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!
The training grounds provided her the perfect opportunity to hone her skills. The honeybee child regularly hunted and honed precision with her bow, but not in such a grand space especially marked and chiseled for this purpose. She enjoyed the further challenge of settling in amongst the realm around dusk; lighting a few lanterns to provide some designated light, but otherwise attempting her endeavors under the cover of thickening darkness. Monsters weren’t always going to come out at the light of day.
While Fangorn watched on, she breathed, extending the taut, drawn string of the bow, listening to it straighten and contort, waiting for her inevitable release. Her arm didn’t scream, her muscles didn’t ache; normalcy, strong and mighty, ready to unfold and unfurl for whatever damned thing came next. Then she let go, listening for the solid thwack of the arrow hitting the target – as it whacked somewhere near the middle. Not enough, and she narrowed her eyes, speculating, examining, scrutinizing, grabbing hold of another from her quiver and embarking once more.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Amun had been recently blessed by the Voice with a new hand. Although it seemed that everything was back to normal, he figured a bit of testing was in order. Which was why, as soon as night fell, he strode confidently into the training grounds. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the only one there. Melita was just firing an arrow, and he let out an encouraging whistle as it found its target. ”Nice shot, spitfire.” His tone was bright, and his eyes sparkled once more.
Walking to the weapons rack, he scanned the practice weapons there. Spotting a cutlass, he picked it up, hefting it slightly. He checked its weight and balance, nodding as he found that both worked well. ”Care to work on something a little closer?” Tone challenging, he smirked at her from across the room, though it wasn’t cruel or mocking in the slightest.
The whistle curled across her ears, and she swung her head back to the nuance, to the sound, to the decibels, smiling when she realized who it was. “Thank you,” and a playful, mocking bow in return. Her eyes wandered, watching, waiting, to see what else he’d contorted and rippled through the training grounds, had assumed no one else would be amidst the evening. He grabbed hold of a cutlass, and she thought to return her attention to her bow, to the quiver, to the arrows waiting to be notched on strings, to be gathered and hurled into the wind.
Except he was challenging her, and her brow quirked. “I’m not familiar with that weapon.” Not on a quiver of anxiety or apprehension, but just blunt information. The Rift hadn’t had swords. They hadn’t hurled knives. She’d pieced together her desecration and revolutions with sticks, branches (hence her predilection towards staffs), rocks, stones hurtled into monsters and demons. But her curiosity was piqued, and she stretched along the earth, her bow disappearing back into her bracelet, Fangorn suddenly restless along the intervals. Her hands went to a matching wooden cutlass, hand enclosing over its pommel, pondering over its weight and fortitude. Her gilded eyes maneuvered back to him. “Would you teach me?”
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Amun grinned. "You're welcome." The words were still lighthearted. As Melita actually took him up on his offer, however, he raised his eyebrows. "Can't say I'm much of a teacher, spitfire, but I'll see what I can do."
As she grabbed a cutlass of her own, he took a step back. "Alright, first things first I suppose. Footwork and stance." He placed his left foot behind him and his right foot pointed straight ahead at Melita. The left one was perpendicular to the right. He held his right arm up and turned his body so it was in line with his feet, and the blade was parallel with his chest. "Can you copy this?"
She was used to being taught – perhaps some had seen potential in her, or thought she needed far more guidance. Alistair, Roana, and Wessex had embedded their wisdom in her, and the first insinuations felt familiar – grounding, settling into the earth, placing her feet where they were required. The girl nodded her acceptance, eyes glancing at the way his own had been placed, striving to mimic the stance in opposing form: perpendicular, a weight born into the soil, as if she thought herself incapable of being thrown into the ground. “Is this right?” A murmur, a hope in her gilded stare, curls of a smile, a notion of conviction and prowess embedded in her heart, in her motions, in her regard. Because the girl always tried, always strived, always craved to be better.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
As Melita asked her question, Amun lowered his own blade. "Let me check." He circled her slowly. As he did, he made a few almost minuscule corrections: nudging her elbow up a fraction of an inch higher, sliding her back foot a fraction of an inch further back, that sort of thing. When he completed his inspection, he slid back into his own stance. "Excellent. Now we actually work on footwork."
He began to step, front foot first, follow by the back. As he did, he kept them in a line, kept his body lined up with it as well. After traveling forward a short distance, he travelled back the way he came, reversing his movements entirely.
Accustomed to stances from her work with the staff, there were only a few margins of error comprised and composed. It made sense – the weapons were different, lengths not quite the same, though she cherished its comfort in the presence of extended arms, serrated edges in reality, not blunt, wooden contortions. She maneuvered and corrected as he went along adjusting, her elbow rising, her back foot brushing over the ground to where it was required; a pupil of munitions, grounding her essence into the earth, ready to take on the world. The youth nodded at his next insinuation, braced and fervent.
Her eyes followed his movements, tracking them, then segmented them together herself, the sword still poised in her hands. Front foot first, then the back, lined and accorded, until she thought she could do it without glancing at his, corresponding to a pattern, a network, intending to line them up with muscle memory, as she’d done with the staff.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Amun nodded in approval, grinning a bit wickedly. ’That’s right. You’re getting the hang of it, spitfire, though I can't say I'm surprised.” Taking a step forward, he slid smoothly back into a guard position. "Now let's practice blocks and strikes." With that, he turned so he was parallel for her.
