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!
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Evening swept into his eyes, his movements, his motions, and he was a part of the shadows, the darkness, the waves of starlight and heartache. For a few scarce, scattered moments, he wanted to do nothing but rend and scatter things apart, into the piercing shrouds and veils of midnight, destroy, destroy, destroy. But he had naught and no one to flay apart. He had naught to do but wallow, or move onward, forward, trying, striving, attempting.
The irony, fact that he was here again, kneeling at a shrine, asking for a god’s assistance in something he couldn’t mend, soothe, or assuage (never had; a man built for destruction, for demolition, for wreckage), was not lost on him. There were echoes of worlds before and they were fringes of the here and now, ghosts on the edges of his gaze, wraiths and phantoms puncturing down the traces of his spine. Safrin might have told him once to look within, to snag and pull at the strength he already held – and maybe that just wasn’t enough now. Not for Amalia.
Zuriel hovered over his shoulder, and the stardust collecting on the glassy walls of the windchimes, the ambience of serenity and tranquility, couldn’t settle, couldn’t entangle its way into his soul. A breath, a pause, a weight in his abyss, in his void, before his hands extended gifts, offerings, as if he wasn’t putting a part of his entity into the craft, as if he wasn’t begging and pleading. Another lantern billowed and contorted from gilded palms, darker traces of shades, tinier stars etched into its ambience, traces of fire placed within, placing it along the altar, staring upon its essence. He felt the outlines of the other objects resting in his pocket, blessings he likely didn’t deserve to ask for – tired and exhausted, emotionally wrought and spent. Safrin, a quiet murmur in the connection of attuned animals, because his voice couldn’t take it right now. May I have some guidance?
And perhaps there’d be no response (again and again), and that’d be the answer to everything after all.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
The world darkened and pulsed , an indication of the arrival of the goddess. The darks and shadows bled away to vibrant jewel-tones, and overhead stars winked and twinkled more brightly than they had any right to do.
Appearing in a long white gown, the goddess was seated on the shrine. With a soft hum that might have been the early strains of a song, the Sword would find himself reinvigorated in body and soul, if not in his heart.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
There were no expectations for this visit, beyond the notion of why he’d come; perceiving, presuming an absence of divinity to continue his wayward struggles with deities and answers. It would’ve been a habitual, routine state, to walk out with no reply, with no response, to continue mustering his own means and predilections, naught but a sigh tucked between teeth and tongue.
Except – darker folds flooded and pulsed, shadowed veils creeping over twilight abyss, giving away to hues and blends that might’ve reminded him of auroras, of summits with their ethereal, otherworldly qualities, a bright, stark trace nearly blinding him with veracity and bewilderment.
Then she was there, hums and gowns, and he blinked away the surprise, the shock, piercing eyes shifting to the ground, head hanging almost immediately. He waited for some rebuttal, for the cold to sink into his bones, for the world to twist and turn on itself. Instead, a raw energy pervaded, and any exhaustion, despite the twisted curls of agony in his chest, seemed to vanquish; renewed, revitalized, confused at it altogether. “Thank you for coming,” was all he could manage at first, uncertain of how to proceed. Did she know? Wouldn’t she? “Amalia’s paralysis,” was where he eventually began, striving to reach past the torturous efforts of describing or imagining the event again. “The healers could not mend her legs. Is there anything else that could be done?” Only then did he lift his eyes back up to her. He'd already set up ramps, a chair waiting in the wings, if the Shield deigned to comply with any of it - pondering, wondering, if this was beyond his means all over again.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
Weariness crinkles the goddess' features; her brows narrow as her chin lifts slightly, regarding the Sword and knowing that of this, he'd not lie or exaggerate. "They should be able to.." She says under her breath. Safrin had been understandably occupied whilst the building had fallen on Amalia, but there was more than enough healing within the Grounds to have reset bones and repaired pathways.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
He watched as her expression changed and altered, the uncertainty segmenting somewhere in his bones, coiling along his marrow, tissue, and skin. They should be able to echoed, and he swallowed down the dread, the apprehension, that something was amiss or off. That it shouldn’t have been this way. That there was a possibility of more repercussions or disasters, an underlying current he wasn’t capable of fathoming.
Perhaps who’d done the healing mattered, and he could understand those fathoms and requests, pondering where strengths were administered, where some might not be enough. Memories formed and bristled in his mind, parsing along those who’d gathered in the wake of the disaster, who would’ve been capable of tending to mending. “Jigano and Zuriel,” a nod of his head indicating the unicorn at his side, and the mare might’ve straightened. Amun had the staff in his hand – familiar and crimson. Had it been used towards the Shield, or himself? “Possibly Amalia’s staff, and those working in the infirmary.” Soothing, mending, and assuaging, and still, with all this magic – had her injuries been too devastating? The wounds too monumental, the incantations surveying what they could do, what they could repair?
