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!
No matter the title, Sword or Reaper, the individual harboring the monikers could be considered blunt, forthright, and honest. Manipulation and deceit, with its specious, duplicitous regards, had only been rendered when necessary, or usually in the avoidance of revelations – silence, or withholding information, a favored solution instead. He’d had his thieves for those particulars. No matter how furtive the once-King might’ve been, eventually his actions told stories, wove tales, and the bloodied trail he left in his wake sounded the alarm in bridges of capabilities. Maybe the same happened here too, the bestial monolith with his blades and munitions, with his fortifications and protective, shielding stronghold, unfurling keen, veracious tones.
His eyes went to the College door, and then back to Samuel, Zuriel meandering nearby and picking at bushes. Another worry, another apprehension, understood plainly, since Deimos hadn’t exactly explained how he’d be concocting the prosthetics and replacements. There’d be no intention of keeping the Ascended out of commission, once healed up, he’d be free to drift off to Torchline. “I can create it with magic. It would not take long.” Minutes, moments, perhaps, depending on the level of concentration, focus, and energy required.
Deimos claimed he could make the prosthetic in a matter of moments, so Sam nodded, swallowing just once before he went to open the door. "I'd...rather do it inside where no one else has to see, if that's alright." He pulled the handle, this not really being a question: he was not about to do this in public, where people might be able to watch the harming of an Ascended as some kind of spectacle...and where another Ascended might see and disagree with what he was doing.
Once they were in, he thrust his hand towards Deimos, fingers outstretched. He was probably being too hurried, but Sam knew if he hesitated too long he would not be able to go through with it. "I can't...I can't feel pain, but I'd still like to look away." He shut his eyes tight.
The Sword had no preference to where he amputated another’s limbs, but since Sam was willing to sacrifice great portions of his life, the monolith accepted the terms with a nod, following after the Ascended. He left the door open, surveying it for a moment, a multitude of thoughts circulating over how to honor the other man, and permitting Zuriel to slip inside. Once the unicorn accepted, another petulant bout of her personality pervading their bond upon her view of the college, he ignored her entirely, since Samuel had thrust his hand near his face.
If the Ascended hadn’t been so nervous or apprehensive, Deimos might have laughed. But a loss was a loss, and concerns about what he was doing were understandable. Bravery in accepting, in offering himself up to these particulars was enough; and instead of answering Samuel immediately, he merely directed him to a nearby table. “That is fine,” he rumbled, fathoming witnessing the removal of one’s own fingers would be something akin to horrifying (he hadn’t had many moments to watch the near-deprivation of his own arm; Zuriel’s feat thereafter in rendering it completely healed had been something of a marvel in his near-exhaustion).
From there, he ensured the man’s hand was flat against the surface, tucking the fingers together. With no other preparation necessary, he grabbed hold of the knife on his belt, holding it high to gain momentum, strength, and might behind the swing, and descended it down upon the digits, slashing and cutting with one feral motion. “Done,” the General responded, in case Sam dared to look. Meanwhile, after wiping off the dagger, he pulled his hands together, then unfurled them outward, and in between the gilded precision, formed two glass jars. In one, placed along the table, he put the fingers, and the other drifted beneath Sam’s hand, catching any of the fluid draining out.
Thereafter, he pulled up chairs, presuming the other would like to sit, as he did so, best to concentrate, hone, and focus. “What is your preference for the prosthetic?” Metal? Natural? Hidden and tucked away, as if it wasn’t there at all?
Deimos was quiet and Sam actually found his presence was comforting, in a strange way: he was so solid, strong, seemed to know exactly what he was doing. The exact opposite of how Sam felt most days - it helped him to feel like he wasn't doing something totally insane when he let his fingers be pressed down against the table. In the few moments before the swing of the dagger he thought to remember how it felt to feel the grain on his fingertips.
Then it was done and he opened his eyes, though had to swallow down a noise of disgust at seeing his fingers being collected in a jar. Taking the seat that was offered gladly he held his hand over the other jar to let the fluid be collected, his other hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose then rest his head on by the temple.
