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 quiet acquiescement eases her somewhat, but still he does not move away from the stove, does not relinquish the quiet control she knows and expects so keenly now. In fact, Amalia is beginning to suspect that she'd been terribly misguided in her concerns: that rather than fleeing he may simply vanish into the floor, slip between her fingers like sand and be lost to her forever.
"Okay," she echoes against his back. Then: "Come."
Gentle but insistent she takes his hand, unwrapping herself from around him only enough to guide him away, toward the stairs and the bath above. Never fully breaking cotnact Amalia tugs him to the second floor, past their shared bedroom and into the bathroom. She makes no move to fill the tub - he's far more adept at that than she - but instead turns back to him as the threshold is breached, raising her hands back to his chest.
Slow and steady her slender fingers begin to work the buttons of his shirt, to peel off the layers and reveal the scars she now knows far too much about, each one newly sanguine in her eyes, drenched in blood and history and the honest cruelty of war.
Tired, listless, languid, the armor dropped and gone away, and left in its place was some hollowed vessel, some pieces of gnarled, knotted thread, and the fortitude, the perseverance, to remain. He might’ve been rooted to the floor if left to his own devices, if not pulled and coaxed, if not given something else to do than mire himself into his entangled brooding and fatigue. A myriad of weights bound and tied, drowned and suffocated, to the point where even his eyelids felt heavy, as he followed upstairs, as he gave no fight along pathways, as he simply existed. Numbed – spending too long immersed in those choking nooses, in those haunting memories, had merely turned him into stone; how he processed, how he escaped, how he evaded.
The Sword didn’t know what he expected – but it wasn’t her at his chest, standing there while she slowly slid buttons of his shirt open, as fabric was drawn away, as layers peeled and pardoned, lifting his arms to let them be stripped and gone, tossed aside, forgotten. A catch in his breath, a stolen sigh somewhere, and he was unfurled, vulnerable again. He existed in his scars, in the segments of lines and upheaval, pale and stark, traced outlines of days spent in might and menace. He’d never been ashamed of them before. He’d always borne them proudly, because each had held significant meanings: that he’d defended, that he’d protected, that he’d guarded, that he’d survived.
Should he have been abashed, apologetic, for all the other anthems, banners, and tattoos they carried and represented? Did she hate their signatures, their scrawls, their irreverence? Because he was outlined in them, sketched and corded, each one a testament, a story, to his existence, as much a part of him as deadly invocations, as mountains, as oceans, as tragedy, loss, and the contorted composure, the calm platitudes strung beneath ice and sorrow. Deimos was nearly afraid to ask, eyes drifting down to her, her, and her, as her hands freed, as her fingers plucked; where she’d once traced the arches and lines, he pondered if she could only stare upon the marks in disgust. So the inquiry was quiet, hushed, barely a rumble, a grumble, through lungs and larynx. “Do you hate them now?”
Button by button, stitch by stitch, she takes of his clothing and shows the carapace below. Scarred and chafed as any armor, his body is stone and water, fluid undulations over the solid musculature, all of it crisscrossed in silver and brown. With new eyes and new awareness she stares at them all now, wondering where they come from, what they cost. Who had to die so he could live? Whose blood was on his body, his hands?
Does she hate them? "Yes," Amalia answers softly, biting her lip, swallowing the bile, her hands on her side, the shirt fallen away. Yes, she hates them for what they represent. She hates that he was born to a bloodthirsty world. She hates that he found it so easy to fit into that role. She hates that she knows this about him.
But she doesn't hate him.
Slowly she raises a quivering hand, laying it over a particularly stark scar that rests upon his chest. Her fingers splay, breezing over gently until her thumb is left to trace the width of it. "But I love them, too." Her voice is even quieter now, scarcely over a whisper; she turns her dark eyes up to him, large and damp in the dim light of the bathroom. "They mean you lived. And they brought you here. To me."
The first answer cut, as he had known it would, a sharp intake of breath before something gnarled and welled behind his chest. It might’ve been a scar too, amongst the scrawls of mottled, ruined flesh, carved deeper than the swords, than the daggers, than the ramparts once bombarding his existence. Because he was made of these wounds, these thresholds, these lacerations, and to hate them, their meaning, their piercing, keen entities, meant he was detested at some level too. His heart hurt and he knew he shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have bothered with the inquiry, shouldn’t have leveled one more damned knot of sorrow in their agony.
