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!
04-13-2020, 03:46 PM (This post was last modified: 04-13-2020, 09:34 PM by Korbin.)
KORBIN
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
The wind was sharp and cold, invisible blades cutting at exposed skin. It made the dark feathers of the raven's wings ripple and sway, and only grudgingly carried him over the expanse. It's attention was focused on a snowshoe hare that had strayed a bit too far from the shelters at the base of the Fangs. Poor little thing, left exposed and vulnerable on the frozen desert, it had become targeted by dark eyes. Korbin had found it, rounded it up and kept herding it towards his sister. A meager morsel, but it would make for a decent meal... some fresh meat to break the tedium of what they already had.
Mostly, it was just an excuse to spend some time together. Away from the town, from the tavern, from people. Alone, just the two of them.
He would endure any amount of hunting and fighting for this.
Spotting her up ahead, he let off a croaking caw to let her know he was coming back. Diving down to cut off the hare when it tried to veer off to the side, he pecked towards it, but made no move to capture it. Could have, several times... but that was not the point.
It is so rare that they hunt together that she agrees to go, even though they do not need more meat. Honestly, she’s eaten so much ursur and luxere and ningo lately that if they can manage to find something different, she isn’t against a change of pace anyway.
Weaver is hunched in the snow, low to the ground, waiting for Korbin to alert her to something. Though the wind is biting and miserable, she feels only the barest hint of it. She does have her cloak on today at least, not sure how well this magic would work as they crest into Deepfrost and the impossibly cold temperatures of Halo.
Soon enough, she hears his caw above the wind, and she eyes the ground for whatever he is chasing. A hare. Not a great meal, but something different that they could eat for the night. It would be easy enough to throw some fire at it, but instead she nods Korbin toward the trap that she’s set, encouraging him to chase it in. It’s a nicer way to kill the animal, particularly since it will not be trapped long. She can kill it cleanly and quickly, rather than missing the target and simply injuring it first. Or burning it to death.
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
The raven caught the gesture, saw the trap, and kept the hare so distracted as it ran that the creature never noticed it. Through some miracle or mercy, it ran straight into the trap, and Korbin swept up, rising higher into the air on frigid winds, to circle over his sister as she tended to the catch.
He took no pleasure in the kill. Never had, never would. Especially not now, after... But that was something he had yet to tell Weaver, and to be honest, he dreaded it. Had pushed it off for a long time, until the memory began haunting his dreams and woke him sweaty and trembling in the dead of night. He had to talk about it, had to...
But not yet. It could wait just a little bit longer. For just a little moment, he wanted to try and pretend that everything was the way it always had been.
Only once the hare was dead did he come back down, to shift back into himself - gods, he wished he could stay a raven and never have to land again - and help clean the catch.
Killing is her job. She knows it, and it doesn’t bother her. Killing is something that has become routine, in a way. It is a thing she must do to live, and though she will never enjoy it, it is a fact of life. The hare runs into the trap and is caught with ease. Rising from her place, Weaver makes her way over to the hare and with both hands, snaps its neck. The kill is quick and clean, and she works to tie a rope around its legs for easy carrying. Not that it was all that hard to carry one small hare, but old habits prevail.
She waits for Korbin to come join her at this point, knowing he would not until the dirty work was done. Hunting has never been his cup of tea, and she appreciates him all the more when he comes to help her. She wishes he’d never had to learn, that they could have simply stayed a family and Korbin could have been left to learn the things he most wanted to. To become who he wanted to be. They were given no such luxury, though.
He lands, shifting back into himself. ”Nice find,” she says. Even if it is not much, this close to Deepfrost, and with so much foot traffic in the tundra now coming and going from the portal, game was getting pretty scarce. To find anything was a nice find.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
Throwing a glance at the dead hare, Korbin nodded shortly. He had been even more closed off and sullen for the past few days, quiet for the most part and snappy when forced to talk. He knew it, felt bad about it, but didn't know how to switch mood, how to deal with what had happened, what he had done. Weaver was no attuned, she wouldn't understand if he tried to open the barrier around his mind and show her all the turmoil within...
But perhaps he didn't have to.
Without any real warning, the young man threw a punch at his sister. An open palm aimed to thrust into her chest, to push her back, knock the air from her lungs... if it even landed.
