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!
running off over next doors
garden before the hour is done
What to do with herself, that was the question. It seemed about time to get truly involved, seeing as she was supposed to be making a new life for herself here in Caido. Her life before this had been planned for her, her calendar full and etched in simple terms. She'd been content to stick with it, but forces bigger than herself had decided otherwise. Now here she was, starting from scratch, and trying to put together some trades and talents from her old life that might be helpful here.
What made today so special in the search for a purpose was that she'd come to some sort of heading. Even as a young girl she'd always loved swordplay. Be it with sticks and butter-knives, or blades long seasoned in the craft of war, she'd enjoyed both watching and swinging the metal. Watching her opponent falter, waiting for that blinking opportunity to take what she wanted. The ball of energy that charged in her chest, waiting for the final blow to exhale and relish in the high of winning.
Perhaps it wasn't a purpose yet, but it was something to do, and something she wanted.
The golden toned woman found herself at the military barracks, following the path that her and Jigano had walked not long ago. Hazel eyes followed a sea of steel, the armory glimmered with a kind of gold only a warrior could appreciate. Yet to announce herself to anyone around, Aisha walked to a nearby rack and allowed her fingers to dance along the smooth edges of the blade, tactile, curious, and praising.
The General had arrived to the barracks later than usual, working on implementing some plans for LongNight preparation over at the Artisan’s Guild, and then following through to tend to his other organization. Opening the front door, the mountain made his way along familiar, habitual pathways, leaving parchment on the table for later use, and dropping his bag off, when he heard the sound of footsteps nearby. He’d always left the area open to the public, to come and go and train as they pleased – some preferring onslaughts against targets in the midnight deluge, early in the morning before the sun rose, within the heat of the day, or everywhere else notched in between. So it wasn’t alarming to hear rustling within the armory, another soul partaking in whatever means and munitions they favored, there for them to utilize. It just meant he was curious.
So the Sword followed the hallway, meandering along until he came to the arsenal’s aperture, taking up space and expanse in the doorway, piercing eyes flicking towards the individual nestled within. A stranger, completely unknown and foreign to him, as he would’ve recognized the shock of hair – seemingly enamored with the storage of blades (an understanding; as he preferred those as well). The deeper intonations of his vocals rumbled through, announcing his presence if his figure hadn’t done the work for him. “Anything I can help you with?”
running off over next doors
garden before the hour is done
The imposing shadow begged for her attention before the rumbling voice, she turned her head sharply, eyes searching through a mane of flaxen curls for the figure. It wasn't hard to find at all, the man was a colossus, nearly a foot taller than her and broad. She liked to boast her musculature, her own shoulders were of a proud and sharp design but she was a twig compared to him, she felt as though he could blow her over with a deep breath.
That of course was an exaggeration, but one that cynically passed through her thoughts as she analyzed him, with the sunglow gaze of the cat. "Are you Deimos?" she asked boldly, and it would be no shock were his answer yes. This man certainly had the look of the general she'd been told about. Subconsciously her hand wandered back to the blade she'd been examining to her side, resting it along the smooth surface.
it’s more a question of feeling
than it is a question of fun
Automatic scrutiny; perhaps enacted by both. It was commonplace for warriors, to analyze, glance over possible opponents or allies, to either circumvent, siege, assault, or merely strive to comprehend another’s capabilities. He gave nothing away in the stoic silence – his figure usually said enough – but from the intonations of her vocals, the muscle along her own bones, she likely wasn’t someone to consider lightly. In a maneuver that might have been considered feline or predacious, he tilted his head a fraction, as one might survey potential prey or just angled out of mere curiosity, eyes narrowed briefly as she inquired. “Yes.” Which meant she’d likely been sent here or wandered within of her own volition, his name or role within the Hollowed Grounds a prominent fixture. "And you are?" Thereafter, he attempted his question again on a similar vein, one brow arching to break apart the otherwise reticent, reserved features. “Do you require something?” Perhaps she meant to take a blade and nothing more.
running off over next doors
garden before the hour is done
To be around another warrior, it was easy to tell the difference between one and any old civilian. From his frame to his calculated stoicism, to the analytical tilt of his head, she felt as though she was dealing with one of her own men, his movements both familiar and exigent. He confirmed her suspicions with a simple yes, a satisfied smile flit across her lips.