Vulnerable, bereft, and exposed, the beast instantly wanted to hide, to take his shirt back, to disappear back into shadows, into ether, into smoke and fumes. His head remained bowed, the rest of him already broken, already brittle, eyes closed, afraid to look at her face, to see some revulsion reflected back. The notion of surrender, of retreat, felt imminent, and then he could wall himself up, shut every sentiment, every emotion off –
The soft, dulcet splay of her fingers on one spurned, sent, a release of air reeling from his lungs. His skin might have shuddered, undulated, beneath the careful caress, while the rest of him stood rigid, still, surprised, stunned, gaze flickering open, staring down into her dampened, black gaze. His threatened their overwhelmed stature, tears welling in the corners, struggling to blink them away. Loved them too; for far more than their clawed stature, their unholy abyss, their protective emblems, banners of what he’d done for so many others. Striving to control, to pull himself out of the drowning sanction, one hand reached for hers, fingers shaking, pulse beating rapidly, stare searching hers, begging for a lifeline. “I cannot change them,” couldn’t change his past, a whisper, as if to hear them echo back over the walls would be choking, grating, and maiming. They’d be there for an eternity, for however long his bones remained on this damned and consecrated earth. But maybe their meanings could adapt, assimilate, just as he’d done. Maybe this was enough. Another sigh, head lowering, brow intending to rest against hers, whispers passed between breaths. “I do not want to be anywhere else.” Than here, with you.
The slightest movement, skin alone; the rest of him stays still. Does he doubt her? He would be well within his rights to, she thinks, but still her hand remains. It's a line between them, as much a reminder for him as herself. She chose this, chose him, scars and darkness, sanctum and light.
When his hand eases over hers it's a rescue she doesn't deserve, but one she clings to nonetheless. "I know," a whisper in response, the other hand raising to hold his cheek, guiding it, holding it, a promise in her eyes. His head descends, crown to crown; she lets her eyes close and inhales deeply, taking in his scent. "Me neither."
She keeps her left hand on his face, his right upon his chest. Rising onto tiptoes, Amalia tilts her face up further, coral lips seeking his, tender and frightened and pleading for response. His heartbeat is the drum that keeps her own pulse moving; she thinks she might turn to ice as well, without his heat to warm her.
I know; either acceptance or tolerance, another line etched and carved into their sanctuary. The Reaper and the Sword were one and the same, but alterations scalded and molded their way into these thresholds. Maybe that would be enough, an understanding of all the darker motivations, days he’d spent in shadow because that was all he had, all he knew, all he could comprehend. There was no one else to take up the mantle, the blades, the knives, the daggers. And no one had bothered to do the same for him – the veils of protection extended to his kingdom, and every inhabitant within, but not their sovereign. It was different here, now, where he could turn towards the sun, where there were stars, where there were clear views of galaxies over summits.
But the pain always seemed to stay the same.
He waited for some other blow, some other maiming, some other consideration to balk and sway into his soul. It had been today’s pattern, to find faults, flaws, dig into them until he was some frozen, agonized vessel again. Instead, there were brows merged and crowns placed, a softened breath billowing, partly relief, partly reassured. Her hand, the one not enclosed in his, reached and held his cheek, the depths of his stare riveting to hers.
Then they closed again, sinking into her, heartbeat pulsing, ricocheting, ardent, fervent. Perhaps he was just as frightened, afraid to be pushed aside, fearful the cords of his failings had come to wrap around him like a noose. Nothing else but his lips on hers, following, following, following paths towards light and life.
He is soft as a hymn, a prayer on her lips, the return of affection offering as much absolution as a visit to a shrine. But Amalia is not a timid worshipper: she is ardent in her devotions, pious and impassioned, giving her whole heart without hesitation, searching for meaning at the altar of life. Her hand snakes back, onto his neck; it tangles into the curls of his name, clutching, possessive, suddenly alight.
So much emotion, so much energy, so much displaced fear and pent up fire- it has to be let out somehow. So she offers it to him.
The kiss deepens, hungry and hunting, her hands tightening their grip on the Sword. Tongue plunders eagerly into his mouth; she presses her body against him, devouring, a fire meant to consume him whole. If he reciprocates she will take him wholly, wrap her arms around his shoulders, toes curled to give her height, head thrown back as she steals his lips. She wants to be wanted, she wants to show him how much she wants.
She wants to drown her darkness in fire, to leave behind the sorrows of the morning in favor of the passions of the afternoon.