That wasn't really the point. Korbin never initiated fights, or training sessions, or did anything like this. And here, now, with his face pale and stiff like a mask... it could just as well have been a scream for help.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
She’s not expecting the punch that comes launching at her chest. Her brother had been moody lately, certainly, and she’d just been trying to give him space to figure it out. He’d come talk to her when he was ready, but she knew she wasn’t exactly helping lately, so she was trying to stay out of the way. Luckily for her, he’s never been a great fighter, and she throws up her arms to block his punch. He hits, though against her forearms, which stings like a bitch but it’s a whole lot better than getting the wind knocked out of her.
Normally she’d grin, pleased at the idea of a spar. Her and Erebor used to do stuff like this all the time, simply attack without warning. It had been fun for them though. For Korbin? Maybe he was finding a new way to talk to her.
Weaver attempts to grab his arm before he can pull it back to his body. Regardless of that success, she lunges forward with her right leg and brings her left knee toward his chest. Which is her being nice, because in a real fight she’d absolutely go for the groin. And though she’s fighting to win, she won’t be that mean.
04-15-2020, 07:59 PM (This post was last modified: 04-15-2020, 08:00 PM by Korbin.)
KORBIN
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
He couldn't say why he chose to do this. Even as he threw the punch and she blocked, he began to regret the decision. But the crawling was still there under his skin, suffocating the air from his lungs. A disease of the mind overtaking the body, and he needed to vent. Or maybe find some retribution, a bit of punishment for what he had done.
Korbin stepped into her kick, so that her thigh connected with his side rather than the knee to his chest. It hurt like a bitch all the same, and he grunted from the impact, twisting his arm in her grip to free himself or at least bring her out of balance. At the same time, he tried to hook a leg behind the foot she carried her weight on, meaning to sweep her off her feet and into the snow.
Without much hope that it would actually work, mind. He ostensibly liked the concept of weapon fighting, the forms and motions, but against real opponents - and especially compared to Weaver - he'd always been second rate. It was difficult getting good at something you didn't really enjoy.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Fighting is the purest form of feeling, if you ask Weaver. It’s a way to wipe the slate clean, to simply purge the body of whatever negativity it still holds. Adrenaline kicks into full gear, blood rushes through her veins, her heartbeat pounds in her ears. Everything else simply disappears as if it never mattered at all. And probably, it never did.
Korbin moves forward, and she grins. Clever boy. Her knee connects with his thigh, and though she might leave a bruise, it will do little to hinder him. As he pulls to free his arm, she lets him go, hoping that the easy escape will throw him off balance instead of her, given that he likely put some force behind the effort.
His leg sweeps out to catch hers, and though she could dodge, she doesn’t. Instead she reaches out, trying to grab at his waist, his arms, his clothes - it doesn’t really matter what. She simply wants to take him by surprise, let his attack work, and take them both down together. A terrible plan, probably, but she’s always been the risk taker.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
Korbin had expected some resistance to his arm, and was indeed thrown off balance when she just let go. His leg hooked behind hers, and she caught hold of his clothes, tugging him along as she went down. The moment he realized that he couldn't regain balance, he did as he had been taught from the very beginning of his training and leaned into the fall, pushing off to land safely, and hopefully prevent himself from landing atop of Weaver. Being this much bigger, he would easily crush her, and he'd rather end up on his back on the snow than hurt her.
He would pay for the softness, no doubt. But he aimed a closed fist towards her gut all the same, with the hope of landing at least one blow of his own merit before he was inevitably pummeled. For the sake of pride, if nothing else. And because he'd be beaten worse if he was caught going easy on her. (He was, but only because he couldn't bring himself to put real force into his attacks.)
Anyone looking on from outside might think he was enjoying himself. But his expression was tight and closed, eyes full of angst, brimming with words he couldn't yet bring himself to spill.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
He would have been smarter to fall on top of her, to realize that she’s already twisting her body to move out of his way. Because for her, it’s about making sure she doesn’t get trapped beneath his substantial weight. Where he is simply soft and doesn’t want to hurt her, she is already plotting how to use this to her advantage. Sometimes her moves count on an assumption that an opponent will do a certain thing, and Korbin usually doesn’t disappoint her.
They land apart, not far, but enough. Weaver launches herself out of the snow and toward him, dropping one arm to try and block his punch though too late. She manages to slow it slightly, but she still takes the punch to the gut with a woof of air out of her lungs. This would be more problematic, except she just throws some healing magic at the pain and it’s gone, though her breathing remains a little shallow for the moment.
