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!
Melita probably had known about sentience of things amidst the Rift, but had never heard them described in such a way. While she bounded and leapt, stoking firebrand qualities through the darkening, deepening woods, the visions of yesteryears pummeled through her brain: thorns like claws, warren intoxications pulsing and pulling at legs, the grumbling within shadows, neither human nor beast, the sweeping way of the winds to catch one off-guard. She didn’t notice his voice getting further and further away as she continued her blistering pace, never one to stop and smell the roses, to gaze longingly at anywhere but the path before her – answering into the air, into the storm, while Fangorn hissed and pulsed a warning. “I think I’ve lived in a world like that before too,” she regarded, uncertain if this was a commonplace theme or just certain perils of hell she managed to squander and race within.
She finally realized the gourd at her feet was bothered by something, turning and twisting back around to regard his dire pleas, and as her eyes flickered around, noted Kai’s absence. The slightest sensation of panic, of dread, filled her, and she immediately launched from where she stood, gathering Fangorn in her arms, weapons bouncing against her spine, against her scars, scaling past the vines and buds, the sprouts and saplings, the high-rising canopies pressing everything into subtle shades of darkness.
When she turned the next corner, there he was again – not gone, not vanquished, not spilled across the scene, and she burrowed away the onslaught of terror that had struck at her, loosening a perilous, shaky breath. “I’m here.” She might’ve said that more than once to her sister, sing song and melodic, and then quivering, fumbling, tearing apart. The youth made an attempt to look like she hadn’t seen ghosts or wraiths clambering over her eyes, instead glancing towards where he seemed to remain. “Did you find anything?”
how glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains
She reappears as easily as she vanished, and you are reminded of something you once knew: nymph. She seems kinda nymphish, the way she can vanish and reappear, like maybe she was never all the way here to begin with. Like she really belongs to somewhere else, and he's caught her in between realities.
But she seems unhappy with her reappearance, flustered and furrowed. Is she displeased that you captured her? Are you holding her against her will? "Okay," you reply simply, taking in her shaky breath, the way her face seems somehow paler, her eyes awash with ghosts. Then you smile, stepping toward her suddenly, extending a gentle and inviting hand for her to take, as though she were some sort of wild thing. It's the same way you would soothe your sister, should such a similar circumstance arise. "I'm here, too."
Pursing your lips in sudden thought, you turn back toward the labyrinth, using your free hand to point at the branch of new life that now extends from within. "I was lookin' at this- young buds in the middle. Even though it's wild an' forgotten, it keeps growin' all the time. I like that."
An unbidden shudder rambled through her, phantoms pressing on her motions, and she breathed, grounding, trying not to parse amidst days where she screamed and hollered and searched to no avail; the outcries of mother simpering through their throats until they were raw and the gentle, reverent woman didn’t come, and then her sister –
His hand slid into her own, warm and inviting, settling, pushing her into earth instead of out on the specter-tethers, with only haunting, poignant interludes to guide her along things not serene. A choking rasp quaked through her lungs, and then she nodded, here too, understanding the nuances, the amiability, striving to absorb it for both their sakes. Soothed, the way a restless tempest might be absolved, for the moment, attempting to gather her wits when they shouldn’t have been gone in the first place. Foolish, ridiculous; the panic that had seared in her bones. He was fine. They were fine. They were in the labyrinth and she was strong, she was capable, she was enduring, and she would fight, fight, fight.
His thoughts and animation were enough to distract her, remembering what it was like to be both wild and forgotten, maneuvering and sliding closer with Fangorn at her heels, just as curious and inquisitive. “That’s lovely,” she peered into the new buds, into the sapling upheavals, at the threads of stems and greenery stretching through darkened thresholds and apertures. She quite liked it too – renewal, rebirth, resurgence.
how glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains
"It is," you agree, beaming down at the small leaf buds, the pride and joy of a parent imbuing you as you look down on it. Even though it is older than you, older, perhaps, than anyone here- the delight you find in its persistence cannot be tempered by your youth. "When somethin' survives, despite everythin', an' learns to grow an' change so it can thrive- that's my favorite thing. It's the best gift Rae ever gave Vi's creations." You do not often discuss the gods and their gifts, despite your own divine nature, but in this you are confident. The ability to adjust to situations and become stronger through adversity is the most marvelous thing in the entire world.
Squeezing Melita's hand gently in yours the same way you might squeeze Oia's, you smile down at her and begin to walk deeper, following the path she'd initially begun to forge. "Maybe we oughta stick together from now on. So we can see everythin' together Didja find anythin' yet?"