Coming back together, instead of grating, instead of peeling apart, instead of rampaging through open wounds. Stitches and seams, healing measures, frayed emotions, mending, assuaging, soothing their way towards other pinnacles. Wanton and wanted, curling strands of something beyond – taking, snagging, at her offering, granting his own.
A change, a fire, a flame, as if plucking and dragging the sorrows away, draining the abysmal weights of their souls towards ethers. His devotion had always been there, stalwart, formidable, eternal, now stoked, kindled, on airs of vehemence, dedication rapaciously climbing to more, more, more. Now it wasn’t quiet, it wasn’t hushed, a growl in his throat, a rumble in his chest; kindled, roused, instigated, provoked, and tease, a flame given life. It snagged and inveigled in her grasp on his nape, the curl of his hair, igniting behind closed eyes and fervent heartbeats. Maybe there were contortions and coils of torment, anguish, and melancholy there too, as he pressed back, as his hunger contorted, as hands went to her face, pulled her to him: desperate to convey, desperate to show, desperate to no longer be devastated, lost, and hopeless. Mouth, lips, and tongue sought, tasted, consumed.
Mutual devouring, maneuvering forwards, backing her towards the edge of the empty bath, ready and eager to drown, to incite, a maelstrom of emotions colliding, conspiring, collecting until they were just figments of fractured connotations.
Heat meets heat, lust meets lust; he answers her ferocity with his own, and Amalia relishes the reality of it, the passion of battlefields and fire and blood directed wholly on her. He takes her face and she lowers her arms, snaking around his neck, using his body as leverage to bring herself closer to him, hungry and heady with her own avarice.
He backs her up until her legs hit the empty tub, cold against the back of her knees. Amalia raises her foot up to the lip, giving herself a little more height; her hands now trail down his front again, searching for the waistband of his trousers. She's more interested in getting them off than preserving their quality, and it shows in the urgency of her actions.
There's a ferocity in her that's echoed in her form, mostly human but with the beginnings of talons, sharp nails dexterous as she tugs on his pants. On her forehead the nubs of horns have developed, lilac and silver; her hair, too, has sprouted dawn-colored streaks, the qilin asserting its dominance over her figure.
Somewhere in the midst of their passions, he managed to turn the water on – sliding one palm from her only to maneuver the handle; the rushing roar a dull, muted thing compared to the pervading heartbeats echoing, drumming, in his ears. Echoes and sketches of before; sharing their devotions, scattering their hearts, stripped down – but now it was more than ever, pierced and punctured, sculpted and molded into newer, better things. Her urgency and impatience wasn’t surprising – he met the rush, the zeal, with equal fervor, an entanglement of a thousand, unbidden, unholy, unleashed sentiments, growling declarations and dedications, immersed appeal for her, for her, for her.
While her fingers trailed downward, his kept her close, pulled against him, as if she’d disappear, as if he’d lose her, as if the fear of the unknown still traced, still smoked, still clawed into his lungs, into his chest. Savoring, relishing, devouring, consuming what they had in small, minute moments, a warm peel of laughter maneuvered past his lips, meant to trace over her mouth, as her insistence grew all the more apparent. It echoed and boomed again when her nails became talons, when his eyes opened to see horns, shifts of hue in her hair, only a brow arched. Losing control? A gentle tease, and then his lips were soft, slow, enduring on hers, intending to torment, making no maneuver to remove the rest of his garb.
Echoes of mischief compelled too, and the mountain of a man was suddenly every inch an impish, devilish provocateur – tucked in his arms, in his hands, while the water flowing from the bath curled, coiled, contorted at his invoking insistence. Perhaps it was punishment. Perhaps it was payback. Torture for torture; though his wasn’t meant to express hurt, more of a wicked, infernal gesture. When he thought it was high enough above her head, he meant to release it – intending for a splash down the back of her neck.
She hears the water start behind her, the bath all but forgotten in her fervor. Unimpressed, disinterested in that particular siren call for now, she instead continues to concentrate on his waistband, on removing the last vestige of clothing from his body. Losing control? he teases silently, and she growls her response: "I want you." She has never been the patient sort, the one to wait and tease and torture. That has always been his purview.
And oh, how he rises to the occasion. While she struggles and seeks he takes his time, drawing back, languid, teasing and tantalizing with soft, dulcet lips. It earns another growl from the Shield whose arms rise up to his neck once more, greedy as she pulls him closer, her leg hitching now upon his hip.
