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!
Morgan's mother, when she had been a child, had always stressed the importance of trusting ones instincts. That it was good to learn more, to be patient and hesitant before taking action, but to listen intently to that drop in one's stomach, the creeping feeling in the back of the head right before something was about to go wrong.
Standing on a outcrop of the mountains with her sword in her hands before her, looking down at the Citadel, Morgan had a gut feeling that she was listening to closely indeed: that she was stood not only on a physical precipice, but another one, of change to come very soon. For better or for worse she didn't know, but she sensed the old way of life could not last much longer, not with so much new connectivity with the other regions.
In a way, she was glad her father would not be alive to see it. He had always been a traditionalist and he would have fought bitterly against the new 'Warden', the Ascended...fights she was only just begin to take up the mantle of. With a sigh she watched over the Citadel she had devoted so much of her life to and sheathed her sword, taking out instead a small dagger strapped to her boot. Holding this to her palm, she made a quick cut, one that drew blood from her palm.
The blood dropped on the show, stark red on a canvas of pure white. An oath, to the land and the spirits. That she would do all she could to protect it, even if it meant spilling the rest.
He was cursed. There was no other word for it. He couldn't hear a thing, and on top of that, excessive optimism had led him to develop a stubborn, never ending hiccup.
Go ahead. You can laugh now. Get it over with.
Fortunately ravens were incapable of that, lacking the necessary diaphragm, but Korbin couldn't spend all his waking hours as a bird. He had things to do, and hunting was one of them.
Clutching a brace of wild ningos in one hand, he plodded his way back down towards the Citadel when a semi-familiar figure appeared around a rocky outcrop. Unable to hear, he found his other senses had sharpened to astonishing degrees; the tang of blood in the air made him pick up the pace and with a concerned hiccup the young man approached the Captain, frowning as he looked between the dagger in her hand and the blood in the snow.
There was a question in his eyes as he looked at her, and frustration as he realized he wouldn't hear if explained.
Hunching down, he pulled his own knife and used the tip to write in the snow. "You okay?" Then he tapped a finger to his ear, and shook his head. Hoping she would get the meaning.
Morgan was lost enough in thought to not hear Korbin's approach, only noticing him when he got close. Having interrupted what she thought was quite a private moment she was displeased, but as he wrote his message in the snow she supposed her motions could have looked quite concerning. She nodded, though when she looked at the man again she realised she recognised him from her efforts with the training grounds: he had not been deaf then.
Frowning, she began to speak: "Why are--" Then realised that wouldn't work. With a huff, she tapped to her own ear then tilted her head to one side questioningly. Hopefully Korbin would understand the meaning: What happened? Why can't you hear?
As for her hand she held it up, watching the blood that dripped out slowly dry and congeal, the gash becoming a dark scar. She'd bandage it when she got back to the Citadel. For the moment the bite of pain in the cold air reminded her of being alive, being human - the thing that separated her from her enemy.
Not a woman of many words, the good captain. He couldn't say her nod was very reassuring, but if she didn't want to elaborate... He caught the question, and realized she would know this wasn't his default state of being.
Remaining hunched, he smoothed over the snow and wrote a new message: Got cursed at the Shrine. Twice. The gods didn't seem to like my music. The wry smile on his lips suggested he wasn't all that amused, but tried to take it in stride. It quickly disappeared when he hiccuped again; grimaced, as it was taking quite the toll on his abs. He better get ripped from this, or it would not be worth it.
Korbin hesitated, then tried another question. What were you doing?
He didn't exactly expect a reply, but it was worth asking at least. An ass whooping on top of being cursed seemed only fair.
Watching Korbin write out so many messages on the snow was tiring, Morgan straining her eyes to see the white on white, already growing sick of this method of communication. Rolling her eyes she took her bag off her back and slammed it on the ground, fumbled around inside until she brought out a leather bound stack of paper and a pencil. Hearing that he'd been cursed didn't really surprise her, if he'd been this difficult at the shrine.
First scribbling I was making a vow on the paper, she then thrust it towards him, indicating he should use that to talk to her now rather than write in the snow. Buckling her bag back up she sighed as she noticed she'd gotten blood on several of her items, having forgotten about her hand already: She'd always had an ability to block out pain.
He shifted weight between the feet and watched with mild curiosity as the captain began to rummage through the bag. A dark brow rose high at the sight of pen and paper - why in Caido's name was she carrying that around? - but he obediently took it and read her reply.
Huh. A vow? Seemed like the sort of thing a soldier might do. Korbin let his gaze wander in the direction she had been facing, and watched the Citadel in the distance.
He couldn't hear it himself, but he gave off a thoughtful hum.
"If you plan on cleaning the Palace of Ningos, I'm all ears."
The young man handed the notebook back with a mischievous grin, clearly thinking he had made a grand joke. Reaching into a pocket, he produced a roll of bandage, and offered it to Morgan, making no comment about the blood staining her items.
