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!
Deimos had been immersed in savage, irreverent tendencies since youth; spiraling into training, into war, into invasions, so when predator undulations curled and coiled through his spine, it was the epitome of normalcy. He understood the weight of sedition, the spring of bloodlust kindled in the back, and now, the forefront of his mind. He knew the notion of training, of honing, of curling it all back into precision. But he also comprehended it wasn’t the same for everyone – and as the General, he took it upon himself to ensure that at least some, those willing, those striving, would be able to contort and control the same, similar aspects.
A portrait in silence and quiet, hushed sedition, poised to ignite and unfurl, unleash and devour, at any point in time, he remained in suspense, biding the moments away while Oliver contemplated his choices. The machinations and calculations in the younger man’s mind made sense, his eyes following the selection with piercing, puncturing ease: over to the left, some injured fowl, likely not destined to live out the season, and amongst the elderly, perhaps stiff, body no longer as yielding. Thereafter, he allotted his own advice. Both are likely catches. I would go for the injured. Easier, and will not put up as much as a fight. The older one might have sagacity and wisdom to it, while the wounded bird might have simply lost all its opportunities for evasion and escape. How are you going to proceed? What were his plans: launching? Waiting? Did he want both of them to flush the turkey out, away from the group? The Sword wouldn't simply just tell him what to do; Oliver would be required to think on his own, so the next time this occurred, he'd already be prepared, and have some thoughts on the matter.
Oliver knew very little of Deimos' past, but the same could also be said about most people in Caido. It came to his knowledge quickly that many chose to hide parts of their past, leading him to have a very skewed perception of them. Oliver didn't want to hate those around him, leading to a massive amount of trust while others had a larger picture. Whatever it was, he still trusted Deimos and wanted to learn from him. Safrin wouldn't put this much trust in the man for nothing and Oliver knew that this would be the best way for him to truly channel his shifts.
There was a flicker of satisfaction and pride when Deimos confirmed his idea was good, that he had chosen out proper turkeys. Obviously, one would be better, and he understood the reasoning behind it, even if it was minimal. His head remained static as he took in a deep breath, thinking for a moment. I think I should get closer... I shouldn't run now, they will see me coming. I should try to get as close as I can and then attack. I want to be able to get one paw onto its body and another onto its neck. His eyes looked to the side briefly, waiting to hear if he should move forward with his plan or modify it.
Listening and watching, rinse and repeat, patterns and cycles of necessity before the unleashing of movement, motion, or machinations – requiring a plan in place for those inexperienced in the process. Oliver’s methods and calculations were fine, for the moment. They were a step in the right direction, because as much as one could plot, relish, and savor the opportunity before them, they still didn’t know what the turkey itself would do. That is fine. Eyes chiseled and remained on the roosting birds, on the flapping growing stiller, quieter, as some shifted into a perceived notion of slumber. Most would continue to be on alert. You may try with your assault, but other things might happen in the process. The animal will not want to be caught. They may defend themselves, peck, claw, tear. Trust your predator instincts when the time comes. Automatic, inherent reactions, the pulse of movement and catching it from the corner of one’s eye, surveying scenes, laying low, and then inevitable pounces, motion sprung from limbs far more honed for hunting and destroying than the human form. Where do you want me to be? Another consideration for the smaller cat; how would he like the General positioned? To flush them out? To snag and grab another? To offer as a decoy? There were a variety of factors involved in any predatory manner; and there’d be no harm in thinking them through.
It probably would've been helpful if Oliver actually knew more about turkeys. Last time he interacted with a wild bird, the damn thing tried to peck his eyes out. With Deimos around, hopefully that wouldn't even happen. The turkeys were far larger than the pheasant he fought against and were actually a pretty large size, as compared to his leopard body. This wasn't a major deterrence since Oliver wanted to prove himself. He had failed before and he wasn't going to be made a fool. Deimos would see that he was powerful, that he could be useful.