"Aisha," she replied, impishly reluctant to give him anymore just yet. Something about him had the cat intrigued, perhaps she could sense the feline in him. He restated his initial question with a quirked brow, Aisha allowed her hand to drop from the blade to her hip. "I was told you're the general of the Hollowed Grounds, and partial to training," she replied, chin tilted slightly.
it’s more a question of feeling
than it is a question of fun
Aisha; another fellow warrior. He’d been fortunate as of late to come across several, like long-lost compatriots and comrades from other, foreign worlds. They’d been the rock and rubble of his existence, from allies to losses, and now rising once more. The influx of their similar ilk could be a boon, and the beast wasn’t about to let an opportunity for future militia provocations, defenses, and maneuvers slide by. There was always a prelude to some circumstance, peril, or disaster lurking beneath the carnivorous jaws of the world, and if they could somehow be a line of strength, might, and fortitude before it (the pieces of Fiat Lux always a rapacious fringe in the back of his mind), then the possibility for less devastation, less death, could run paramount.
Though he couldn’t start recruiting just yet; the scheming, machinations, and calculations already beginning.
In response to her notions though, the General permitted his singular answer to both statements. “I am.” Towards his role, and partiality to training, to running a blade through individuals meant to harm, meant to extinguish, any of those he’d sworn to protect. “Do you have experience?” He likely already knew the answer – but most had come to him either completely foreign to any kind of blade, or wishing to hone their already grasped skills into further precision.
running off over next doors
garden before the hour is done
A grin lit her face when he asked of her experience. She was nowhere near the best, but she was not lacking experience. This of course was concerning swordplay, in other areas she was far less confident. That didn't stop her however from playing the part, smiling and preening, she would never give up a chance to shine when given it. "I do. I was supposed to be general someday, back home." There was an edge of bitterness to the statement, towards what she'd lost when she'd been stolen away.
"And I didn't get to finish my training, I hoped maybe you or someone else would help me continue," she said with a slight nod, eyes still trained appraisingly on the general.
it’s more a question of feeling
than it is a question of fun
Similar components and factions indeed, her foretold rank the same as the one he currently embodied. He arched a brow again, but otherwise remained neutral on the subject – pondering how her world might’ve enacted such a pathway. His hadn’t seemed to pluck anyone in particular, no one groomed or trained to a position, only soldiers who’d proven themselves time and time and time again. Survivors, vital thinkers, effective strategists, and capable instructors, meant to fortify their teams, their comrades, their allies, into a working machine of violence, mayhem, and distortion.
So he nodded in return, one hand gesturing towards the armaments and weapons she’d been inspecting earlier. “Grab a blade then,” acceptance in his tones, an ease in his bones, eternally ready, fervent, for frays, for practice, for honing precision in arms. To assist another in the same was his role, one he’d applied readily throughout the passing seasons. Whether or not it would do any good for those training and honing themselves would remain to be seen – but if they were made of the fortifying might he suspected, then they would be fine come LongNight, or any other circumstances unfurling their way.
He turned, his own sword already tucked along his belt, marching out into the grounds, waiting for her to do the same, follow, until they came to a blank space not occupied by targets, catapults, or any other training devices. No need: this would be a simple orchestration of skills. He withdrew the munition, the familiar pommel and hilt eager in his calloused hands, the rest of his form adapting into a precise stance, weight and balance grounded into the earth. "When you are ready," insinuating for her to come make the first strike.
running off over next doors
garden before the hour is done
Aisha gave a gracious smile in agreement, eagerly turning her attention back to the weaponry behind her. Though she was faced with many poised and well furnished options, the girl had already made her decision. She lifted the blade carefully, feeling it's balance and grip. It was a burnished yet scarred steel met with a russet toned leather, worn lighter in places where another's fingers had left their mark. She could've chosen a newer sword, but had always found that the more worn a weapon the trustier it was. It's presence often meant it's previous owner had returned home alive.
After testing it's weight she turned to follow Deimos out to the training grounds, jogging to fall into step just behind him. They stopped, Aisha taking position across from him on the dusty earth. She rapped her fingers along the hilt, the leather warming under her touch. She took the time that Deimos prepared himself to once again size him up, and strategise how to begin. Whether or not this would become competition was yet to be known, for now it was simply to show skill.
The basics then, trading blows with her opponent to showcase what she knew. When he gave the go ahead the golden crown lunged, striking her blade diagonally at his shoulder, enticing him to defend.
it’s more a question of feeling
than it is a question of fun
She lunged – and he waited, poised and precise, given into many, many years of the same sort of play. It was an art, the canvas of the battlefield, stoked and honed by blood, by rage, by desperation, by vengeance, and everything else sculpted, stroked, and sketched upon it.