12-13-2019, 12:58 AM (This post was last modified: 12-21-2019, 09:08 PM by Melita.)
to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
She pressed closer to the leaf buds and the little blooms within a thicket of damnation and itching, crawling, eldritch things, worlds that time or something else left behind, listening, humming, thoughts not truly present again, while Kai mused and she believed. Adapting, growing, thriving, despite anything and everything tossed their way – she wished, she wanted, she craved to be like that. Hours and days and eons spent in the press of shadows had shifted her into demonic embraces just to survive, and then after? Now? She didn’t know what she was besides fierce, protective, and determined, swallowing down the heartache, the residual proportions of years where she’d done nothing but wallow or grieve or spin in cycles and ruts. “Hopefully it will then,” she grinned, drawing back from its greenery, from its verdant bliss, revering it for what it was worth in the warren-seized world.
Sketched in his presence, brought along the labyrinth sanctities again, away from the chill, the Rift conundrums, a sheepish line outlined on her lips. “Sorry,” and she wrinkled her nose, so used to catching ablaze and waiting for the earth to catch up, chasing down ramparts and fortitudes, matching might for might, that very rarely, few, if ever, had called her back from the temptation of ruin and havoc. Fangorn pressed along her heels again, a singsong warble and growl intoned from his expanse, as if in eager agreement with Kai. “I didn’t.” Empty-handed too, for all her bluster and will. That afforded another sheepish enterprise, a swivel of her head towards another avenue and wake. “Do you want to try this way?”
how glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains
"What're you sorry about?" you asked her, curious, your smile and voice warm and open, sunny to a fault. As she takes the lead once again you follow obediently, this time holding tight to her hand, carefully keeping up with her pace as you take another form, deeper into the maze.
She reminds you of Oia, a little, with her passion and intrepid curiosity (and the high probability she will leave you behind). So you say as much - "You remind me of my sister!" Following her through the winding boughs, you feel a similar sort of comfort and ease as you would if the footsteps you pursued were your twins. "She likes to explore, to, an' she's not afraid of anythin', an' she's a lot faster than me so I get left behind a lot."
“Leaving you behind,” was her first thought, granted and given voice with a wistful smile. Too often she just took off, damn the consequences, in a rush, heedless, reckless, undaunted by the faults pressed against her skin, but rarely thinking about the others left in the dust. He didn’t let go her hand, nor did he seem bothered she’d sunken straight into old habits, equally unflinching and unabashed by her tendencies. Melita loosened a sigh, prospering her gaze elsewhere, along thorns and thistles, along crawling vines, along the colossal roots, but otherwise managed to maintain her sunny, emboldened disposition, grinding down into her determined state.
But it sounded like this wasn’t the only time he’d encountered anyone bounding off – his sibling much the same, and her eyes slipped back to his stare for a moment, tipping her head in study and scrutiny, while Fangorn rustled about in fallen leaves. “I used to drag my sister along too,” a brightening smile to cover up the weight of loss and sorrow, the anguish in speaking of Clementine, always as if she were a flicker of a memory, a haze of sweetness not meant to last. “Where else you have you explored?” Because it seemed a safer topic, to discuss curiosities and discoveries.
how glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains
"You have a sister?" You ask, curious about this side of your new friend, that you have something in common .You take the lead this time, missing whatever pain may have crossed her face at the question, your arms outstretched as you walk. "Mine is my twin- her name's Oia'i'o. We were incubated in an acorn so we didn't really have a Ma or a Da like most people but we have each other so it's okay, y'know?"
Spinning back around you smile brightly, walking backwards as you look at your new friend. "What's your sister like?" you wonder, still blissfully unaware that you're picking at a wound.
The question might’ve stunned her long enough to watch him walk ahead; not used to the motions of another in front of her, of chasing rather than being the one leading, orchestrating, bounding along, no purpose except for restlessness. Half of her thought to shrink and shrivel, losing the nymph qualities for the melancholy ones; a sigh rummaging through her lungs, passing, and billowing them away – saving face because sometimes it wasn’t worth falling through the same traps and snares time and time again.