Still, she tries to get herself on top of him, attempting to straddle him and punch him in the face. And no, she wasn’t going to go easy on him, though she did try to avoid his nose. She could heal his cuts, but not a broken nose.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
Would she believe it, if he told her that he had intended for it to go like this? With her on top, and him on his back in the snow? Probably not. That would suggest a level of cunning on Korbin's part that never really saw the light of day. So was it instinct, then? Some subconscious working that told him that what he needed the most right now was to get the snot beaten out of him, that his tongue might finally loosen up?
Who's to say. How well can one person truly know another? Korbin just knew that his fist connecting with her gut hurt as much in his soul as it did her body. And he knew that he didn't fight back as hard as he should have, when she straddled him, pinning his large, lanky frame into the snow. He aimed another jab at her ribs, because it was expected of him, but when she threw her fist into his face, he made no move to block it.
The impact of knuckles against his jaw was jarring. It made his head ring like a bell, knocking it aside without resistance. At least he didn't bite his tongue... but a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth suggested that the inside of his cheek had been torn up against the teeth. No matter.
"I killed someone."
It was a hoarse whisper. Barely audible over the ever present wind. The first words he'd said in hours.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
She would believe him that he intended it to go this way, but probably for different reasons. She would believe him because he almost always lost, even though he didn’t necessarily have to. He lost because he chose to, because he didn’t like to fight and didn’t like to hurt others. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but he was also bigger and theoretically stronger than her. These should be easy fights for him to win, really, this hand to hand combat of theirs. But she knows her brother, and she knows there’s more going on. He is never the one to pick a fight.
He aims another jab at her ribs, and she uses her free hand to block it, catching the brunt of his punch on her arm as her other hand connects with his face. Gods, she always forgets how much punching hurts until she does it, and her knuckles sting and split from the impact. This is why she prefers weapons, or at the very least elbows. So she aims an elbow to his gut, throwing the weight of her upper body behind it, making it harder to punch her in return as the space between them disappears.
Though there’s no fight back from him, and at his quiet words, she stills. The fight ends as abruptly as it started, and between them hangs the truth. She stands, knowing the snow will seep through his clothes and into his bones far more quickly than her own. She offers him a hand, and sends a burst of her puny little healing magic to the cut she can sense in his mouth, and whatever other small scrapes and bruises she may have left behind.
”Who?’ she finally asks, without judgment, though her voice is quiet and her eyes concerned. That is no easy thing, and she knows that without having ever killed another person. Unless you counted Erebor, which in a way, she had.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
The elbow connected, and though he did try, he couldn't quite twist away enough to let it land anywhere by where she aimed it. Air whooshed out of his lungs, though not enough to make him lose his breath entirely; he'd tightened the muscles of his abdomen in time. If barely.
Korbin felt her grow still. The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy with undercurrents. His pain, her worry, the many unspoken words hovering between them, begging to be uttered. He'd spilled the worst part... the rest was just explanation.
Should be easy, but it wasn't.
Korbin accepted the hand, let her help him up. "An exile. Looked like one of those thugs they banished three years ago... Dorgan I think?" Because even the cannibals had once been kin, friends, family. People, just like everyone else in Snowcloak. The boy's voice was quiet, and he couldn't quite bring himself to look at his sister. "He... he'd turned cannibal, Weaver. Went dawn crazed, wouldn't stop charging."
The fingers that clasped her wrist trembled, and he couldn't quite bring himself to let go of her.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
He takes her hand and doesn’t let go as he talks, and she just listens. There’s nothing on her face but compassion, the kind reserved only for him. There’s something understanding in there, the sort of love that isn’t pity but simply companionship in the pain. Because sometimes that’s all you need. His hand trembles, and this whole day finally makes sense. He doesn’t choose to hunt unless she begs him, he doesn’t choose to fight unless she throws the first punch. But today, he needed to feel that raw pain, that release, that comes with blood and bruises.
It is how she lives with it all.
She doesn’t say anything. Not right away, anyway. Honestly, what is there to say? That she’s sorry? That it’s all right? What hollow words. What little good they would do. Instead she lets go of his hand, standing on tiptoes in the snow to reach up and wrap him in a hug, pulling him tight to her. He’s so much taller it would be comical, in any other scenario. ”I’d rather him than you,” she says bluntly, words slightly muffled against his chest. Because in the end, that was what mattered. That was the truth. ”Us against the world, remember?”
