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 mountains called, as they so often did, in the pendulum of his dreams. Sometimes they were nightmares, grating maelstroms of war and infamy, of pernicious schisms, of a weight he’d never be able to throw off his broad shoulders. Sometimes they were blessed streaks of auroras and song, hues blending together in orchestrated, beatific light. Sometimes they were nothing but strained memories, and though he knew, he knew Halo was not the Basin, he still glided across its sanction, relishing for pieces, for places, he could no longer have.
His gliding was a savoring string of instances and intervals, piercing eyes drifting over the endless tundra, the makeshift town rising out of the snow and ice, the pockets of rime chilling down into his marrow, his bones. Cold ether and grating hazes, a combination he once understood so readily, used so easily to their kingdom’s advantage. If he glanced hard enough, he might’ve imagined monoliths towering over borders, reddened eyes staring down trespassers and strangers, engineers tirelessly orchestrating their efforts to avoid invasions. If he pierced and punctured the earth beyond, to the caverns restlessly holding precious things, would their ghosts, their wraiths, their figures, crawl out of the depths?
Then, nothing – just an abyss, just a market square, just a conflagration of stone.
The eagle swallowed down the noxious bile clinging to his throat, and hovered on, a mass of feathers, plumes, and wingspan.
Having spotted a familiar silhouette in the sky, Loren pumped his wings to gain altitude. He'd been out flying, more to stretch his wings than anything else. Below him, Snowcloak spread out, the heart of Halo in many ways, at least the people that lived there.
It didn't take long for him to reach the same level as Deimos, though the healer was far less agile than the General in the sky. Deimos. What brings you to Halo? There was a slightly hesitant quality to his thoughts, and he flew in awkward circles around the other man. Indeed, there was a tentative feeling in the Launceleyn's mind, both because of Deimos' unexpected presence and because of how they'd parted last.
Loren’s appearance didn’t surprise him. Rising from the town below, giving chase to eagle forms, the goose glided along his intervals, and for a moment, Deimos wasn’t certain how to answer. Chasing ghosts and phantoms, wraiths from other regions, other times, other moments, wasn’t an adequate response, but it’d been what he was doing – staring out across the abyss and wondering if they would shirk the snow, the ice, the rime, and join him in the skies. The mirages didn’t. Portions of the past didn’t, and he was alone in the drifting wake of memories.
Wandering was all he could deign, a truth too. Habits and routines instilled into him from a young age, wayfaring walks across vast grounds, exploring, pondering, wondering, when some things simply became too much. Moments of simply getting away from sorrows and upheavals, and then spiraling up against it anyway. He flapped his wings once, twice, ascending higher and higher, permitting Loren to follow if he chose. What have you been up to? Grand Healers, measuring their mending, assuaging powers into the worlds that always found them a necessity.
At Deimos' one word answer, Loren sent a pulse of amusement back towards the General. Can I help you direct your wandering anywhere in particular? The thoughts weren't gentle, more polite than anything else.
Still flying in large circles around the other man, the healer sent the mental equivalent of a shrug. Not much. There was a sort of blunt honesty in the Launceleyn's mind. Halo is quieter than the Hollowed Ground. Other than Zariah's crazy classes that is.
Glancing over at the eagle, Loren found himself flying closer. How is serving as Rexanna's General? He found he was genuinely curious. Then a flash of concern flooded their link. And how is Amalia holding up?
Wasn’t that the point of wandering – to have no basis, no sense of direction, no pretenses, just deterrents and distractions? He had nothing to say or go off of; a world that might’ve been familiar, expanded and ensconced in figments he couldn’t unravel or imagine until they were too late. Dragons hiding in caves. Cannibals gnawing on flesh. Realms brandished in endless tombs of white. I do not think so he muttered in response; wouldn’t know where to go or what to do otherwise, lost in those parallels of loss, dismay, and irritation.