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
Softly the goddess nods. "Unicorns, for all their splendor, can only do so much." She concedes. "And perhaps Jigano was holding back? He does so like to be needed, you know." This was said with no small amount of venom; the goddess' dislike of the Sage was no real secret after all. "But those like him and Loren have the ability to speed along her recovery, though it will take time..."
Narrowing an eye with a hint of amusement, the goddess offered the monolith of a man a coy shrug. "Unless you'd like things sped up...to dance at weddings or whatnot..."
Oh she knew. How could she not? A delighted but mischievous smile tugged at her perfectly painted lips, waiting to see how this quip might be received.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
He ignored the barb towards Jigano – tempting as it was to dig into it with relish and rage, come out with more grudges, this one couldn’t be pinned on the Sage. Deimos had seen him working, striving, trying, stitching and mending bones alongside Zuriel, Amun holding the staff, everything else spiraling back. Time. It would just take time. Time while Amalia suffered and chastened, agonized and doubted; another patient, foreboding, waiting game he’d otherwise have no spurning towards. Except it was the Shield – and there was not much else he could do. So the General nodded, a silent acceptance, even if he didn’t care for the answer. Even if he’d been yearning for something different.
His expectations were instantly warped in another direction though, uncertain about the narrowing of her eyes, entirely too coy, bemused, and given the situation, given the ruminations over why he’d come, he nearly shied away from it, his senses sharpening until her voice spun along stars. Weddings. Dances. Things that felt like lifetimes ago.
Then he snorted.
“For her health and wellbeing,” he answered first, the seriousness still not sliding off, neither used to being teased, taunted, or prodded at by a deity, much less Amalia’s herald of choice. There was no race here towards altars and promises; his conviction hadn’t changed. His eyes were narrowed too, before giving in slightly, only the tilt of his head indicating any other sentiment – curiosity, the weight of acceptance somewhere in the midst of his shoulders. Wanting to be enough. “You approve then?” Even if it had come across lighter, almost diverting and self-deprecating, he might’ve craved it for Amalia, for himself, for being worthy of such things. “Would you be willing to come?” Whenever it happened?
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
Safrin's lips twisted into an amused shape. "Must you always be so serious." She said with a tut, faux disappointment rife in her enigmatic gaze.
"Approve?" Well that was certainly a strange thing to be asked. "It isn't for me to approve or disapprove really. Your soul is still tarnished by magic, so no, in the grand scheme of things you'd never be as ideal match as I would like for one such as her. But we all have our flaws I suppose, and you've some back from the dead to try and work on yours, so.." Elegantly her shoulders rise and fall.
"But she loves you entirely, and you her. Some might say that is all that matters."
Then with a wide and genuine smile now, no cloak and daggers, no whispers of untold secrets, Safrin merely nods. "Why sugar, I'd not miss it for the world."
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Sword shifted, tempted for his spine to go rigid and taut again at the feigned disappointment, uncertain of how to answer, save for a shrug at the notion of always being serious. “Not all the time,” he prospered with a hint of a smile, but in truth, they were rarer and rarer still; gone from those hours of hurling flour at friends, or spinning along in makeshift mischief and dances. Stuck, eternally, in either grating into the shadows or hiding behind his walls, his nonchalance, his reserve. She would know anyway. She would’ve seen – days where he dared to unravel and unfurl just a little.
But then the sanction of not enough beckoned over him, and he’d known it was coming, understood the truth for what it was. To hear it confirmed wasn’t a surprise – not worthy or deserving of Amalia, of any semblance of that devotion or conviction (hadn’t he said it of himself all along?), but willing to try and strive despite the condemnation. So Deimos didn’t look away when the veracity hit, when the truth pummeled, nodding, indicating his understanding and the galaxy’s reproof. The acceptance had already long been instilled in his soul; the self-deprecation alive and well; flawed and flawed and flawed, snorting, the slightest laugh, when she noted his attempts since reincarnation to do something about it.
Rather than sink, rather than spiral; enticing as it was.
His eyes flicked over starlit voids and abysses, the smallest of sighs funneling through his lungs. Lucky enough, fortunate enough, to have Amalia at all – a nod in the reel of that love, and everything else that had come with it. She’d promised to be there, for her Shield, on smiles and serenades instead of enigmas, and this prospered the first real grin out of him too. “Thank you,” embarking and present on some relief, on some light in the darkness. Then, perhaps bolder still, the opportunity here and now, his hand went into his pocket, dropping his gaze from the goddess only to ensure the artifacts were in his grasp.
