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!
Looking for Deimos when he has been recommended to by multiple people sounds like a good idea. Looking for Deimos after he finds out Kiada is 'beneath his wing' in her own words, and finds that out the night he stays in her bed, sounds like an absolutely terrible idea.
For all Harper's flirtations he is a very monogamous, devoted person. Doesn't mean he hasn't been chased out of quite a few windows by screaming parents unaware of him staying over with their child when he was a teenager. Protective parents are still one of his worst nightmares, so it's understandable that Harper procrastinates meeting the literal General of the Hollowed Grounds.
In the end the draw of training draws him in helplessly, unable to stay away for long. It's in his blood, an addiction of sorts. There's really no getting out of the lifestyle. The only kind of retirement his fellows have ever experienced is death. Harper is fiddling with his batons while he stares at the barracks in the distance, wondering what he'll find if he goes in there. If he wants to find anything at all. This world is still so foreign to him, so untouched and naive in its own way. Does he really want to go back to the lifestyle he has always lived, in this place where it won't operate the same?
Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman Predicting God as best he can
Long strides swept along streets and settlements, a poised, savage path, striking upon morning light and cooler dawns, intentions outlined on his preferred trail. Without having to maneuver towards the infirmary, Amalia getting stronger and his quest coming to a close, he didn’t have to wind through other ordained routes and avenues, heading straight for the barracks. He could outline a few more thoughts and notions to defenses, sketch out several other diagrams, spend some hours training or assisting in others’, and then return to the Artisan’s Guild for a while, toiling away on responsibilities – moving as forward as he could without glancing back, without sinking, without carving his wake into carnivorous designs.
Favored bow and quiver already on his back, blades on his belt, naught much else distracted him from his motives and agenda. Strength and defiance molded and sculpted their sway into his derision, into his precision, nodding at known inhabitants and passing individuals, no pause, no ceasing in step.
Except there seemed to be one lingering nearby, staring over at the barracks as the General approached. The beast was half-inclined to ignore, retain the nonchalant accords he was wholly accustomed to and familiar with, but the merest edges of curiosity scraped along his mind, and so he wandered passed, extending a nod and gruff salutation, “Morning,” before continuing on, the militia stronghold an insistent siren.
As another man approaches from behind - helpless but to track the sound of his footfalls, the way he bears his weight, his stride - Harper takes a sideways step to allow more walking room for the newcomer. Preparing to perhaps raise a hand in greeting or nod if the stranger is benevolent enough. What he isn't expecting is for the man that comes by to be the same one he seeks.
His heart wheezes in his chest, and he is likely oddly delayed in his response when it finally comes. "Good morning." Useless and bewildered by this fateful turn of events. Harper had only memorized his face because of the council creation meeting, which had only further intimidated him when he'd realized the General of the Grounds was the same man as Kiada's protector. Kicking into motion he moves to walk alongside the man towards the training grounds, blue eyes tempered down from surprised to intent. "You're General Deimos, right? I was actually looking for you if you're not busy." Harper certainly isn't going to say no to a chance to avoid this particularly fraught introduction, unable to decide if he hopes Kiada had mentioned him to Deimos or not.
Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman Predicting God as best he can
He maneuvered onward, goals to accomplish, the militia grounds to inspect, training rites to be re-established, muscles and precision honed, a way to peel away the thousands of other layers rampaging down the filaments of his skull. The other responded, and he turned his head back over his shoulder while entering the aperture, standing along the threshold, bordered between fallen shadows and pressing light, an arch to his brow signaling the depths of curiosity. “Yes,” agreement on his presence, and not much else, because he didn’t recognize the man at all. Perhaps he’d been too busy, too distracted, too deterred, pulled in multitudes of directions and trying to be in all of them at once. The Sword tilted his head a fraction, completely unaware of any apprehension from the stranger’s point of view. He considered him to be like many others, requiring training, some advice on where to start, a hint of weaponry, the practiced hold of a munition, of brandishing armaments to eventually fell foes. “Who are you?” Names and introductions, the sort of formality he’d kept from days in Helovia – even though most of the time amidst the mountains, he might not have cared about titles other than what they were talented in, where they scalded, where they held merit. This world, constantly changing, had eroded him to this figure now, Colossus within his barracks, trying to defend inhabitants that didn’t understand how to calculate beyond impulsive, reckless dominions.
Then he stepped within, pushing the door wider, a single, beckoning hand waving the man within. “Come in.” Comfortable in the parlor, in the entire expanse, he dropped his bag upon a chair and began to rummage through some materials along the table, eyes going over where he’d left off, before lifting back to the unfamiliar figure. “What can I do for you?”
02-22-2020, 04:50 AM (This post was last modified: 02-22-2020, 04:51 AM by Harper.)
HARPER
Gods, but the man is gorgeous. And that's fair how? Truly everyone in Caido is excruciatingly attractive, and Harper wonders if it functions as some sort of purgatory for disastrous bisexuals like himself. Constant torture with no reward. Shaking himself mentally from that particular spiral lest he get caught staring dopily into Deimos' stern face, Harper moves to catch up to the taller man. "I'm Harper," he introduces himself instead when prompted, smile warm and inviting as always. Lifting a hand habitually to shake Deimos' if the General is so accommodating.