There were other notions to muse upon anyways, the quietude of Halo perhaps somewhat of a blessing after tragic circumstances; the theme of the Hollowed Grounds. He hovered and glided, only ascending, flapping once, upon the notions of Zariah. What has she been up to now? Better off knowing, most likely, given her inclinations towards tyranny, pondering if it was destined to reach his home once more. General predilections, machinations, and calculations; perhaps a more soothing, familiar departure, instead of trailing and traversing through the muck and mire of his abyss.
Quiet, as far as serving as Rexanna’s militia. Far better, far more peaceful, than any day he’d reigned in the same stead in Helovia. There were other traumatic, despairing things to keep him occupied anyways. We have been training. Offering his services in either arms or attuned movements, ensuring strength and prowess, individuals growing from the roots. The concern following thereafter though, for Amalia, pulsed and pervaded, shorn along the breadth of his control. His beak clicked together, talons clenched. She is healed physically. But not emotionally; none of them really were. It will take time. And maybe no designation of hours, days, or decades would matter; the hurt and weight still there.
Loren sent a pulse of understanding towards Deimos. Would you like some advice on where you might want to wander?" Glancing down at the ground, the healer began to descend slightly.
Amusement bubbled up within him at the General's concern. Don't worry, nothing I can't handle. She just set an Ursur loose on her students, that's all. There was a strangely fierce pride in the healer's mind.
I'm a little out of shape, myself, to be honest. Care to show me what you've been up to, for old time's sake? Mostly he was asking to be polite, though his competitive edge had already been roused by the offer.
However, his concern simply grew at the other man's words. Time is all well and good. And I know it's what it takes. But make sure you're there, okay? Even if she doesn't thank you now, she will later. The Launceleyn hesitated. And if you or she needs me or wants me, just say the word. It was a tentative offer, since he wasn't sure where he stood with Deimos after their last conversation.
An eagle’s shrug, a tip of his head, uncertain if he wanted any notion of direction. Maybe he wanted to fly amongst the spirals of snow and ice, feel a part of it for a time again, breathing in the chilling air, pretend it was filled with auroras and things he was familiar with, moments stranded and strangled in his numbed mind.
That Zariah set loose an ursur on students wasn’t surprising; it sounded like a rekindling of her methods. A sigh threaded and unfurled its way through his movements and motions, even if there was a feral, ferocious pride flickering amongst them. For survival? Because he’d managed not to die at her hands? So she has not changed. What would become of the pupils, once she was done with them? Was it the makings of another army, another trained militia, honed and harpooned, hardened by her efforts, by inching and crawling their way through hardship and pain, through monsters and mayhem? How would they come out, on the other side?
The offer of training though was something he could grasp – a meticulous assertion as they hovered above towns and mountains, a purpose in the conflagration. Jigano and I have done some aerial combat. A suggestion; if Loren wanted to readily accept the upheaval.
He nearly bristled at the advice though – hadn’t he always been there for her? His support was endless, his shoulders bearing an agonizing amount of weight. He couldn’t remember a time where he readily ignored or spurned her pain, her melancholy; but Loren didn’t know their connection or correlations. His eyes sought to narrow at the goose, as if the sagacity and wisdom weren’t necessary. He’d grieved for lifetimes; time defined it in different slants, different strokes, different angles. But it always hurt. The losses were just less keen, less aching. Until another came, and another, and another, and then they were spiraling injustices, difficult to swallow, difficult to hide. The reticent accord flowed through him, rigid, hard, and unyielding. Thank you was all he managed, not burning along the chords of his irritation.
Loren sent Deimos the mental equivalent of a sigh. I don't know that she's capable of change. However, it was clear the healer wasn't at all worried at the threat Zariah posed.
Surprise rose in his mind at the General's suggestion. The Launceleyn twisted his neck and gave the other man a once over. Never done it before. However, he immediately followed it up with a pulse of agreement. Let's do it. Despite the fact that he was fully convinced that he would lose, there was excitement in Loren's mind.
Deimos' thanks didn't exactly seem heartfelt. Given the subject matter, the healer decided to just let the topic drop.
After the acceptance of onslaught and combat, there was nothing else. His mind wasn’t riddled with the aspects of Zariah and change, or other things she wouldn’t be able to grasp. It wasn’t poised on frustration or anger for the things he couldn’t control. Battle was familiar, a forsaken notion by so many others, and a grasping, gnawing sentiment he grasped hold of when everything else seemed too overwhelming.
