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!
Her concentration on her next project, bending and shaping some twigs and twine into antlers, almost went entirely out the window at the series of questions. Melita had always thought herself somewhat chatty and enthusiastic, but it might’ve died down in the last few months, and was nothing compared to Quanil’s list of inquiries. She lifted her head again from her perusal, eyes widening as the litany labored on, and she could really only pick and choose which ones to snag onto before the next came sailing by. “I was born in Helovia, in the Dragon’s Throat.” Her hands gestured to the painting she had above her desk – the scene adorned with vivid, red sands, with dragons flying, with the oasis flooding the backdrop. “My father must’ve traveled there at some point, and met my mother.” No fantastic love story there – one night stands producing twins he didn’t want anything to do with – the comparison to butterflies making her smile, out of the rut she could feel herself falling into. Those would probably be more like her sibling - beautiful and majestic, gentle and kind. She was the honeybee, destined to sting and protect. “No. Helovia was destroyed. My mother sacrificed herself to get my sister and I out.” A long tale that seemingly had no end; puncturing and piercing their way through the Rift, until Melita lost Clementine too.
She was certain she’d missed some, but with the rapid-fire munitions, it was difficult not too. Hopefully they’d cycle back through if there were certain answers they truly wanted. “He’s a fun uncle.” Who taught her strings of curses in Korofian and never held her back.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
They watched her answer avidly, as if they could see the very words come out of her mouth, but they leaned away and frowned when she mentioned how she'd come to be here. "O-oh, I'm sorry. About your world and your mother and... I'm sorry."
They grabbed onto the mention of Mr. Sunjata as a fun uncle as a lifeline to turn things from dreary back into ...well, at least tolerable. Making memorials wasn't exactly a light, fun, pleasant task. "I knew it! Or, well, I figured as much. He's been very good to me, and he helped rebuild the Temple. I owe him a lot, and I'm not sure just working here will make up for it, but it's a start.
"So, uh... you said you're not a bowyer. What do you do then, if you don't mind my asking? If... I mean, other than being a Loreseeker, I haven't really figured out something to do myself, so it's okay if you haven't either. I'm just curious." They laughed a little, sheepishly. "As always. Let me know if I'm too nosy."
“It’s okay.” Except it wasn’t, and maybe it never would be – always out of reach, always behind her eyes, those fragments, those ghosts, those pieces and particles of family she’d be able to have again. Maybe she hadn’t cherished enough, in those whimsical, mercurial days of floating amongst wildflowers and singing sweet tunes of nothingness – paltry and trifle, and all she could’ve craved now, after seasons spent rooting amongst despair. Her eyes went back down to the antlers in her hands, refining several points, so they appeared sharp, guarded.
Sunjata’s influence on the land seemed to be more than just flavors and romances of the week though – and it was nice to hear his essence wasn’t wholly constructed in seduction and mayhem. “I’m sure he’s glad to have you around to help,” was spoken softly, but assured, a strong set to her jaw, to her lifted chin, while she worked.
What did she do was another inquiry entirely – nothing ever really set in stone. “I used to help hunt monsters with the Monster Hunter’s Guild.” Then the girl shrugged, as if this had been fleeting, which was too bad, because it was an embedded, infused portion of her past she could glorify, something she knew how to do. “I was offered a job sailing, so, I’ll probably do that.” Her nose wrinkled, some dissatisfaction swirling around her gilded gaze, before she let it pass by, shaking her head, as if to war away something else sticking in its thorns. “Sometimes it’s hard to figure out where you fit.”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
03-30-2020, 02:10 AM (This post was last modified: 03-30-2020, 05:10 PM by Quanil.
Edit Reason: correcting character name
)
Quanil was used to making sort of generic memorials: memories of festivals enjoyed and the like. They avoided the Fiat Lux one for this particular one, but otherwise a basic 'seasons enjoyed with you' was a good theme. At this point, they could almost make memorials in their sleep.
It was easy enough to avoid mention of family and worlds gone because Miss Melita brought up something very, very interesting to them. "The Monster Hunters' Guild! Ooooh I have wondered about them! They sound like they might be very interesting. Dangerous, but interesting. Of course, I've never quite been clear what constitutes a monster and what doesn't? But maybe I should go ask them that.
"If you're sailing, you'll be out in Torchline then?" Better to steer the topic towards Miss Melita personally; she'd said she used to be in the Monster Hunters' Guild, after all. "It's beautiful out there, I've never seen water that shade of blue before. And so much of it! I know Miss Arialla hopes she'll 'fit' out in Torchline. It seems to be where everyone wants to be nowadays."
They shrugged. "I was born and raised here on Caido, here in the Hollowed Ground, and I still don't really know where I fit for sure. I want to fit in with the Loreseekers, so I'm trying really hard there, and I hope it'll work out, but... maybe that's just what you have to do? Maybe no place fits perfectly immediately, and you always have to work at it. I don't know."