The words were appreciated, but not quite understood. He still hadn't learned how to unlock or give full access to his instincts, at least not yet. There was no use fighting.
Oliver sent one final mental note to Deimos, responding to the last question. Try going around them in a wide arch... I will try to attack. If they fly up, then don't bother, but if you can jump up and grab one: go for it. Wish me luck. He would kill a bird or something before sunrise. He'd make sure of it.
Crouching low, Oliver would begin his slow trek towards the turkeys. His movements were meticulous and he made sure to take great care with each step. It took a bit, but once he felt as if he were close enough he stopped. With eager eyes, he watched the prey, trying to allow the animalistic side of him to take hold.
And then he lunged. His body surged forward in a quick spring before he leaped forward, extending out his claws and attempting to grasp onto the injured turkey, this time trying to be quieter than he had with the pheasant.
Deimos nodded once, responding to Oliver’s directions. Slow and stealthy, slinking along the grass, at one with the midnight shrouds and the earth; breathing held tight in his chest, in his lungs, as he ambled closer and closer on a wide berth. He took the long way around, a modified approach, eyes never quite leaving the flock, paws lightly touching upon soil and loam, careful not to make any significant sounds. Once he managed to slither and slide amongst the eaves, he waited for Oliver’s next decision.
The other cat seemed to have taken his advice, and Deimos could barely hear him as he maneuvered and motioned, proceeding towards his intended prey. Narrowed eyes watched, waited, ears the only thing twisting and turning, striving to pick up on indicated sounds.
Then Oliver made his move.
He must’ve learned from his previous hunting days, where seemingly nothing had gone his way, because the injured turkey didn’t have a chance. There was an undignified squawk, launching to the side, plumage raised and extended, but Oliver’s grip remained.
The rest of the birds attempted to flee as Deimos concocted his own plan – going for the elderly, slower turkey in the back as they attempted to race through the underbrush. He stalked, presided from his angled space, and then pounced – a launching of bunched, bundled, coiled muscles and limbs, paws extended, claws aiming to dig, to scald, to maul, until they scorched upon feathers, and the turkey fell in his grasp, trying to put up a fight. His jaws went instinctively around the bird’s neck, ivories and enamel pressing down, down, down along windpipes, suffocating, waiting for the body to slow, to dwindle, to cease. You all right? he called through to Oliver – presuming the injured fowl’s death knells were an eventual thing too.
His front paws grasped onto the bird, digging his claws in tight. The bird, however, most likely wasn't ready to die and was absolutely putting on a fight despite being so injured. Growling low and deep, he attempted to use his hind legs to grasp onto the bird as well. This of course didn't help the fact that it was attempting to peck too. Wincing, he coursed forward with his head, attempting to move forward and grasp at its neck, to bite down nice and hard. Already blood was leaking onto his paws, so might as well get himself even more dirty.
If his attempt was successful, he would remove his head from the bird. No matter what, he would reassure Deimos that all was well. Things were going remarkably better than they had with the pheasant, seeing as he had grasped onto the bird. That was an improvement and hopefully would mean he'd have some meat to bring home. Yes, I'm fine. If all went well, he'd finally be able to prove to Deimos that he wasn't weak. That he could kill something and be useful.
Oliver’s antics proved to be too much for the injured fowl, and eventually, exhaustion, fatigue, and its wounds gave way, gone in the bites, in the pummeling, in the mayhem. Stilled, silenced, no squawk, no fight, nothing but a hunt secured and finalized. Dead and bloodied, distinctly maimed.
Deimos, his own mouth full of turkey, meandered his way along the grass again, back where he’d last seen the other cat, his eyes narrowed, pinpointed, at Oliver and his catch. A singular nod was granted, the job executed, completed. Good. We can go back. No need for an overkill, no need to continue mauling, maiming, or tracing a path of other poor creatures. The rest of the flock had long since departed, the flattened portions of earth otherwise losing their distinction in the path works and traces of moonlight; as if naught had ever been there. This portion of practice had gone well, and the Sword felt no need to prolong their exposure, their motives, their motions here. Then you can show me your other maneuvers. Which was made on the slightest chuckle; as he passed the youth, and began the walk back towards the training grounds.
