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!
Another blow landed with surprising accuracy, nearly blocked and then not quite, slipping past his guard. She wonders if he's letting her land them, then shakes the thought away; he respects her too much to throw the game, she thinks and hopes and believes.
There are more lessons, the formula remaining the same. This time he presses the sword to her face, an attempt to distract or dissuade her, to make her uncomfortable and unhinged. Instead, though, she only grins, dark eyes flashing at the aggression, an eyebrow raised in equal challenge. Given another opponent maybe she would feel overwhelmed, but with him it is impossible - and besides, she has faced far more frightening things than a simple wooden sword.
So she sidesteps this time, avoiding the blade that angles toward her shoulder. And now it is time to retaliate in time, and the girl knows exactly what she will do. Pressing her magic down into her legs, the Shield lets her lower body shift into a longer shape. The qilin's hindlegs extend her own height, hopefully giving her an advantage of surprise. Now taller than Deimos, she retaliates with her own swift onslaught, horned and fearsome and pressing in close, sword raised and darting in attempt to slash gently on his right shoulder.
It hadn’t been true aggression bolstered towards her – not the irreverent pieces of mettle, grit, and immorality lingering within his being. They weren’t battlefield components, his obnoxious swordplay at hand, savored and relished for the sake of instruction, tutelage, and practice, rather than the drumbeats of war, the staged dais of merciless onslaughts. In those chaotic embroilments, there was no time for musings, for mullings, for defining challenges or goading; it was all action, all engaged fortitude, might, and menace, the triumphant the ones who were stealthier, smarter, or simply honed in precision, in experience.
He had no fear or hate here, no contempt, no abhorrence, no treacherous meaning except devotion and roles. Only goading and provocations, only heartfelt insinuations tucked within pride and capabilities; because he was awed by her abilities, by the trickery of the moment, by the altering of the game, as she rose and towered over him. He raised his blade above his head to block, but it was an odd, peculiar sway, and he could only catch the tail end of her wooden armament before it coasted against his shoulder. The beast shook his head and laughed, not at her, but the situation, lowering the sword down to the ground, placing it amongst the earth.
“I concede.” Her point enough to elevate her to the victor; and he bowed his craniun in mock-defeat. In another world, he might’ve been irritated, exasperated, that his trials, his tribulations, his precision, had seemingly not mattered; here though, the beast remained calm, steady, and stoic, tilting his head to survey her. “So where shall it be?”
05-13-2020, 10:00 PM (This post was last modified: 05-13-2020, 10:00 PM by Amalia.)
Amalia
the shield of safrin
The blow lands true, her strange trick triumphant; standing above him on unsteady legs, the half-qilin grins at his concession, eyes bright with pride, the lines of stress fading away. "I win." Not gone - never gone - but lessened by his acceptance, his grace and forgiveness, by him.
She lets her body shift again, regaining that familiar form he holds so easily in his arms. Only a few characteristics remain: the streaks of lilac in her hair, the nubs of horns, the feline eyes. Small and slender, she is far from the wraith he met in a library so many years ago. She is muscle and lines, scars and growth; she is bigger now, bolder, more than herself.
She is his.
Stepping forward with a sigh, Amalia leans her head against his shoulder, finding a place in the curve of his body in which to nestle and dwell. "I don't care," she whispers against his skin, face tilting up into the crook of his neck. "Somewhere warm, and far away. Torchline, maybe. As long as it's with you."
The beast snorted, a billow of ruffian regard. With anyone else he would have retorted with some other vitriol, a juxtaposition of irritation or vexation (because he didn’t enjoy the sensation of loss; experienced it a multitude of times in his life). With Amalia, the edges of his mouth curled into a smirk, and his head shook, wild locks left unhindered. “You win.”
And in many ways, she likely had. Won in growth, in fortitude, in might; no longer the being who sought to challenge, then back away – rising to the occasion instead of fluttering or lingering off in the abyss. She’d done it on her own, with those convictions and heartlines, with those strong, molded assurances, with promises laden in her boldness and fire. Maybe that was what he loved and cherished the most – the incensed flames, the stoked fibers of her merit, of her grit, of her determination.
The Shield leaned into the Sword, and he’d long since placed his blade along his belt, coiling his arms around, half-intending to lower his head on hers in some teasing manner, but let it shift and turn instead, eyes pinpointed on her. A softened sigh echoed through his chest, some utterance of laughter in there. Maybe it didn’t really matter where they went (though Halo was out by description alone, and time of events), warm and far away enough to conjure his attention. “Torchline it is.” No argument on his part, the rumble contorting along his throat. “Maybe you can finally learn to swim.” Intentionally teasing, pressing his lips against her hairline, before they could retreat back into the barracks, into planning respites and repose.
