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!
04-20-2020, 05:30 PM (This post was last modified: 04-20-2020, 05:32 PM by Amalia.)
Amalia
the shield of safrin
So she is to be a sword.
She had never felt comfortable with bladed weapons, preferring the safety of the staff, the dull sides less likely to draw blood or maim. Now, as she holds a gleaming length of silver, she wonders what it would be like to wield such a thing. The feeling of it sinking into flesh, cutting against bone... she shudders, setting down the metal with distaste in her throat.
Perhaps the message had been figurative. Less sword in reality than sword in spirit, a blade crafted out of Vi's intentions, more to protect than to harm. But even as she thinks it Amalia knows that it's a bandaid, another way to hide from the responsibility that waits for her. The responsibility she asked for, that she dare not shrink away from now.
This time she picks up a wooden practice sword. Testing the balance, Amalia wraps the hilt in her right hand and affixes her shield to her left. Then, turning to a practice dummy, the girl swings forward-
-and misses entirely. Huffing frustration, she shakes her head. "Vi's beard, this is hard."
Well, there was something he didn’t expect to see. Finding Amalia in the barracks was a different thing entirely, presuming she tended to avoid it, his brow arched as he stared at her from the nearest threshold. The last time he’d trained her she’d been willing, but apprehensive, and it hadn’t ended in anything moving her forward towards demolition or destruction. Which was fine, that wasn’t her prerogative a majority of the time anyway. “And you did not ask me for help.” He shook his head as his voice bounded and boomed across the loam, crossing his arms as he witnessed her miss, the wooden blade sliding by the immobile target. “Should I be offended?”
Amalia doesn't need to turn around to know who stands behind her: she can hear him, smell him, sense him there as surely as she knows herself. Letting the wooden sword fall to her side, she turns to Deimos with a chagrined smile. "I was just... trying it out."
Swinging the not-blade over her shoulders, Amalia drapes her arms across it. "Besides, I... I'm not very good." Her bare feet shuffle in the cold dirt, kicking a stray rock. "As you saw. I've never used swords, really."
The arch of his brow didn’t recede, listening, a tilt to his head betraying his curiosity. “What changed your mind?” He wondered if it was prior circumstances, the need to know how to defend herself, especially immersed in trial after trial, or if there was something else brimming along the surface, under the immersion of the Shield’s thoughts. She'd always been adamant about a lack of violence.
He didn’t expect her to be good – her rendering with the staff should’ve given her some familiar stature, but there was no pointed, serrated edge to rounded wood. So the General maneuvered along, close to her, his own wooden blade in hand. Deimos gave her no judgment at all; inexperience could easily become practiced, honed, and harpooned, pulling the next closest dummy towards him. “Ground yourself, like you do with your staff.” He conducted the same mannerisms, weight in his feet, substantial brawn fervent, ready, and eager, the pull and play of his muscles already inherently prone.
Then he altered it, left foot in front, right foot back, waiting for her to follow the motion, straightening his hips, bringing his blade up to his shoulder. “Bring it forward,” and he did so slowly, so she’d have to time to watch, while stepping off to the side, a little to the right, as if facing an armed opponent. “You want to slide to the side, and out of the line of attack.” Despite the fact that they were practicing with an immobile dummy, the moves should’ve still been similar, especially if she was eventually determined to face an enemy. “Then bring it down in a straight line towards their shoulder.” A concoction of his words echoed and reverberated, the sword arced and precise, several times, so she could catch the movements.
For a moment she hesitates in her explanation, feeling suddenly a little foolish. "I had a.... A vision. While praying to Vi." Running her thumb over the pommel, she doesn't look at Deimos. "My staff... It turned into a sword." She lets him draw his own conclusions, again not meeting his eyes. Their argument about his violent past remains close to the forefront of her mind.
He seems to offer no judgment, for which the Shield is grateful. Watching in careful silence Amalia turns her body and sets her feet, emulating his stance. It isn't so unlike using the staff, she thinks; watching keenly as he moves, she replicates the steps. This time her not-blade connects squarely to the dummy's shoulder, a blow that would bite into flesh were it on a man.
The thought is sobering. Turning black eyes up to Deimos, the girl bites her lip. "I want to incapacitate, not kill. To protect others and prevent death without causing it. Can you teach me to do that?"