Morgan took the notebook from Korbin and stared at the page with a frown, clearly not finding much humour in what he'd written there. After a painfully long moment of flatly looking at it she handed it back, scribbling the words: No. You should not be out here if you are deaf. It is dangerous on the mountains. Perhaps you should be dealing with the Ningos.
She took the bandage from him with a short nod of thanks and held one end in her teeth, beginning to wrap it around her hand tightly, blood quickly staining through the fabric. When she had covered the wound a couple of times she took the knife from her hip and cut if off, handing the excess back. Clearly, she had experience wrapping up little wounds like this.
The message made him roll his eyes. Which she hopefully was too busy wrapping bandages to see. Setting down the birds he'd already caught, Korbin sheathed his knife too before he wrote another message. His handwriting was fluid and practiced, perhaps more so than should be expected of a Snowcloak orphan.
"It's dangerous everywhere. Still gotta eat." Then, before he handed it back, he added: "What kind of vow was it then?"
Of course, she wouldn't understand his jest, as she hadn't heard him compare the Launceleyns to the squabbling birds that littered the streets of the Citadel. A bit disappointing, but hardly unexpected.
Korbin accepted the bandage back and tucked it back into the pocket from whence it came.
With her hand wrapped, Morgan took the papers back to read over what Korbin had written. An eyebrow raised at the first sentence: had he not anyone to care for him during the course of his curse? Did he not have any stocks or savings? Deciding him rather irresponsible, she sighed and wrote: The Palace kitchens will give food to those truly needy during times of duress if I tell them to. Do you need this?
As for what kind of vow it was: she paused with the pencil held over the paper for a moment, unsure of how much to tell. A vow to protect the Citadel in these uncertain times. She wrote, keeping it vague but truthful: with that she handed it back.
Thus far, Korbin's expression had been open and friendly. But as he read the captain's note this time, his eyes narrowed and something in his posture stiffened.
"I don't need Palace charity," he wrote, quicker and harder than before. "Nice vow, but hard to swallow from someone who supports the biggest threat to said Citadel."
Thrusting the paper back, Korbin stood up. Picking up his game, he nodded shortly to her and started to turn away - not in the mood to be insulted by someone who he'd thought would know better.
Taking the paper with a frown, Morgan rolled her eyes at the first line she wrote. Palace Charity was there for those that needed it, and it sounded like Korbin could do with a respite. Pride was a dangerous thing, foolish to carry around.
As for the second part, though. Shaking her head with an irritated sigh she crumpled up the paper and threw it at the back of Korbin's head, trying to catch his attention so he would look back around, where she was holding a paper with the following message written on it, in big letters so he might see: HE WILL NOT BE WARDEN FOR LONG.
Oh, it was pride that brought him out here, certainly. And stubbornness. Independence, the fierce and hard-necked kind you could find in every Halo native if you dug deep enough. No doubt she might recognize it too... But truth of the matter was, Korbin truly did not need to ask for help. He wasn't starving. And if he was, without doubt his sister would knock him over the head and stuff food down his throat before asking Palace aid anyway. They had always managed without it.
The wadded up paper bouced off the back of his head, and the young man turned to look at Morgan with an incredulous look of 'you did not just do what I think you did'. But as he saw the note she held up, his gaze widened - then narrowed - and finally settled on her face with something speculative in it.
Slowly, Korbin turned back. Shoved his hands deep into pockets, and tilted his head in a birdlike manner, curious. It was quite the outrageous thing to say. Dangerous to put on paper. But it was clear he was intrigued.
"I'm listening." His deep voice was quiet, rusty from lack of use, and held an intensity only matched by the look in his eyes.
Not at all afraid of Korbin's look as he turned around, Morgan waited to see what the man would do when confronted by her message. There was a beat of silence and tension where she was unsure what would happen. She had gotten a little sloppy in who she was sharing her plans with, but the boiling rage inside her had begun to take over. Thankfully, Korbin seemed to be intrigued rather than disgusted.
Hearing his voice she nodded and spent a moment writing on the paper, then went to walk to him, give him the note, then past him and away unless he was to call her back. The note left in his hands would read:
Wait until Flowerbirth then you will see a plan come to fruition. Everything is not as it seems. There are things in movement you do not know of: when the time comes, I may ask you for assistance. Decide if you will answer the call.
He took the paper and read it quickly, half turning as if to say something. Then his eyes fell back on the note, on the message: Wait until Flowerbirth. Korbin pursed his lips thoughtfully and watched the back of the Captain as she kept walking. He didn't interrupt her, even though a thousand questions buzzed in his mind. No doubt he wouldn't get any more answers from her, and he had been given a bit of thinking to do.
He went to fetch the paper wad she had thrown at him. Bundling it togetherwith the other note, the boy knelt on the ground and reached for flint and steel in a pouch. A few sparks struck onto the paper was enough to make it catch fire, and he waited until every single scrap of it had been turned to ash. Then he scattered it to the wind, and kicked at the snow until all traces of fire were gone.
Couldn't be too careful. Some things really should never be put into writing.
He lingered for a while, gazing down on the Citadel, deep in thought. Then he rose and left, hefting his game over the shoulder as he kept walking, back towards home.