Rings: gilded and star-adorned, representations of bonds and convictions, pressed and concocted from his own enchantments. He’d been drawn to conspire and ignite more magic, more capabilities, into Amalia’s, but had thought better of it. His wouldn’t equate to something Safrin could endeavor or perform, if she was agreeable, amenable to the notion. Tucking his back into his palm, fully aware he wasn’t worthy of asking for himself, he extended the one destined to be the Shield’s towards the deity. “Would you be willing to bless Amalia’s?”
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
“Well good.” His smile brought out one of her own, winking in his direction despite the minuscule display of joy he’d shown her. Surprised that he laughed rather than threw daggers at her as he might have done, Safrin raised a brow. “It isn’t entirely your fault of course. Your soul was tarnished in a world....without our issues, you might say.” She shrugged. “We all make the best of what we’re given, though you can feel free to take it up with the Voice should you ever choose.”
A challenge, a suggestion, or a death sentence? Who could ever really say with Safrin.
Glancing at the ring offered to her, Safrin took it within her palm knowing well Deimos held his back. “What would you have it enchanted with?” She wondered, having ideas of her own of course, but love...well, love always had its own ideas.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos knew better than to hurl insults or forge into anger here; she had far more power, far more precision, than he ever would. Besides, the fiend had nothing to refute into those statements, had circled the same ferocity and veracity on his own within multiple occasions – surprised, however, when she seemed to either attempt at softening the blow or grant him the slightest clemency. His brow arched (but he wouldn't, didn't, ask), a slow, steady breath again in the echoes and fringes of things beyond his control – worlds filled with magic, expected through bloodline after bloodline, long instilled in his ancestry, fanning into the familiar whims of darkness, then creation, then fire. Born with the predilection, ensuring its use through warfare and insurgency – in Caido though, he’d altered its course.
The mention of the Voice caused him to narrow his eyes, but he didn’t rise to that particular bait either. He had no intention of going to her for much of anything; the last had only been to assist Rexanna – too much hatred and abhorrence towards the blight intervals, and the scrambling events thereafter. The reservations and nonchalance clung to his surface, and he nodded at the information, acknowledging he was always listening; observant in his silence.
Better things thereafter though, gifts and blessings for Amalia, moments forged for the future. He watched as the deity took what he proffering, asking over possibilities, conjectures. While he might have proclaimed an artifact contorted and manifested in power and prestige, that wasn’t the Shield: eternally grasping for existence and all its tethers, lines, and tracings, rather than corruption or condemnation. “Perhaps healing?” He paused, mulling over it again. “Something to do with preserving life.”
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
"Preserving life...indeed.." She says with a knowing nod, though there is something deep and speculative hidden in her gaze. "If that is to be it...Bring for me five leaves, all in different states of decomposition...a bone, and fertile soil."
What and why the gods needed these things to do their work was uncertain and quite unknowable. But apparently Safrin wasn't completely through with things the Sword might yet do.
"Should you wish to alleviate Amalia's pain faster than nature intends, the Efas herb, mixed with water taken from the oasis during a full moon and placed within a crystal jar and brought to me...might indeed do the trick. Be warned though, some wounds are worth living through. Pain, like fire, can heal as well as destroy."
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Blessings were not inferior sacraments or rituals, as the Sword soon learned.
He’d never been tasked, much less asked, by a celestial being to do anything (except…likely cease to exist – and since that had already happened once…), momentarily overwhelmed by the directions, but not showing it. The stoic properties of his essence listened instead, taking in the notions one by one as they rang from stars and constellations: decomposed leaves, bones, fertile soil, no explanation in their arts – save for preservation? He might have asked, but then there were more notions, more ways to alleviate Amalia’s circumstances, and his mind collected, conducted those too: the Efas herb (from the labyrinth?), full moons amongst the oasis, crystal jars…
Before warnings. He took those too, wondered, pondered, thoughts eventually to give way over their meanings.
Clasping the ring back into his safekeeping, he nodded his assent, acceptance of the undertakings. “Thank you.” For a lot of things: no other words perhaps; because he was thankful for the opportunity to try.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
"As you were then, Sword." The goddess said once the rings were safely back in his possession.
"You know where to find me when the time comes." And in turn, she'd know where to find him on the day (eve?) of his nuptials. Though just what the goddess had in mind for that particular event was anyone's guess. With a nod of her head, perfectly painted lips twitching ever so slightly, Safrin vanished in a wash of starlight and lilac-smoke.