He listened, quiet, but more or less puzzled, perplexed, and confused as she continued. While visions weren’t something to scoff at, and he didn’t do so here, it was the notions thereafter – the crimson staff shifting into a sword, thus she should entangle herself within blades - that caused a level of irritation to form behind his eyes. Perhaps that was why she ducked her head, didn’t look at him during her explanation, permitting him to unfortunately draw his own culminations in a decidedly vexed manner. His stare didn’t leave her, tones adopting a neutral baseline, stifling the roots of indignation from barreling through his throat. “I see. So I am berated and judged for protecting my people, and you are allowed to do the same without repercussions. He wouldn’t judge her for yearning to defend, to shield, it was how they’d been carved into this earth, but he didn’t particularly care for being harshly reviled when she wished to turn around and nearly do the same. She’d marred, wounded, hurt, and scalded. “You cannot have it both ways, Amalia.” The hypocrisy and double-standard thickening through the air gnawed at his ribs, and he breathed deeply, attempting to avoid another fight and argument. He left it there, uncertain if she’d been willing to do the same, or if this was another line they’d have to cross over and over and over again.
So he watched as she adhered to his movements, the wooden edges bluntly hitting the dummy square in the shoulder; a basic maneuver that was trained to most new recruits. But she didn’t care for it – as he should’ve expected – and he mulled over the situation. “I will train you in whatever capacity you wish, but I want to be very clear.” Because Amalia hadn’t faced that sort of world, where the violence spread through veins, where the rush of adrenaline pumped, where comrades fell nearby, where each breath could be the last - similar circumstances to be sure, but not the brutal barbarity of war. “In the midst of battle, even when you are parrying, defending, or incapacitating, something can go wrong.” She didn’t want to rip, tear, or brutalize, but sometimes it didn’t matter (hadn’t they experienced that, deep in the Fangs?). One could predict an enemy’s movements and motions only so far – eventually it was all down to muscle memory, and survival. The piercing slate of his gaze rendered solely on hers. “Do you still wish to continue?”
And here it is, the crux of why she did not seek his help. She'd hoped he wouldn't bring up their fight, throw her hypocrisy in her face. Defensive, the Shield feathers her jaw, resisting the urge to point out that what she wants is different. That she never asked to be a soldier, never wanted to rend and cause violence; that she is a shield at the end of the day, even if she picks up a sword.
Inhaling deeply, Amalia takes a moment. When she responds it is in a low, quiet voice. "I know," the girl says simply, softly, not looking at her husband-to-be. Curls of lilac join her gold hair; horn nubs sprout upon her brow. Their argument had been over a season ago; the world and her view of it had shifted in that time. Can't he see how difficult this is for her, how far she is from who she was and how frightening it is?
She says no more, determined to follow his instruction diligently, hoping the hard work will relieve the tension that simmers and stokes between them. And she'd thought she'd done well, that he might be proud of her ability to replicate, her willingness to learn, but apparently she'd been wrong. She can feel herself bristle at the harshness of his stare, the words feeling lashes, like stings and barbs. Anger flashes hot within her, masking her frustration and pain: "You don't have to teach me," the Shield snaps softly, meeting his gaze with her own dark eyes and hoping he cannot see the pain beneath the rage. "I thought you would be glad. Proud, that I'm trying to be more like you."
Deimos watched, ever the observer, ever the witness, and he knew her well enough to see where the feathering in her jaw had become a defensive maneuver, that while she conceded quietly to the hypocrisy, that the remains bristled underneath. His did too, for the frustrations, for the amount of wounds she’d slashed upon him, and to think nothing of them in these stretched out moments – as if he hadn’t been demeaned at every turn for something she wanted to be now.
Somehow his other words had become completely misconstrued, made out to be something so far from the truth, it was almost ridiculous, laughable, to hear coming from her mouth. They weren’t meant to be nettles or barbs, lacerations or undulations, but warnings, tracings of a foreboding happenstance. He stood within the quiet swell of her anger and frustration, dimming his to a stoic, reticent degree, masking over the edges, fringes, of his own hurt layering in the midst. Did she purposefully misunderstand him in these seconds, whenever they came upon this topic? Maybe he wasn’t proud of her presently, when she failed to listen to what he was saying, when she focused on prickly nuances instead of what was truly at hand. “When have I not supported you?” His piercing gaze meant hers, and he truly wanted to know, to comprehend, to understand those nuances she seemed to hang upon – because he couldn’t think of a single one. “I am trying to understand the change of heart.” A pause, a tilt of his head, studying, examining, striving to comprehend what riddled and rankled underneath. Fear? Apprehension? Trepidation? Everything in between? “I do not want you to walk down a path you would regret.” For all the vitriol and vehemence she’d set upon him when he’d admitted the violence, the vehemence, stored within his soul, his past, his present, and then insisting on wandering down the same set was confusing, confounding, and bewildering.
Should he have been glad, that she wanted to take it up? That she yearned for the pommel of a blade in her grasp? Was she seeking his approval? Was she striving to reach him, on those parallels and parameters of mayhem and might?