Unlike the pheasant, fully taking down this bird was far easier. It didn't take long for the bird to stop putting up a fight, which Oliver was now able to release his hold and pull his head away. Allowing the bird to fall to the ground, his paws were removed and he steadied himself, stepping off to the side for a moment before he grasped onto the bird with his mouth. Turning to look over at Deimos, he was beaming with pride, excited that he had managed to finally get a catch in front of the General.
Trotting on over, Oliver joined the much larger cat. Isn't it funny that we can hold stuff in our mouths and still talk perfectly fine? I don't know... it just seems super cool to me. It's a little thing, but it's also exciting. Oliver was still getting really used to this attuned stuff, so the small things made him happy. What do you mean about showing you my maneuvers... like, climbing a tree? Jumping over stuff? Or... should we try to fight? It was obvious Oliver didn't mean intense fighting, just for practice. Deimos wouldn't hurt him and if anything went wrong, a healer would surely be within reach.
Apparently pride and being successful caused Oliver to become insatiably chatty. Deimos continued to move towards the barracks again, smothering down a multitude of responses that ranged from being rude or nonchalant, finally fixating and settling on It is convenient. Truth be told, the attuned bond had been one of the reasons he’d gone to Safrin to gain shifting abilities; capable of forming words simply from one’s mind, no release of anything else, had been a relief. He’d used it for talking and conversing amongst subjects no one else should’ve heard, for dangerous quests, and for unveiling things he wouldn’t normally say out loud.
Fighting he managed before rumbling right back to the sanction they’d started within, placing his acquired turkey along the steps into the barracks, to be collected and plucked later. Presuming Oliver would do the same, he turned and twisted towards the middle of the training area, one of the larger, open spaces, no targets, no goals, no catapults placed there. Simply for combative purposes, to unleash, unfurl, unveil. There he stood and waited, a curious tilt to his head, pondering if Oliver would accept the invitation for a spar.
Luckily enough for Deimos, Oliver wasn't actually all that talkative, he was mostly just trying to let out that high amount of energy he just experienced, now far more ready to run a mile than ever before. That would hopefully make for a great experience soon as Deimos was now keen on actually having a fight with him. It was a major surprise, but Oliver would take it on.
Placing down the turkey next to Deimos', Oliver followed after him to the opening. Let me know if I hurt you. Do you have healing magic? Hopefully Deimos did. And if not? Well, looks like they'd have to use a lot of communication and be quick enough to get either of them to a healer if anything went wrong.
Standing feet in front of Deimos, Oliver looked at him with a tilt of his head. I am ready to begin when you are. He wasn't sure what would happen next, but he knew that Deimos needed a proper okay. Complete and utter permission to put his life into the other man's hands- er paws- and allow him to unleash a new side. One where he'd finally have to fight against a person he trusted and cared for.
His tail flicked, once, twice, a statuesque dominion of patience and composure, control and unsung violence, no matter which form he occupied. Waiting for Oliver to make a maneuver apparently wasn’t going to occur though, and he swallowed down the sigh brewing, quelling, brimming along his lungs and chest. No. He would never have healing contortions, not so long as the life drain pulsed through his veins; and since he’d had that since birth and had no intention of ridding himself of the malicious properties, it would remain that way. Zuriel is nearby. He thought he felt a distant eyeroll, and haughty condescension, but fought off the bond’s claws with a roll of his shoulders.
He wasn’t concerned about it. Perhaps that was foolish on his part - but the beast had enough precision and ability to not wage heaps of damage upon another, as he did in the opposite strain. Practice was practice. This wasn’t a battlefield. He wouldn’t be bombarding Oliver with menace, with malice, with treachery, with vehemence. It was meant to go through the motions, the maneuvers, to eventually it would become muscle memory.