After some more pressing of sticks, threading them together with the woven string, winding and knotting, the antlers looked fine enough – better than the gun attempts. She shrugged at it, putting it aside to grab more string, making loops to hook them along the wall, amongst the rest of the orchestrated things. The insinuation about the guild caused her to look up again too, pondering her experiences. “I only got to go on the banshee one. So, things like that?” What constituted who or what was a demon, a fiend, were deeper insinuations she didn’t dare answer, not after she’d been one during the blight.
The notions of Torchline were a more suitable exchange, and her smile lifted once more. “Yes! It’s lovely!” She wasn’t sure who Miss Alita was – but the girl would forever be exuberant, exhilarated, and content with the spread of the ocean, closer and closer to fringes of home she’d never have again.
But fitting in was another sticky topic, for both of them apparently – especially when one had been born here, and had yet to find something worthwhile. She shrugged at that too, the uncertainty a gnawing in the back of her mind. What if she didn’t measure up to this pending adventure either? “Maybe you just keep trying new things until something seems to stick.” There were enough of her bombastic, emboldened ilk.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Quanil nodded thoughtfully when she brought up the example. "When I'm stronger, I have a theory about banshees I'd like to test out. But it'd require more people, and it's... well, dangerous." They sounded almost apologetic; they didn't like even the idea of putting people in danger, especially after having done it once already.
They frowned at the memorial and set it aside for a bit, to see if they could come up with something else to add or if it was good as it was. "I sort of made myself stick to the Loreseekers, I suppose. I wanted to be one so badly, ever since the guild was created! But beyond that... it feels like survival just takes up so much of one's time, you know?" They looked at the memorial she was working on. "The antlers are very nice, Miss Melita."
Her brows rose, gilded eyes flickering back to Quanil. “Oh, a theory? Like what?” As someone who’d assisted in besting and slaying a banshee, she was intrigued, pondering what else could be effective against similar monsters. Danger and treachery were, unfortunately, seemingly part of Caido – and every other land she’d lived within.
Survival and the Loreseeker’s sounded like enough to Melita – something an individual could sink their teeth into, grasp, grow from. That might’ve been her intention behind joining the Monster Hunter’s Guild, besides being comfortable with the segments and sentiments of violence, vehemence, and vitriol. Perhaps they were all just moving on and forward from it now. “Maybe something within the guild will really spark your interest, and you can go from there.” An ebullient smile accompanying, her eyes hastened to their work, while complimenting hers. “Thank you,” bobbing her head a little. “What are you making?”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Quanil was more than happy to babble talk about their curiosities. "Well, I was wondering how banshees knew their prey from someone else, especially if they're chasing after them. I asked Provost Silversmith - this was at a lecture he was giving, y'see - about that. And what would happen if you had a relay system set up, with three people who were dressed up to look like each other, and they could just hide behind certain trees along the way through, swapping out in order to keep one person from getting too tired. Would the banshee give up eventually? Would they go from one person to the next or do they instinctively know which one was their initial target?" They stopped themselves before they really got going on a tear and just added, "It's safer to wonder about than to attempt, obviously."
They picked at their memorial idly while they listened to her. Frankly, everything sparked Quanil's interest, especially things about the Loreseeker's Guild. But then she smiled at them, which was rare, and asked after their own work.
"Oh." They looked back down at the memorial as if they'd forgotten all about it, even though they were playing with it at the moment. "This is for Herri. He didn't make it out of the Fiat Lux Festival... um... events this year. I didn't know him very well, but I can't imagine someone who doesn't deserve a memorial. And a lot of his family are gone already, so there aren't a lot of people to remember him." They picked it up and held it out at arms' length. "It's kind of generic, just a remembrance of the seasons Herri did manage to live through, but... well, it's something, any way." They set it back down. "Yours is nicer, because it's personal."
Melita, in her more solemn moods and endeavors, could be a rapt listener. So while she finished the hooks, tightening loops around her fingers, pulling against them to test their mettle, she settled into the theory. “Hm. That is interesting.” She paused, striving to remember how they’d entangled the banshee. “We sort of, led it to a pit of sticks, a lot of fire, and capable hunters.” Swords and blades crossed, anguishing bellows over the forefront of earplugs, none of them succumbing to a crushing fate. Quanil’s attempt would take multitudes of teamwork and cooperation, which might not have been something the Grounders had in spades (based on prior experiences).
