield, unfurling breath after breath, placating the pain while streamlining the pulsing beat of his life drain (it hollered and howled from within; as if yearning to be set free, unraveled, uncoiled) towards the Launcelyn. A menacing wake settled from his essence, from his presence, stark and cold, intending to snag and snare at his opponent; one last movement and motion for the masses.
Loren was soon back on his feet and Jigano backed up to return to the crowd once more, rejoining Rex and Remi with a rueful smile. The clash of beasts behind him quickly brought his attention back to the battering combatants and their bruising display of brute strength and broad paws. He tensed, wondering if he'd be hurrying back to heal the same arm a second time as blood was spilled, but Loren shed a badger's claws for a bird's wings and he held his breath in case the bear should catch the goose on Loren's flyby. That portion of the match ended in a draw, though. for which he was quietly grateful.
From fur and feathers to fire and water they went, Loren's lithe dodging able to withstand Deimos's conflagration, though just barely. The steam that seared in the fireball's wake was startlingly effective, the first real reversal of luck since the match began, and Jigano let out a whoop of encouragement. The General simmered silently in his impromptu bath, too stoic to let out a sound of discomfort, but Jigano sent a wince pulsing through the Attuned bond, recognizing that the big man was withstanding no minor inconvenience.
"I think it's almost over now," he murmured to Aoife conspiratorially. "Does the princess wish to bestow a flower crown upon the winner?"
As Loren felt the now annoyingly familiar sensation of his energy being sapped by Deimos' life drain—it seemed like every single limb was dying, and it was getting harder and harder to think—the summoner let out a growl. He could heal the damage, of course, but a soft blue glow wouldn't be much of a show.
So instead, he gathered together all the steam, along with a whole lot more water that he pulled from the surroundings and created, and sent it all coursing towards the General. Then the Launceleyn froze it, trying to incase the other man in a block of ice, or at least catch some part of Deimos in it.
She moves back when Jigano does, satisfied that Loren’s wounds and healing have worked, and she shoots Deimos a quick glance of a smirk once theyre settled once more and the battles begin. Shifts and magics, weapons and armor, and she shifts her parasol to settle while she lingers and Jigano murmurs to Aoife. She remains quiet, verdant gaze wide as she follows the battle ahead, watching ice become formed. A brief smile crossing her face at that, as though Deimos had any qualms when it came to ice or the cold. Though she doesn’t let anything on, doesn’t say anything.
The familiarity of strength recoiled, the drawn, tethered lines of the potent magic receding and compelling – beseeching and leeching from another, how he’d stolen lives in our other worlds, how he’d snagged and brutalized and warned and they’d refused to leave. Except this kingdom was different, and the prowess of the sliding iniquities fettered back into his lungs, into his dark, harbored, harpooned soul, eyes narrowed to watch over what feral regard Loren would unleash.
Water, but honed and turned to ice – and any other time he would relish its sanctity, alive and well and whole in the cold, in the reaches of paralyzing chill, in the rush and release of chilling, formidable, strong, enduring capabilities. It wouldn’t have bothered him, to be encased in its familiar embrace; like brambles and nettles of places that were home, distinct and clear, mountain ranges, rising towards heavens he would permitted within. Except to be sheltered in its calamity now wouldn’t have been entertainment, wouldn’t have been a show, and so he only smirked at its edges, its fringes, another goodbye to an old, dear friend – before flames billowed back along his surface, his palm, melting the blocks before they could lance or lace upon his skin.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun.
Well done the Sword presided towards the Launcelyn, insistent praise earned and respected, and then a shuddering of breath, a loosening of a sigh, a withholding of pain as the burns, the bruises, and the claw marks reigned their existence upon his own. Masking it entirely, save for moments of clenched jaws, a spiraling wince from someone else (Jigano?), he turned back towards those gathered, who’d deigned them worthy of a spectacle enough to bear witness to feats of strength, to trials and tribulations. “Thank you all for coming. I hope we provided entertainment and a brief insight into some of our defenses.” The slightest of smiles, an indentation of mischief in the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t last long, as Zuriel bounded along the perimeter, irritation flickering through their connection. He ignored her for the moment, still gesturing towards the audience, and then back to the haphazard waste of fallen weapons. “Please look over anything within the militia stall.” Maybe they would ask questions. Maybe there would be some interest. Maybe getting themselves torn apart would mean something to someone. Maybe it would encourage or inspire.
Then he stepped over the boundaries, the unicorn’s glare fixated on him as she approached with a haughty, indignant sigh, the glow of her horn fixating on the marks, the bruises, the burns, while he intended to set the munitions rack to rights.
Deimos burned away the ice, and Loren grimaced. However, the General signaled the end of their exhibition. Good match. And if there was the slightest bit of frustration in the Launceleyn’s mind, well, he was mostly annoyed at himself at how far he still had left to go.
Gathering up the steam and water, the summoner cooled it all, and shooed it out to the actual agriculture portion of the Fields, where it would do some good. Only then did he heal the damage from the life drain, though he dampened his magic’s light for once, choosing to forgo visible healing just as Deimos did for now.
After the pretty little speech, Loren joined the General in setting the weapons rack to rights. Then the summoner saluted Deimos. After that, the Launceleyn meandered over to the opposite end of the area. He slipped his hands into his pockets as he waited to see if anyone wanted to approach.