There was no excitement, no surprise, no apprehension – just the raw, unfiltered motions of movement, barely a sound stretched between his ascent and feathers, rising, rising, rising above the goose, never a part of the heavens, but provoking their clarity. Primordial, primeval, notions and carvings that had shaped him from long ago, no matter what form he possessed, bound and struck against his wake. Habitual, routine, to embark straight into militant marches and desecration, finessed by irreverence, poised in pernicious precision.
Then he descended, blinding and brilliant, cascading downwards in a hell-bound state, talons reaching, grating, fluidly attempting to reach, to notch and knock against, upon, the summoner.
As Deimos began to climb, Loren eyed the General warily. The healer attempted to rise as well, but wasn't nearly as agile as the other man in the air. Which was also why his attempt to dodge out of the way was unsuccessful. The eagle slammed into the goose, and he found himself plummeting, the other man easily able to latch onto the Launceleyn.
However, Loren wasn't out of the fight just yet. He did his best to twist in midair, so that he was facing Deimos as best he could. Regardless of whether he was successful, the healer would peck and buffet the General with the goose's strong wings.
Agility, well-honed in his eagle prowess, had been on his side; latching, snatching, talons locking over goose intervals. Loren fought back though, to no surprise, and he did his best to reel backwards, wings shifting, billowing, extending, attempting to stay out of the fellow bird’s reach. Their close quarters ensured it was not to be, and he could feel several alterations in their movements, plummeting further and further, sealed and accorded. Loren’s beak instigated a few tufted, loosened feathers, and a semblance of irritation flickered over his frame. It lacked rage, however; just instigating a series of calculations, machinations, and pathways.
To let go, or to continue their wild, vicious descent…
He released the goose – intending to skitter off to the left as they drifted, as they settled. Not to be waylaid though, the Sword attempted to sweep back the way he’d come, fast, swift, quick, striving to rampage into the goose’s wider sides.
Flailing more than a bit, Loren did his best to continue battering Deimos. The healer's wings and beak managed to find a bit of purchase, but they didn't do nearly as much damage as the General's attack had been. Still, it was enough to get the other man to release the Launceleyn.
Immediately, he tried to labor to right himself in the air, before Deimos came in for another swooping attack. Unfortunately, Loren still wasn't able to evade the General's strike: talons raked against the healer's side, but it was a glancing blow. Still falling, he tried to sweep his wing into the other man, though the Launceleyn knew his own attack was awkward.
Falling, falling, falling, nothing to catch them in the wind except themselves. Perhaps that’s what made it so inherently risky. A wound deep enough, piercing enough, could send them straight to the ground, to the slaughter, without time to puncture or rival the course. But all the same, it was preparation, it was a vital contortion to possible future events – where claws and feline habits couldn’t reach, but talons and plumage could.
Not enough to knock the goose out of the sky though.
The assault didn’t send the fellow bird anywhere the Sword had intended, and the wing-sweep thereafter was bizarre, but made him catch himself, pull back, to avoid being knocked asunder. Becoming out of balance could render him completely useless, and he had no predilections towards the latter.
So he rose, he rose, he rose, up into the vestiges, the ether once more, gathering distance, before plummeting, descending, on a tucked, tightened spiral, ignoring the loosened feathers from attacks ago, attempts at plunging straight for the goose’s back unfurling, unleashing, in rapid accord.
As Deimos flew away again, Loren couldn't help but feel a great deal of relief. He managed to finally right himself in the air, then started to pump his wings furiously, trying to gain as much altitude as he could while he was able to. As he did, he scanned the area for the General.
When the Launceleyn realized the other man was nowhere to be seen, Loren felt his relief turn to dismay in an instant. Unfortunately, before he was able to evade or anything like that, Deimos struck. This time, the blow stunned Loren. Though he flailed a bit subconsciously and maybe brushed the General by accident, the healer plunged straight down, unable to control himself or keep himself in the air.