Obligingly moving when the man invites him inside, Harper's sharp blue eyes habitually scan every corner as he steps inside. Plotting escape routes, footholds, and tactical options alike before he manages to shut down that section of his mind in favor of appearing a bit more normal. Not that Deimos seems particularly interested in him, which Harper is oddly grateful for as he watches the man sift through his belongings. "A few people thought I might benefit from meeting you, or joining your ranks. I grew up as an acrobat, and was trained -" his voice chokes for a moment on the thick memories in his throat, memories only Kiada has been privy to so far, "- I was trained in the ways of assassination, and later in vigilantism. I've trained quite a few young hopefuls myself, both superpowered and mundane, and I'd be happy to help out around here. But even if you can just offer me some quality sparring, I'd appreciate being able to keep myself in shape." He isn't coming her to undermine Deimos' efforts or steal his students after all. But sometimes he wakes up aching with the itch to wrap his hands and beat the living hell out of something. A darker inclination that he can only run so many miles to try and drown out. Hopefully this place, this man, will offer him a better alternative. A more familiar past-time.
Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman Predicting God as best he can
He was only half-listening when the name resounded along his ears, through his temple, and for a moment he stopped rooting through his bag, parsing the title within his mind for its recognition. Only a second later did the notion completely register, winding through memories, and coming along his machinating, calculating skull. Harper. The man who’d danced with Kiada. An inward, Cheshire grin began to form, fighting the urge, the inclination, to spill and spread across his mouth. Instead, his face remained carefully neutral, a pretense over the amusement, the mischief, the impish, devilish accord settling itself along his skin, reaching out his hand to shake in regard. “I have heard of you.” Then nothing more – an air of indifference when it was anything but: studying, examining, scrutinizing, pondering over the man.
The rest was all the more interesting, an acrobat (because he wasn’t certain what on earth that actually was), especially the notes thereafter. Assassination and vigilantism enough to make his head turn back over his shoulder, closing his bag, placing a couple pieces of parchment down on the table. Both occupations had their uses, implementations in darker, necessary times. Which wasn’t now – and might never be, but training never harmed anyone. “What weapons do you prefer?” And he beckoned with a nod of his cranium, maneuvering towards the armory, with its mass of munitions and abilities. “We can spar. See what you are capable of.” A test for more than one reason; but he said naught of that implication, a snicker resting somewhere in his throat, eyes going back to the walls and shelves of armaments.
Nerves as ramped up as they are, it's impossible for Harper to miss the brief hesitation as the man registers his name. It's far too familiar, calling back to days of concealing his name, of hiding behind an alias kept secret at any and all costs. Only further amplified when the beast of a man turns and confirms in the rolling depths of his thunderous voice that he has heard of Harper. It takes a concentrated effort to remind himself to breathe once he realizes his lungs are beginning to burn. No matter the perfectly neutral expression he keeps out of habit beaten and burned into his brain, you can't conceal holding your breath. It's probably just because of Kiada. It's fine.
At least the question posed helps reel him back from that dark ledge of memories. Something tangible to focus on and reach for. "Blades of any sort, batons, and bows are what I often preferred that would be available here...I'm adept at hand-to-hand as well." So much of his previous arsenal had been technologically advanced, but even the basics translate. In his time as an assassin blades and daggers had been preferred for their ability to silently dispatch targets. At the prospect of a spar his entire frame goes loose, as if it's some sort of Pavlovian response to become fighting ready when the word is said. An eager light comes to his eyes but Harper at least manages to fight down the full grin he wants to give. "Any time. If I'm not disrupting of course." He'd kind of shoved himself into the man's day after all.
Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman Predicting God as best he can
He’d purposefully intended to make the man nervous, apprehensive, jumpy, but the reticent, stoic expression on Harper’s features betrayed nothing. A shame, because intimidation thoroughly amused him, but there was only a subtle shrug through the Sword’s shoulders. Names and titles were important – when worlds, realms, and kingdoms hadn’t known what he was, he’d been content too. Prestige, power, and condemnation had sketched along his actions, and then his reputation preceded him (the Reaper in haunting gallows, exactly as the moniker intended and explained). Thereafter, with only the slightest arch of his brow, he maneuvered further into the armory, listening intently to skillsets. “It is fine,” at the notion of barging within Deimos’ day. Sentiments and ruminations of fighting, of vitriol, of vehemence, of practice was always welcome. He’d dropped far greater, grander things, to unfurl, unleash, havoc and wreckage. It was even more tempting when fighting another unknown and unfamiliar, pondering how to inflict damage, changing, altering stances, instincts alive and well, honed on each harpooning ferocity.
“Pick one.” His head lifted towards the walls of blades, of bows, of staffs he’d created himself, knew each and every one by their make, by their contortion, by their weight in his calloused hands. He’d follow suit, and then they could begin.