Her stare went back to their ministrations, nodding, trying not to wince, at the Fiat Lux devastation. “I’m sure he’d appreciate it all the same.” To have such a wholesome event, something to follow after the oblivion of LongNight, thus corrupted and polluted by the semblance of death and mayhem, warped one of the few occasions they had left that was whimsical and diverting. She grabbed hold of her antlers, her gun, and wandered to the wall. “Where would you like to put it?” Her hand not occupied by the memorial pieces pointed towards vacancies, in between other nestled heartaches and remembrances.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
As if launched off a trebuchet a trio of gourds bursts suddenly through the window of the bar. Fangs bared and vines slashing, they fly majestically toward Quanil and and Melita.
The first strikes Quanil in the chest.... but the blow is glancing, barely hurting the youth. Indeed, it is the gourd who suffers most, falling to the ground and cracking immediately, its slippery guts spilling on the floor.
The second one is insanely successful, managing to plant itself right on Melita's head. Its fangs sink into her neck; if she doesn't do something quick, she's toast!
The third one crashes into the top of the bar and knocks over some expensive bottles before vanishing behind the counter, oops.
Quanil has taken a very light blow. Gourd 1 is broked.
Melita has been hit badly, and has gourd 2 sucking the blood from her carotid! She will pass out if she doesn't get it off
Gourd 3 is somewhere
Miss Melita's - well, the Monster Hunters' Guild's - method of dealing with banshees sounded more likely to achieve success in destroying it, certainly. And it wasn't as if Quanil thought the banshees needed to be protected, exactly? They just wanted to study them, to learn more about them. Maybe there were easier ways to protect oneself from a banshee, or a way to make them leave or... well, thoughts for another time.
Quanil picked up their memorial for Herri as Miss Melita picked up hers for Adam. "Anywhere, really. You pick first. I think Herri would just be pleased as a seed ghost in an apple orchard to have their memorial here. I heard he was fond of drinking." They said it as if it were an innocent hobby or pastime and not, as it was likely meant by those who said it, a deprecation upon his character.
And then... "OOF!" Quanil stumbled back a bit, the memorial falling from their hands. They're barely aware of what's happened until they see the broken-open gourd at their feet... and the memorial landing in its guts. "Hey!" They snatch up the remembrance of Herri to keep it from getting gooey.
"Miss Melita, are you...? MISS MELITA!" Because they've seen the gourd that's gone for her neck, and they drop the memorial again to run to her aid. They cast about for something... then grab a stick from the assembled crafting materials.
Quanil tries to pull the gourd's fangs out of Melita's neck with one hand while attempting to shove the stick in between the fangs and her throat with the other. It's a small stick, but it might still give some leverage in close quarters like this.
The calm before the storm, nodding in acceptance of their next contortion of roles. She grabbed hold of a stool, easier reaching points to access the remaining hooks, intending to hang the antlers and gun beside one another.
And then there was a flurry of motion, of movement, of shattering glass, quick, chaotic inveigling that she had no time to formulate anything but a gasp –
As fangs dug into her neck, and she hissed as they slid across skin and into her veins, a sharp, infuriating pain. Fangorn’s abrupt panic echoed throughout their bond, recognizing the attempts and assaults for what they were, chasing after the remaining gourd as it slid behind the counter.
Quanil was helpful in aiding her attempts as her hands went instantly to the gourd, a string of curses uttered under her breath. “Fok jou” growled and roared from her mouth, while Quanil reached and pulled, while she did the same. “Baster,” howled, never directed at anyone but the gourd attached to her nape, attempting to become more than sustenance and fodder for the rising tide of their assembled anger.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Quanil roared - not terribly impressive, but a roar nonetheless - as, with Miss Melita's help, they managed to yank the gourd off her neck. They stumbled backwards with it, then raised it above their head before hurling it towards the floor, giving it a stomp for good measure.
"Miss Melita! H-here!" They glanced about quickly, then gave up and tore a strip off the bottom of their shirt. "Here, hold this against the bite wounds!" as they offered it to her, before adding, "At least it's already red?"
Their heart was pounding as they cast about for something that might be of better use for her. "Anyone have healing magic?" they yelled. They rubbed at their chest where they'd been hit, but that was likely just a bruise. Miss Melita needed it far more.
Stunned, a little shocked, a little stupefied, quite unlike her normal antics, the girl simply watched as Quanil ripped their shirt, and handed her the bottom. She nodded, the pain pressing, crossing over her sight. Something in her senses felt like she was swimming, and she sat down on the closest chair, placing the fabric against her wound. There were shouts and clatter, and her eyes were suddenly incapable of focusing on much of anything, staring at the glass on the floor, a deep, forbearing wondering shaking through her, fingers trembling no matter how hard she stoked against the blood.
Fangorn soon returned, nestling beside her ankles, deeply upset, given the nature of everything falling apart around them – incapable of finding the last gourd, and Melita hurt. His hisses were quiet, but no less agonizing, through her heart.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