Instead of answering right away, she followed, twisting and turning along the vines, eyes partially on the ground, and then rummaging elsewhere, thoughts not truly on the labyrinth at all. The way he’d come into the world – incubated by acorn – raised her brows, widened her gaze, and she shook her head, clearing the webs, the connotations, everything a possibility in worlds surrounded by magic and adornments. She might not have anything to express at all, save for a lifetime of heartache and lost moments. “Oh. Do – do you remember being in an acorn?” Because that was an experience not many could replicate or say they had the credentials for.
She hadn’t had a father, either, not really. He existed, but that was it. And her mother was gone, sacrificing herself for her daughters.
Then there was only Melita.
When the girl glanced back up, he was smiling brightly at her, and she was afraid she didn’t have the effervescent distinction to unleash in return. “She was kind, and gentle. A beautiful singer. Loved to laugh.” Her tone didn’t flatten, but it sunk a little, and so she strived to give it more life, to fixate on other regions and things, spiraling away from herself. “What’s yours like?”
how glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains
Do you remember being in an acorn? Not really, but that's hardly surprising - no organic creatures seem to remember their gestational process. "No, and I don't really remember after even though it wasn't that long ago. I think - uhh - eight or nine Flowerbirths?" That seems roughly right, but it's difficult with your hazy memory. "Our Dama - Rae - they 'rased our memories when we came her so we could be objective." You say this very matter-of-factly, still walking ahead of her with your arms outstretched. This absence of memory does not perturb you, because you can clearly understand why.
Melita's remarks about her sister are positive, but you don't miss the one key word: was. All at once your smile falters, brown eyes growing wide with the realization. Stopping in your tracks, you try very hard to keep from reaching out and wrapping her in your arms like you might Oia when she is having a difficult time.
Instead you take her hand again, if she will allow you to.
"Was?" you repeat softly, searching her face, your heart on your sleeve as you try not the imagine the devastation that would be losing your twin. "Is she... is she back in your world?"
A slight bummer to the acorn tale – because the youth might’ve been mystified at the prospects of the memories, but encased in wonder all the same. It made sense he wouldn’t be able to recall it, and she shrugged, not trying to decipher the ways in which his life apparently shifted (did that make him eight or nine years old – when he looked much older?). She listened regardless, blinking away the notion that they were related to Rae, which in a sense, made them portions and contortions to Gods, like Ronin, like Wessex. Should they be treated with reverence then, attuned and connection to the deities, to the primordial beings, or just like everyone else? They didn’t do the same to the Fallen Star or the Wraith, and now her mind was reeling, taking in all the information, parsing away details to decipher. “Does that make you demigods then?” Came out in the end, on impulse, on the tip of her tongue and then uttered forth without recourse.
Speaking about Clementine brought forth other fixtures of anguish she didn’t want to hover or harpoon in the midst; much less nymph and more like ordinary, saddened soul who’d lost too many things too soon. Melita hadn’t meant for Kai’s smile to falter, hadn’t meant to break and fizzle moment apart – but then again, she always did things that shambled, shook, and rattled, never whole for too long. But he took her hand and she breathed a little easier, still apologetic she’d gone and mauled a nice outing into potential death traps, fingers squeezing back. “She died.” Were she strong enough to simply shrug off the matter, she might have; instead she proffered a distraction, taking the opportunity to return to the lead, walking quickly into the verdant midst, tugging him along as best she could.
01-27-2020, 09:38 PM (This post was last modified: 01-27-2020, 09:43 PM by Kaimana.)
how glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains
"I guess?" You shrug your reply - you've never really cared much for the level of demigod, especially since it makes people treat you very strangely, but you suppose it is accurate. "Rae's responsible for half our genetic material, so that makes us part-god. So yeah. I guess we are."
But the topic drifts from your twin to hers, and the story she tells (sparse as it is) nearly has you reeling back where you stand. She died. What a thing to hear - what a thing to say - it hurts you down to the quick of your soul, slicing an insecurity you would never dare to look at. To lose a twin, a companion, the part of you that lived outside your body...
The simple thought of losing Oia is so devastating it makes you want to curl up and cry.
"I'm sorry," you tell her softly, squeezing her hand, your eyes wide and earnest and empathetic as you gaze upon her advancing form, following her deeper into the eaves.
The adventure continues without such troubled thoughts, though, quickly bouncing from darkness of lost kin to the brightness of youth and possibility. You answer her questions and ask your own, bounding merrily in the waif's wake until it is time to return to the rest of the world, to leave the wondrous labyrinth to its wild devices.
With a grin and a wave you bid your new friend good bye, promising her (and yourself) that you will meet again soon before slipping into the sunset, a strange beat in your heart.