Then he stepped forward and slashed with the blade. It was an overhand blow, traveling across his body from right to left. Taking another step forward, he reversed the strike, going overhand from left to right. Then he lunged forward slightly, stabbing with the blade. "Those are your three basic overhand attacks. Let's see you try." With that, he turned to face her, watching her carefully.
The youth glowed at the compliment, not telling Amun that the steps and nuances reminded her of stalking, predacious cats, unfurling, unwinding, eager and ready for the hunt. Perhaps she was; fervent, ardent, motivated, hungry for opportunities to hone more and more skills. The notion of blocks and strikes was up her alley though, and she hastened her attention, her accord, back into the finesse of the basics.
Her eyes were rapt as he stepped forward, utilizing the sword to slash through the air, the way he maneuvered his arm, the tactic of traversing across his frame and figure. There were similarities to the technique as she’d done with the staff nearly all her life, but then two others followed through – reversed, underhand, and lunging forward, a promised laceration into the vestiges.
Pulsing with excitement, obvious by the way her feet maneuvered, she attempted to follow along the same lines, jousting and hoisting with the dusky horizon. The first was the easiest, positioning the blade as Amun had done, casting it overhand, pretending there were enemies before her (maybe Kiada; stupid and stubborn), but the other two, not as familiar to her, were a little trickier. Reversing it had its merits, and she strived, but the movements weren’t as fluid or smooth, an obvious novice. The third wasn’t as polished either, but what it lacked for in precision or veracity, it held together by a manifested zest for vehemence, a wild, savage stab into nothingness.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
As Melita ran through the exercises, Amun watched her carefully. ”Good, especially on the first one.” Turning parallel to her once more, he demonstrated the reverse strike much more slowly. "Make sure you don't turn your body too much or else it'll leave you open for a counter." Then he went into the lunge, again at a fraction of the pace he had before. "And you had the force right, but make sure you don't overextend."
Stepping back into a neutral stance, he brought his blade into a guard position. "Parrying is simple enough. Just move your sword into the path of your opponent's, and either try to shove it or slide it away." Keeping the cutlass upright, he pressed it forward. Then he grinned. "Here's the fun part. You can also use your free hand to grapple, like so." He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand to demonstrate."
Turning to her, he slid into a defensive stance again. "Now you strike and I'll block. Then we can reverse."
Open for countering was probably her eternal mode of fighting, simply due to impulsive actions over any amount of calculations. She took the critiques with a furrowed brow, channeling them back into her mind, where they might register for a moment or two, pondering the expanse of her turns, of her overextensions, used to it from the swing and ramparts of her staff. She’d have to hone and cobble a few more things together, remember they weren’t the same.
Parrying though was right up her alley, used to blocking opponents, used to utilizing old branches or brambles to fend off demons cast in their direction. Grappling was even more enticing, because it meant she could rush off and exploit, and the feral little grin intertwined its way along her mouth, leaving her considerably savage looking, excited, in the impending twists. She mimicked his initial motions, raising the sword, pressing it forward, practicing in the air, before shifting back to him, pondering grappling, when and where and how to employ it best.
But it was her job to strike first – so she attempted, rushing forward on a swift edge, grounding her feet into the earth, wooden blade extended towards him in rapacious, predacious form.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
As Melita's blade sped towards Amun, swift and strong, his eyes widened in surprise. He was barely able to get his own practice sword up in time even with his Ascended speed. Although he couldn't feel pain, the vibration still traveled up his arm when the wood of their practice weapons clacked together. Indeed, his cutlass was shoved back towards him almost immediately. It actually slamming into his shoulder with bruising force (even though Ascended didn't bruise like other people).
Rather than try to grapple with her, he twisted, stepping back with his front foot and bringing his left hand forward. He attempted to push at her wrist with his left hand as quickly as he could. Whether or not he was successful, he stepped forward again, slashing with the reverse strike he'd demonstrated, from her left to her right, in the hopes it would catch her by surprise.
Had Melita known of his surprise or bewilderment, seen the widening of his eyes, she would’ve grinned – feral and savage, wild and malicious, echoes of the Rift where she howled back at predators and monsters. Except she’d been concentrating too hard on the swirl of might immersed in her sanction, in her movements, incapable of twisting or turning it away. Instilled, embedded, instinctual for her to hone and harpoon whatever strength she could muster into anything she did. To her, training was no different.
The girl growled and clenched her jaw, bursting forth with renewed spirit and vigor as he attempted to push against her. At some point she must have waned, because he’d stepped forward into her orbit again, and she was forced to proceed backwards – but raised her wooden blade in hopes of catching his assault, instead of being a victim of some obvious, eventual bruising. A parry, like he’d taught her; not forgoing the wiles of the endeavor and efforts.
my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,
for it is infinite.
Even the force that Melita put into her parry was enough to rattle Amun's arm. As she slammed her blade into his, he gritted his teeth out of instinct from the force of it. As he stepped back, though, he grinned. "Well. You're definitely getting the hang of this. Let's keep going." With that, he shook out his right hand for a moment, then took up the cutlass again.
"Now that you've got the basics of the overhead strikes down, let's move on to something a little more complicated. Feints." Turning parallel to her, he held the sword in a guard position. Then he did the normal strike, but halfway through shifted it into a lunge and thrust. Resetting, he did the same with the reverse strike.