And while she could entice him to defend, he was not so green as to leave it at that.
Her size would assist with agility, and dexterity, always an advantage over those of his capacity, but he’d managed to find ways around those machinations. The mountain lifted his blade to catch at hers, effectively blocking the escalation of steel into his shoulder. He wouldn’t cease and desist there, not if they were truly testing mettle for mettle, grit for grit, experience for experience. Using momentum and strength, he intended to push back his sword upon hers, and attempted to strike at her right shoulder.
04-24-2020, 04:33 PM (This post was last modified: 04-24-2020, 04:34 PM by Aisha.)
running off over next doors
garden before the hour is done
He did as expected, parrying her blow with ease, but instead of simply pushing her blade away he pushed back against it, meaning to strike her shoulder. Aisha knew he had the strength to push her down, so her retaliation involved agility rather than brutish resistance. She withdrew her sword instead of pressing back, slipping to the left.
Blood pumping hot through her veins, teeth grit tight as she focused on the flow and sway of the spar. She took the chance while she had it, his sword above her own and aimed at her right she struck out at his right side. Her tactic was that of a viper, precise attacks then recoiling, taking whatever advantages she had to land a hit.
it’s more a question of feeling
than it is a question of fun
Agility to her advantage, but he doubted she could beat him on experience. Not with four wars imbedded within two lives, not with countless battle after battle, not with the range of skills he’d obtained simply from existing in those lines and legions for so long. Withdrawing, evading, was a simple tactic, useful for when they weren’t facing someone with technical range or abilities, or someone of his stature, who would utilize their strength and might to decimate. A multitude of others might’ve been caught by the notions, swept away, slashed to ribbons with her viper attempts.
So as she aimed to strike towards his right, his weapon already above hers, he intended to sweep downwards, cutting and slashing through the air to reach her blade, to throw her entirely away from flesh and bone. Thereafter, quickly, efficiently, he altered tactics, lifting his sword up once more, and thrusting the pommel underneath, and towards her chin.
running off over next doors
garden before the hour is done
Aisha had nearly made her mark, but the general's sword swung to meet her's just in time. The force with which their blades clashed was unevenly balanced, Aisha had to slacken her wrist to keep her grip strong and still the vibrations sang through her bones. As she pulled her sword back to the front to strike again, she found herself suddenly inches away from a thrust at her chin. She attempted to step back out of his reach but the pommel still clipped her, knocking her teeth together and grazing a bit of skin off.
The cat snarled, backing away further as she recovered, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. The fist that held her sword was raised, knuckle gently pressing against the abrasion. A glance at it caught red, and a smirk pulled at her lips. She was obviously enjoying herself, bruises and all. A renewed fire forged at her core, the cat rushed forward again aiming at his left but feinting for a jab at his right.
it’s more a question of feeling
than it is a question of fun
A mark cast upon her, the slightest of crimson, and he arched a brow, waiting for the next swing of movements and motions. “Be ready for anything,” he noted – the first time he’d spoke within the mock lesson and duel, a recitation he’d heard from instructors and commanders over and over and over again. There was no telling the experience level of another until one was in the thick of it; unless they were a green youth plucked straight out of the training camps, and usually those didn’t make it towards more-worthy adversaries (cut down within the fields, driven apart by those with deft swings). It was clear she’d had rampant, clean, precise instruction, but perhaps not with a pommel thrust under her jaw.
His eyes narrowed, regaining position as she aimed for a feint – clever and quick, but giving herself away too much. The movement was larger than necessary, giving him ample time to maneuvering his sword upwards to block, so her blade crossed into the middle, a clash of forged steel. Instead of rushing forward into another attack though, he proffered extensions of wisdom. “Your feint used too much movement. You want it small, miniscule, so the opponent does not see it coming, or have a chance to defend.” He waited for her to lift her weapon again, an insinuation of the act by a nod of his head, indicating he’d prefer to demonstrate on this round. The General placed his armament along the left of hers, and with minute, quick, effortless motions, slid it underneath, to the right, so if it were in the middle of war, the thrust would follow through, straight for shoulders or chest. After several more motions, slowed down significantly for her to bear witness, then sped up once more, he lifted his blade to reflect how hers had been. “Try again.”
