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!
While ordinarily his movements, his motions, his actions were seemingly little, insignificant, this last series of voracious tactics hadn’t been. He and Jigano’s makeshift volleys and training hadn’t been anything like this. For a moment, he too was stunned, watching as the goose descended, flailing, a brush of wings against his, and then plunging down, down, down, towards ice and snow, filaments of fortified ground. Loren! was a brief correlation in their minds, but loud, meant to ricochet, meant to unearth, meant to ensure the man, the bird, wasn’t already consumed into other venues.
So instead of being satisfied, content, with the success, Deimos plummeted down with Loren. Streamlined and sure, fast and certain, he extended his talons, not to injure, not to maim, not to ruin, but to pluck the summoner out of the disastrous freefall, return him to some sentiment of safety.
His name rang in his mind, but he was too rattled to respond to Deimos with anything but a sense of disorientation and pain. Indeed, Loren wasn't even sure which way was up and which was down, though the sensation of falling was causing his insides to roil.
Then the eagle's talons closed around him. For a moment, he panicked, pecking at the General at random before the healer realized the other man was trying to help. The haze cleared a little, and the Launceleyn sent a pulse of apology as he pumped his own wings, trying to assist Deimos in his efforts to arrest Loren's freefall.
The pecking was an insistent thing, beckoning at his lower limbs, grating, pernicious, but he didn’t manifest the notion of pain through the bond. It stuck and stayed with him as he strived and lifted, enduring the aches and anguish (deserved, perhaps), carried and unfurled his wings, attempting to hold both of them aloft until Loren managed to right himself. He allowed and allotted for a subtle drift downward, gliding, breathing in the chilling air, the rapacious edges of their aerial pursuits. All right? a constant inquiry he notched and noted through any of their training sessions; a little irritated that it always seemed to go slightly awry.
Whether or not it was his fault was another contemplation he’d impart later; some other apprehension and misgiving to add amongst the numerous multitudes of missteps. We are done for today. No sense in continuing, with Loren already maimed and brutalized.
Loren's mind was still foggy, and he found himself flying blindly for a moment before properly righting himself. Although he felt shaky, and his movements obviously weren't the most graceful things in the world, he managed to sort of do a controlled fall towards the ground below. All right. It came out pained and almost groggy sounding.
Sending a pulse of agreement to Deimos, the healer continued his labored descent to where he could take care of his wounds safely. Sounds good to me. Thanks. And sorry for the pecking just now. He wasn't that sorry about it, but it seemed like the right thing to say under the circumstances. With that, he landed on and began waddling his way to where he could find shelter and assess his wounds.
Deimos released him once the summoner acknowledged he was fine, a subtle, strained breath unfurling from his lungs (relief?). His descent continued, spiraling slowly, despite the lack of weight within his talons. Even with the notion that Loren wasn’t completely ailing, the groggy, hazy, anguished response didn’t seem fine; but they both managed to reach land in less distress. Deimos shrugged away the pecking, figured it was likely something he was owed after the bludgeoning, the miniscule wounds would heal eventually on their own, or he could speed them along on returning home with Zuriel’s benedictions. His talons, lower limbs bleeding slightly, clicked along the surface of cobblestones, watching, surveying, and wondering if that was simply it – if he was to go his own way once more, back to wandering in those vague, bizarre circumstances.
It took Loren a few moments to realize that Deimos had landed as well. Turning awkwardly, the healer honked at the General. Simultaneously, the Launceleyn flapped his wings at the other man, as if shooing him away. You can go back to you wandering. I can take it from here. With that, Loren turned his back to Deimos once more.
Then he began to waddle towards a comfy looking corner. Once he'd reached it, he'd hunker down inside and inspect his wounds carefully. He didn't want to shift back until he knew what that might entail, so he preened his feathers as he ran over his body with his mind, eyes, and all his senses.
A more obstinate, tenacious moment could have been built within those flapping, shooing motions; Deimos hadn’t often been chased out of any parameter or region. Not since he was a child. If a frown could’ve appeared on the eagle’s features, muscles rendered in his typical formation, it would’ve indicated his thoughts on the matter. But Loren seemed fine, and he was fully capable of healing himself. The Sword had no other part here – combat over, done in with too much power and accord, and the goose clearly wanted to recover on his own. So instead, a sigh traced its way through him, and he nodded. Thank you for the training. He was half-tempted to tell him to find his form if he required more, but based on Loren’s reel of experiences with the General’s actions, perhaps it would be readily ignored or refused.
Then he flapped his wings, lifting his form back up into the sky, continuing his wandering, his wayfaring directions, the distraction gone and ceased.