The General ignored her other lancing and lacing, took it as petulance and shoved the press of it down over his shoulders. If she didn’t want to listen to his instruction, she would be free to leave. So he twisted back several paces, granting, giving her room to breathe, to calm down, to do whatever she required, before implementing a stance, grounding his weight into the earth. “Come at me. I will teach you to block.”
When have I not supported you? Right now! she wants to counter, though she knows it isn't true. Even now he supports her, stays stalwart through her fury despite every right to walk away. It's irritating, agonizing, to always be in the wrong, and yet that is where Amalia finds herself again and again and again, too accustomed to failure to expect anything else.
Beneath the simmering anger and frustration is the the deep current of pain. Of trying of inadequacy, of wanting to be enough. Too little for he goddess, for her god, for her mother, for her lover- and that it doesn't matter what he says, because the feelings, the pain, the struggle is deeper than anything words can soothe. I'm sorry, the refrain of her depression sings, clawing and cloying and desperate to be seen. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Let me good enough. Please, let me try.
None of this is said aloud, but all of it is there, floating in the Attuned bond if he should care to search. She feels it all in a whirlwind of silence, staring up at Deimos with her chin stubbornly set- and yes, breathing, trying desperately to still the typhoon that rages inside her. Come at me, and though all she longs for in that moment is to dissolve into his arms the Shield nods curtly, readying her sword. With a step forward she swings the not-blade in an arc that is parallel to the ground, swiping out towards his side similarly to how she might have used the staff.
There were always going to be those agonizing moments of not enough. Too many times he’d been the same – setback after setback, loss after loss, no matter how much he’d strived, tried, and attempted to engage every amount of precision into his movements. It’d happened in Isilme, in Helovia, and then in Caido, a foreboding cloud over any reign of supremacy. Except, if he stopped now, he’d just sink again. He was familiar with those mires, with those warrens, with those seemingly endless, eclipsing boundaries, meant to suffocate, meant to drag, meant to drown them all in its forbidding prowess.
So they would just have to continue to rise. Find those steps. Find those hands. Find someone’s grasp strong enough to hold theirs.
He stood and waited for her in the rushes of agony, could feel it varnishing, lacquering, layering over the fortifications of his might. The beast could bow his head and let it wash over him for eternity, withstand the forces of her sorrow, or return his with equal measure. There were no words he could relate that would have mattered, no amount of comfort or balm in the ensuing self-torment. He sighed and breathed, pulsing strength back in the weight of her agony and anguish, pervading fortitude, endurance, perseverance. I am here it said without sound, without voice, without anything at all but his monolithic structure, his poise, his existence.
Still she came, with all intents to prove herself (and here he was half-inclined to tell her she wouldn’t have to, not to him). Her sword arced and cut along the wind, but he could see it coming, and his blade maneuvered to catch, the wood knocking together. “Good. You can be faster, so an opponent cannot predict your movements so easily. You can also feint,” a nod, because he knew she was capable of swiftness, had seen it firsthand, and demonstrated the motion, sliding his armaments underneath hers, to make it look like he was going to the left, but on a quick, minuscule motion, glinted it over to the right. A breath away, the edges intentionally not touching her. “When you defend, it will be much like your staff, except it is shorter, and you will not have as much room for error.”
Then he paused, considered, a narrowing of his eyes, a goading of a challenge. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to provoke, but he meant to pull her out of the imposed misery, and justify their measures – another game, another tactic. The proposal came on a snicker, a smirk, light laughter rumbling from his chest. “Whoever has the most hits after three rounds can decide where we honeymoon.” Thereafter, he came at her, a cutting swing towards her left hip, intending to land a blow at a difficult angle.
Again she watches in careful silence, a student determined to absorb each teaching without complaint. Half afraid of what she'll say, half afraid of what he'll hear, she observes as he demonstrates the feint. Her own actions echo his in delayed replication, a ghost or afterimage burnt into sinew and bone. Right and then left, an easy feint made in swift motions by nimble arms.
And where defense is involved? "I'll have my shield," Amalia says simply, daring, briefly, to meet his eyes, the sword clutched in her hands. Terrified to find more disappointment, more anger and pain, she is just as swift to look away.
That is, until he speaks again. Her head snaps up, dark gaze widening in surprise at the proposal and all that it implies. A challenge, a game, a honeymoon- it's forgiveness the Shield doesn't deserve, leaving her awash gratitude and relief... And entirely distracting her from the blow that clips her hip.
The grin that cuts across her face is feral and enthused. He has given her a funnel for her anxious energy, a focus for her discontent, and she accepts it with gratitude and abandon. Leaping forward on nimble feet the Shield attempts the feint, a jabbing motion suggesting danger to his midsection redirected to a swipe at his side, depending on which way he parries her away.
