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!
She thought she could escape Capturing the Sun by going to Halo.
Turns out the sun is even more prevalent there in the summer, and Wessex has to choose whether the people going on about the Fae and their myth or the actual sun is the greater of two evils.
Two guesses for which option she chose, and the first one doesn’t count.
Wandering in and out of the shadows beneath the walls of Snowcloak, the cloaked and hooded figure walks with a sort of untouchable confidence - arrogance, some might say. The people around her cast glances and then continue about their business, either unwilling to deal with whomever it is or the faintest recognition of a semi-familiar face prompts them to leave her to her wanderings. She’s been there for a while now, coming back with meat every now and then - wandering out of the Tundra with luxere and often gifting pieces-parts to families with children. Not so much benevolent on her part as ensuring the can pass freely, can get help when needed, or information.
So they leave the figure be. For now. They know bribery when they see it (nothing comes for free in their hard world), and they know she’s not like them, either. As long as it’s mutually beneficial - eh, no harm, no foul.
It did indeed seem as though capturing the sun had taken Halo by storm. Neron had watched as they began to make their baskets, as they crafted their presents and told each other tales of the longer days, the great, sprawling woodlands, the winged folk and their customs. He heard too about another part of the custom; about the way Safrin ought to be placated and distracted to stave off the night time. A people who knew the perils of the cold, deep dark would not take much persuading on that front.
So Neron found himself on his way to the main square in Snowcloak, invited by those who wished to sing to Safrin, to lull her back to sleep or some similar notion. It was as he travelled that he noticed the cloaked figure, the Wraith who had made herself useful to Halo’s citizens. The Wraith who was up to a load of other stuff too, but more on that another time.
”You have made yourself a familiar face around here,” he said, addressing her directly. ”Is the land you used to rule no longer to your liking?”
Whether or not she meant to catch the Warden’s attention is unclear; neither his presence nor his company is unwelcome the way she finds his relatives’ to be, yet it also means she has done poorly at floating under the radar. Perhaps she should reconsider her daytime excursions.
Wessex slows as he hails her, turning her head to flash him an ice-blue glance from beneath the dark cloud of her hood. “Spend forty years in a death bubble and anywhere else starts to look like paradise.” Give or take a year or two, and more or less a paradise. A playground, if she can successfully avoid or defeat all the bad things. The faint sound of singing catches her attention, Safrin wafting to her ears. Ugh.
“I see the Fae myth has made it to Halo.” Which may be fine for the ordinary people, but for the two of them? She has never been the star goddess’s woman, and she has a difficult time seeing Neron as devoted to anything but himself, let alone a fickle and capricious deity. He’s smarter than Loren in that regard.
"And who is to say that Halo is not as much a death bubble as your Hollowed Grounds?" Neron asked with a crooked little smile. "Forty years though, hm? You don't look a day over thirty-nine." Dry and snarky it might be, but he felt as though Wessex might appreciate that kind of humour. As the song for Safrin reached them - getting impatient, were the crowd - Neron let out a laugh and shrugged.
"These things have a tendency to proliferate. It isn't necessarily a bad thing here. Not for morale, anyway. I was actually on my way to that very celebration to oversee it." He raised his eyebrows. "Come with me," he invited. "A woman with her feet so firmly on the ground would be welcome company."
“Ha, better get used to this thirty-eight year old face, cause it’s going to stay this way while yours eventually gets wrinkled and flabby.” You know, if they all live that long. Once she thought she’d easily make it into old age, but her tendency to leap into stupidly dangerous situations is starting to be a little dare-devilish at this point. “Those two years make a difference,” she jests back, showing her first signs of womanly vanity to the exceptionally handsome Warden. Joke’s on him in the long run, though.
“Well, why not.” Flattery does get you places, it turns out. She complies with a nod and a shrug, turning from her own objective to follow his lead through the people and the walkways. “Speaking of Goddesses… Have you heard of Eirachi?”
"Oh, my. Do forgive the faux pas - I mean to say you do not look a day over thirty-seven in that case." Neron ducked into a brief but perfect bow, though his smirk betrayed his enjoyment. He found he enjoyed a lot of Wessex's comments and company, and regretted that she was no longer ruler of her death bubble. "I have no doubt that they do. And I don't particularly fancy getting old and flabby. Perhaps I'll join your Ascended cult."
They walked and the singing grew louder, naturally, until they rounded a corner into a square filled with firelight. People were gathered in song and celebration, and a bonfire had been started in the centre of the square.
Gazing sidelong at Wessex, the mention of Eirachi caused an eyebrow to raise. "I have, yes," he said. "The patron goddess of Deepfrost. She is well known here."
She raises a brow at his joke about joining their cult. That’s not something people generally joke about to begin with… but if there were ever a reason for a Launceleyn to join, she can imagine it would be purely out of either vanity or a desire for the ultimate mix of power. “Oh,Warden, don’t tease an old lady with such suggestions. My machine heart can’t take it.” Chuckling dryly, Wessex trails off as the singing grows louder and they enter a square filled with people and a bonfire.