The man's mighty shoulders twitch minutely, and though Harper's intimidation has at least simmered down throughout their conversation, it still makes him hesitate before following the man's lead further into the bowels of the building. At the very least the waving away of his concerns helps further ease his anxiety. Deimos seems the type to be blunt about when his available hours are coming to a close, so Harper merely nods his head in assent and awaits whenever that time will arrive.
He is led to a wide array of instruments, all awaiting his choice and the touch of his hand. Deimos' instructions are simple, and Harper takes his time perusing each item. Picking up a few here and there to heft them about, running through a few simple katas to experience their weights and how they are balanced. Impeccably crafted of course, which makes finding his preferred weapon easier. Sparring with a bow is not his favorite idea so he summarily chooses a short-bladed sword. More considerate towards his speed-based fighting style than a longer blade, and requiring a more delicate hand than his usual batons. It will give him the chance to adequately prove his expertise to Deimos to pick this instead of anything requiring brute force.
Turning, Harper gives an apologetic grin for the time he took, and twirls the blade idly in his hand. "They're masterfully made. Did you create them or commission them?" One last curious question before they - hopefully, if he's reading the room right - begin their spar.
Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman Predicting God as best he can
The Sword watched, silent as always, as Harper made his rounds, inspecting, purveying, examining, scrutinizing. He pondered the weight of preferences, the notion of knowing, honing, a variety of weapons meant to slaughter, meant to uphold justice, meant to undue another’s intent – satisfied, content, with the notion that Harper had clearly experienced a variety. The more munitions, the more skills, the more value and further the range of ability. Only being capable in one area could lead to certain catastrophes. It was why Deimos regularly practiced with a series of objects: long blades, short blades, bows, knives, daggers. He’d get around to the staff at another point – preferring serrated edges over knotted wood, but those were available along the armory too.
In the end though, Harper grabbed hold of a blade, and the General made to do the same, no favorites, no favored beacons, testing the weight in his grasp, leaning towards his predilections, not expecting anything else before they ventured out into the training grounds. The question, the inquiry, floated towards him though, and he blinked, a glance over his shoulder as he’d made to turn out of the arsenal’s vestiges and wake. “I did,” without arrogance or conceit; his eyes had widened somewhat at the compliment, taken aback momentarily, before they returned to their former, narrowed, piercing stature. A nod then, accepting the praise, and then not knowing what else to do with it, continued through the aperture, and out into the aforementioned field, with its series of targets, its covered catapult, its weight system along the open bombardment: a sanction dedicated to practice, to precision, to learning.
Only thereafter, once they’d entered the world of hard-earned sagacity, did he shift back to the man, preparing a stance, blade in his hand, calloused palms eager, ready, fervent. “Your move.”
In this manner, this school of munitions and macabre preparation, Harper does not mind as much the heavy gaze that watches him on his rounds. Here, when he is student and sparring partner, there is far less anxiety than when he stands before Deimos as a man who holds Kiada in his heart. Each weapon is given the due respect and time, recalling his work with each one and determining what is best. Though he prides himself on being formidable with all of them, Harper is still a performer, and can't help but to want to show off.
Deimos seems quite the opposite if the slight betrayal of his surprise is any indication. Harper smiles warmly, not pressing the compliment as it likely would only make the man uncomfortable, but ensuring that the notion is properly understood. With nothing else to say he follows Deimos to the proper training area, all the while spinning and exchanging hands upon the hilt of his weapon, adjusting to the length and weight.
The indication of first strike is expected, though no less daunting for it. Harper does not allow it to force hesitation upon him though, instead lunging forward in a simple head-on jab of his sword towards the man's wielding hand, feet light and perfectly centered, blade angled to either make contact or parry the man's defensive maneuver. Harper is much smaller than Deimos, but he hopes his tenacity and fearlessness will work in his favor. He has taken down much larger titans with much heavier ramifications, and hopes this will merely be a fun exploration of talent and skill. That he will not devolve into such dark memories and instinctive motions.
Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman Predicting God as best he can
The Sword often gave his disciples the first move. It was a paramount way to decipher their abilities, to see how they conducted themselves, and what they drew from their wealth, or ignorance, of experience. There was no need to teach basic maneuvers if they already had those in place. There was no need to cut along defensive techniques if they’d long since accomplished them. The General had too many things to do without wasting anyone else’s time either.
So he waited, watched, deciphering footwork and placement of blades, witnessing as the blade came towards his hand. A snort ensued, following with strength, instinct, and hard lines of precision – lifting his own sword to try and catch at Harper’s, then pushing, intending to cross the line of their munitions aggressively, savagely, an entanglement of all those days spent upon battlefields, of too many wars bent between his bones. Not only did he want to displace the other man’s weapon, there was the potential of his sword coming towards Harper’s left shoulder, perhaps leaving a mark chiseled in its manifestation. Maybe Harper would be fast enough to evade it entirely – lighter, likely more agile and fleet of foot than himself.