She listened, applying the changes in direction, altering them beneath the wooden fathoms of his blade. He wasn’t afraid to meet her eyes, a subtle smile intertwining along the edges of his mouth. “And you will have your shield.” He hadn’t forgotten.
But it wasn’t here now, so they had to dictate and rampage where they could, where assaults, sieges, or other implications that might manifest without the familiar weight of steel in her hands.
He scored a hit, however, either in the distraction of thoughts and mischief, or simply because she hadn’t been prepared for the minor onslaught, a tap against her hip. Point, ricocheted along his mind, mostly to be obnoxious, impish, and pull her away from the melancholic edges.
Therein the feral aspects of the Shield was exposed, and were he not actively involved in the midst of it, he might’ve stopped to admire the alteration. Instead, he rushed to evade the nimble, swift pursuits, already at a disadvantage in terms of movement, much larger, much broader, where she could quickly sneak in amongst his defenses like a cat. His eyes caught the ruminations, the slightest of shifts from his abdomen to his side, but the raising of his blade to catch, to snag, was too slow. Her sword grazed the side of his ribs, and he laughed, despite an impending bruise.
“Good. Use your speed and size.” A nod, indicating his pride in her prowess, before maneuvering into another series of instructions. “You can disarm your opponent.” At this, he lowered his blade beneath hers, a funneling of power and strength coming from muscles, from days and weeks and years of doing the same motions, honed and keen. Had he had purposefully hit, instead of shown, the intent was to force the blade completely out of her hands. “Or incapacitate.” Make them incapable of continuing on and on, maneuvering his sword above her, then shifting it downward, like it would crush a blow to her hand, with either the hilt of his pommel or the flattened portion of the training instrument. The General also maneuvered the sword behind her, along her legs, a pretense of cutting and slashing, to ensure an enemy was going nowhere, or would be in too much pain to offer an assault in return.
Once his directives were complete, he moved again, mischief and tactics lancing through his munitions. “Try to block.” He ensued a similar motion from before, intending to cut and sweep along her left leg.
The sword on her hip, the declaration of point, and the familiar fire is stoked. It dances merrily in her breast and along the lines of her arms, follows down to the end of the not-blade (an extension of you, she remembers from somewhere long ago) and traces a path through parry and feint to land against his ribs.
Point.
Then it is lesson time again, the girl watching intently as he demonstrates tactics to disarm and disable, keenly interested in such an action and immensely grateful he understands. With mirrored images she attempts the actions, slipping her blade beneath an invisible opponents, bringing the pommel onto phantom fist.
Lesson ended, it is time to play. The sweep at her leg is better anticipated, her sword coming down in an attempt to block. But she's accustomed to the bulk and breadth of the shield; the sword does not provide the surface she expected, and she winces at the sensation of wood against her leg. Half-blocked, it wouldn't be enough to cut tendon, but certainly enough to bite. As it is, she can feel the blooming bruise.
She doesn't take the time to reflect on it, though. Knees bent from the blow, she takes advantage of the predetermined momentum and shoves herself forward, hoping to take advantage of her size and speed, as he said. The goal is to slash the sword over his shins while darting under his left, ultimately ending in a position behind him.
The General watched, the quiet process of pride winding its way down through their bond, not needing to be said, but expressed nonetheless. Because its her and she’s willing; to learn and listen, to apply the knowledge, to utilize it for future endeavors. If that was the only way he’d ever influence her, to render her strength eternally clearer and precise, then perhaps his existence here signified something, had some worth.
Another point to him though on the surge of movement, a billowing blow to her legs, and before he could even heighten their tyranny of amusement, she came at him – a maneuvering forward. Swift and keen, just as he’d expected, utilizing her advantages over his prowess. He shoved his sword down to block, instinctual and inherent, but not enough along her speed; the tip of the wooden blade sliding over his, and bluntly bounding into his shins. A stinging, nettling contortion, a snort echoing through his frame. They were tied again.
He turned back towards her, resuming stances despite her darting conflagration, ensuing lesson techniques again. “If you meet another defensive fighter,” and he nodded his head in her direction, because he wouldn’t proclaim her to be amidst the ones who instigated siege after siege, blow after blow, terror after terror, “You need to keep applying pressure.” Deimos maneuvered well into her space again, the breadth of a sword between them as he raised it up, the tip towards her head. “No one likes a point in their face. So you build opportunities. Make them uncomfortable.” One could exchange block after block after block, but someone would relent, someone would execute a mistake, someone would crumble. “Then you can find an opening.”
So he did just that now, coming towards her, purposefully aggressive, the blade raised, casting downward and angled, towards her right shoulder; merely to see what she would do.