Wary of getting too close to the flames, the Wraith hangs towards the back of the crowd. The song they’re singing is familiar, but she’s not quite ready to make a show of ‘joining in.’ And besides, she has an innocent question or two yet for the Hailstorm. “Quite the deity, isn’t she? All biting wind and white blizzard death… and she wants to expand to the Grounds, apparently.”
”I don’t believe you,” Neron quipped at Wessex with a sharp, amused smile. He got the feeling that her machine heart could take anything he could throw at it and then some, but the time to talk about those specifics certainly wasn’t now. Whilst he was expected at the front (obviously), the Warden followed Wessex towards the back of the crowd, the music vibrating in his bones, the gathered citizens creating a warmth not often seen in the streets of Snowcloak.
The Eirachi, though, spreading her influence into the Hollowed Grounds? It puzzled Neron, something that showed plain on his face, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned. ”She does have quite the flair for the dramatics. And a penchant for turning up when you need her the most,” he agreed. ”I do hope you like the cold in that case, Wessex.”
“Love it,” she replies casually, “But if that’s also a warning, I hear you.” Though she’d already given her word and has a couple of tasks to complete, she’d also thought of the possibility that introducing Eirachi to the Hollowed Ground could do destructive things to her homeland. And while she isn’t brash enough to think that she can overpower the deity, Wessex knows at least that her instruments of pain and cold and the resulting death won’t work. There are options. If things go wrong. Hopefully.
Anyway. “So who do you follow, Neron? Other than the Launceleyns.” She’s still trying to place him - every interaction has been brief and pleasant - but she knows very little about the Warden, and that’s probably by design. Making a small gesture to the singing crowds, the bonfire, she wonders if this comes easily to him. “Know the words?”
If he doesn’t, she’d be happy to tell him, or go grab a cheat sheet so she can use her magic for levelling purposes. to help him appear to know all. Like a good ruler should.
Wessex's sudden interest was bemusing at best, Neron raising an eyebrow at her and offering her a sharp smile, as if to silently remark that he was feeling interrogated. Still, whilst there were (inevitably) secrets held close to his chest, there was not much he did not think he could not share with the masses. "When I was first dropped here from Northaven, the Eirachi found me. It was she who raised me up to the Citadel's Warden," he explained. "So my loyalty is understandably tied to her and to the Old Gods whom she represents."
And yet here he was, batting around the idea of Ascending. Naughty Neron. Did he know the words, though? "I don't need to," he said with a quiet chuckle. "But as a matter of fact, I have done my best to learn them." He gazed up at the bonfire. "Granted, this is the first time in a long while that Safrin in particular has been honoured."
Noting something that looks less like happiness to talk and more like something else, she flashes the Warden a quick smile and quickly explains her reasons for asking. She forgets he doesn’t know her - doesn’t know that small talk isn’t her thing and she isn’t just asking for funsies. “I only ask because she needs someplace cold for her shrine. If I could borrow some of your ice magic, I’m sure it would be more useful than whatever underground hole I can find. And she would be pleased to know you helped.” So saying, she reaches into her clothes and brings out a crystal, ready for him to balk and prepared to offer an easy solution. No biting needed.
Unless, of course, he wants to see what it’s like...
Visibly seeming to relax (and yet not moving even an inch), Neron nodded his head in understanding, his smile softening to something a little less predatory. "I see," he said. "Well, if that is the Eirachi's plan, I would be honoured to lend help wherever I can. Seek me out when you decide to make the shrine, and I'll be there." For now though, there was other work to be done.
The voices rose together in a chorus of song, Neron glancing at the tall heights of the bonfire. "Well, I need to contribute to this spectacle," he said, starting to move forward and into the crowd. "If you'd like to stay back and watch, feel free. I'll not be a moment." And if she wanted to join him - all the better.
The audience parted for him automatically, once whispers of the Warden's presence reached them, and soon enough Neron stood before the bonfire. He raised a hand as the song reached its crescendo, and a ribbon of ice - a starburst, a frosted comet - seemed to wind delicately up and around the bonfire, bathed in its ruddy light.
That was surprisingly easy. With a nod and a simple “Thanks,” Wessex gestures for the Warden to continue to do his duties, following in his wake. Let everyone here see the company she (occasionally) keeps. Using the Launceleyn as a barrier between herself and the bonfire, Wessex stays behind him and to his left, watching the people, the merriment, and that none of it touches her. She has nothing for Safrin. Neither hate nor love, just an indifferent emptiness where all the bullshit she’s been through goes to be absorbed and pushed aside.
But appearances… and he’s done the pretty ice comet thing.
The Wraith sighs to herself, but also reaches her hands up, calling on Neron’s recently cast power as it hangs in the air, concentrating hard enough to send a burst of ice sparkles to accompany the comet - the offering now winding its way through a mirror of the constellations above.
Another case where Wessex and Neron were infinitely similar - appearances, yes, were everything. The Warden himself aligned himself to the Old Gods (mostly, for now) and so it made sense for him to participate in this distraction for Safrin.
As his comet wound about the flames he did spot the extra flair, glancing sidelong at Wessex given that she had raised her hands. He smirked, the crowd around them appropriately awed by the display, and their cheers and applause and song echoed high into the night.
"I wasn't aware you possessed magic," he said quietly, once he was able to get close enough to the Wraith again to speak with her.