Ready, he announced, no preparations necessary, massive, strong, and enduring. Your move.
At first, Oliver was a bit worried. No healing magic? He knew they could probably get to a healer over a small injury, but damn was it inconvenient... until he remembered the unicorn. The name rang in his memories and he nodded. That's right, unicorns could heal. Apparently, not all, but some could! So apparently, Deimos' unicorn could, which was really fantastic. So with that settled, Oliver felt content enough that he could properly duel this tiger... or as ready as he could ever be for such a thing.
Once the go had been given, Oliver gave a nod before slowly lowering himself to the ground. This obviously wouldn't be all that great, since Deimos would be watching him the entire time, but wasn't he allowed to at least try? Slowly moving forward, he watched Deimos with keen eyes and upright ears, attempting to move quietly while also inspecting to see what would be the best route to take on his plan. Once he had walked forward quite a bit, he sprung into action. Sprinting forward, he'd attempt to leap forward and try to grab onto the tiger's back in the lower half of his body. His claws wouldn't fully sink in, but he would try to grasp onto him as well as he could without hurting the tiger.
Deimos had always been a quiet observer; studious, careful, meticulous, watching to ascertain strategies, to scrutinize capabilities, and to unravel another’s plots. Helovia had given him grand opportunities to perfect the skill: battle after battle, challenge after challenge, invasion after invasion.
Though, never as a tiger.
It was instinct here and there, honed within those predatory, voracious lines. Feline eyes watched as Oliver slowly maneuvered forward, quiet, paws placed certainly, just as he’d asked him to do when they were hunting turkeys. A relief, in some way, that the fellow beast had learned and carried it forward, that hopefully it would eventually become muscle memory, inherent, with naught to think about but the next series of movements and motions.
Then he sprinted, and Deimos crouched, preparing himself for the incoming onslaught; a launch, a leap, claws attempting to seek purchase in his argent hide and fur. The pricking of Oliver’s claws ensured some guarantee of pain, clutching at his side, along the lower entanglements of his spine. For what it was worth, Deimos braced for it, used to the semblances of discomfort and torment, clutches of fur undoubtedly due to slide off in Oliver’s grasp, and didn’t allow the ache to stretch through the attuned bond. Too many warrior intricacies, too many days spent becoming numb to the art of lacerations, wounds, and scars. Just another moment; habitual and distinct. If anything deigned his reaction, it was a defiant snort, a torrent of sedition spread through his lungs and nares.
His first notion thereafter, then, was to dislodge the creature. Using his massive bulk, muscle, sinew, flesh, and bone, the Sword strived to simply roll over, on top of the smaller cat, intending to either crush or expel, make the other one flicker away from his form.
03-27-2020, 07:05 PM (This post was last modified: 03-28-2020, 03:26 AM by Oliver.)
OLIVER
The wits of the leopard had seemingly died out as he was now going for a very unconventional approach to taking down the tiger. He didn't exactly know how heavy a tiger was, but surely he'd be fine.
Once Oliver realized what the tiger had planned to do, it was way too late. The big beast came down on him, harsh and strong. Letting out a deep growl, the leopard had to think quick on his feet. Literally. The weight was certainly very heavy, but Oliver knew that he was safe so it wasn't too bad.
That was when he got a plan and decided to at least try to go for it. No longer were just his front paws latched on, nope. He then tried to dig in his back paws into the beast. Thankfully, this body was well made for holding onto things when it came to climbing and his ankles could move around very easily (which was kinda weird but whatever), allowing him to hopefully dig his claws into the beast. The only thing getting in the way of his back legs would be the weight of the tiger... so it was equally likely that this would completely fail. His front paws started to try and hold onto him tighter, hoping that the tiger would choose to not crush him and go for a different method of dislodging him. Meanwhile, his mouth then proceeded to bite onto him, once again going for a very unconventional method.
Lets hope this leopard doesn't become a pancake and that the tiger chooses to get back up, rather than just crushing him like this.