So intent is the leopardess on capturing her prey that she doesn't notice the assault from behind. A squeak of surprise leaves her lips, her face finally pulling away as the water washes down her back. Eyes widen in momentary shock before narrowing back down, mischief met with mischief as her shirt and back are soaked.
"Humph," the Shield exhales dramatically, wriggling out of his grasp. "If you didn't want to make out you could have said." Turning her back to him, she begins to very pointedly pull her shirt up over her head, planning to leave the wet garment on the floor.
Endless amusement, and relief, to be wanted – to have the time, the opportunity, the moments pulsing, winding together. Not rejection, but heat and wanton desires, not refusal, but devotion, not peeling away, but showing, sharing adoration, clutching, grasping, craving. It permitted his mischief, the portions of him hidden and shoved away except for the chosen few, for those he cherished, trusted, and loved. Her growls fueled, invoked, inspired, and roused, a meticulous, scrupulous design, etching his grasp slowly along her frame, skirting over fabric, intending to rest at her hips. Her leg held him there, flushed against one another, the smirk curling, coiling along his mouth, reckless, unrelenting –
And the squeak that followed earned more soft chuckles, a reverberation of collected formations in his chest – wriggling away from him, palms empty due to his impish decrees and actions. The beast arched his brow at her dramatics, watching with his hooded gaze, drawing his eyes over her exposed skin, the reaches of her spine. The barbaric inclinations in his bones, in his blood, pondered reaching forward, grasping, holding, mouth, teeth, and tongue following the etched details of shoulders, the back of her neck.
But he’d save that for later.
Devilry continued to scald, rolling his shoulders in a dramatic shrug, undulations of muscles and movement. “All to myself then.” Only thereafter did he pull down the remains of his clothing, tossing them aside, bare and bereft, stepping within the filling tub, settling himself against the back. The look on his features might have been described as smug, pleased, content, a purposeful sigh dragged from his lungs as the hot water pervaded along his skin.
03-19-2020, 05:55 PM (This post was last modified: 03-19-2020, 05:56 PM by Amalia.)
AmaLIa
shield of safrin
He doesn't chase her, doesn't catch her, and for a moment Amalia lets herself sulk, arms across her chest. "Maybe I should just leave you to it," she huffs, nose turned up. But the indignation cannot last for long, especially in light of their recent struggles; too close to actual fears and faults, too close to the darkness that bites at her heels.
So she turns, arms dropping, chest and heart bare. He's a majestic sight in the iron tub, his body a work of art cut through with countless scars and losses. Taking him in silently for a second, she lets her hungry eyes trace every inch, sweeping across him posessively.
Then she steps forward and knees by the tub. Resting her arms on the lip of the bath, Amalia dips her fingers in the water, tracing lazy patterns above his submerged belly, never quite touching his skin. "What do you want, Deimos?" Her eyes search his; her voice is soft. To wash his back, to give him space, to show him how much she wants her still- Amalia needs to know.
The threat hovered there, enough to make him turn his head back towards her, placing it along the edge of the tub, gaze equally fervent, adoring, and devilish. Half a smile returned to his lips, watching, waiting, as she toyed with her next decision, as they meandered and coiled along similar games and factions. Interest and intrigue, some unsettled challenge sparking, sizzling, smoldering in the depths of his eyes, watching as she finally chose to come closer, tracing over the rest of her. Equal hunger, cravings, abandoning any sense of pretense, sketching, outlining, in the midst of pervading, surrounding silence.
Tease and torment for him as she kneeled, as fingers maneuvered over the water, hovering above him, temptation, enticement, yearning, and never breaching past the surface. He rose then, breaking the veneer, listening to the water thrum and drum, to the rapid, inveigling torrent of his heart. Face and features close, stare locked on her, studying, scrutinizing her face, the softer, hallowed contortions humming from somewhere within. No sighs, no grumbles, no growls, just the palpable, tangible weight of decisions. The Sword always believed, thought, the answer to be the same: you, but just as much as he required some air of reassurance (because they were broken, fragile sometimes, close to shattering, to fracturing, no matter the amount of strength coursing through them; too much loss, too many responsibilities), so did she.
He raised one hand for her to take, to enter the confines, to share the space with him. “Come.” With the other, he snagged at the washcloths and soap settled nearby, eyes returning to her – absorbed, more than just ghosts and parallels in their sanction. “To have one another.” In whatever capacity they chose, wound, and declared; lost in their sanctuary.