Deimos' question reached him as if through a trance at first and he had to take a moment to consider. "I think..." Sam found himself looking at his arm, where Remi's upgrade was: invisible, impossible to see. There was something in that, the subtlety of something being unknown...but he found he didn't want that here. It was to be a reminder of the sacrifices he had made for the Grounders and he was done with hiding parts of himself, trying to perfect every inch. "I think I'd be fine with something not unlike a glove, perhaps. Leather with fingers made of whatever material is best inside. It would go with a lot of my outfits, anyway." He gave a weak laugh, but his heart wasn't really in it.
Deimos waited, composed and stoic, as Samuel either collected himself, his thoughts, or intertwined them both. On a notion, the monolith placed the jar with the fingers inside below the table, safely ensconced, away, out of sight (likely not out of mind). The inquiry remained, hovering, and like a diligent, dutiful force, he merely remained, eyes going to the jar of fluid, knowing the flow from the empty space where digits once were wasn’t quite enough; but that could be something thereafter. He’d likely already traumatized Samuel enough for the present moment.
Instead, he tilted his head to listen, machinations and mulling contorting rampantly, piecing together the imagined prospects in his mind, nodding, snorting a little at the laugh. The monolith took a moment to tangle his hair back into a bun, out of the way, so he could apply more application and attentiveness to the matters at hand. With the considerations and contemplations in place, he began once more – the same golden glow forming between his hands as they were placed on the table, concentration honed and focused on what he wanted to achieve, contort, and create.
However, something familiar churned there, as if a thread, newly unraveled, newly hone, newly tangled back into the midst, and there was some rampant relief in the incantations, and an exhale greeted them like an old friend. The enchantments flowed smoothly, efficiently, deftly once more, and there was no struggle in the back of his skull, aching and yearning for something no longer remaining – back, for whatever reason. He had no way to fathom the hows or whys, not in these intervals.
The limbs began to form, first a glove-like conjecture, leather outsets, and the fingers stuffed with something soft, almost moss-like, filling in where it would be empty. Then he imparted something else altogether, to give back what had been taken away, embedding a touch of power, of incantations, amidst the artificial digits. When he was finished, he leaned back against the chair, narrowing his eyes at it.
By invisible summonings and necessity, Zuriel strode over, glancing at Sam with something akin to detachment or boredom, before bending her horn towards the wounded hand, rendering healing, a sealing. Only thereafter, did Deimos proffer the magical item towards the Ascended. “Try it?”
--
Deimos has made:
Leather Prosthetic: Made to look like a glove placed over missing fingers, it also has the ability to move small objects telekinetically within a five-foot radius.
Sam had always liked to watch magic users at their craft and tried to find some peace in watching Deimos make the prosthetic, though it was hard to concentrate when he had to look over his lacking hand to do so: it was odd, how the fluid in place of blood made things seem both less gory and far worse. There was no flash of red, but in it's place a cold emptiness of anything, just missing parts and shining fluid.
The glove that appeared was as he'd asked for at least and Sam took it reverently, holding it for a moment and staring before he nodded and slowly, after tapping his hand on the edge of the jug to collect any excess fluid, slipped it inside. It took a second, but then his fingers began to move inside, as if they were all his own. "...It works." He said with some obvious relief, letting out a sigh. "Thank you."
Silent, he watched as motions healed and Zuriel purposefully snorted in Samuel’s direction, irritated at the lack of attention. She lifted her head once, shaking her head amidst indignation, before wandering off again, inspecting floorboards.
But Deimos was waiting for something else, besides the acknowledgments, or the prospects of the Ascended’s relief. His brows furrowed slightly, piercing eyes narrowed at the glove, pondering the lengths of the strands he’d pulled, the enchantments he’d laced and lanced within. On a whim, he maneuvered smaller books nearby, scattered them on the table. “It should do more than that.” He hadn’t given Samuel something that merely existed, covering missing limbs; he’d done more for a sacrificial rite. The beast leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed over his chest, wondering how best to decipher the means stored in its nature. “Try moving those?” A suggestion, not quite a command or demand, curious to see if he’d infused it correctly or not; it’d been a long time since the ability had been segmented, stretched, or synched with the rest of his incantations.
Sam had been so wrapped up in his fingers he had completely forgotten Zuriel was in the room; at her snort he looked up distractedly but soon glanced away again, not finding the unicorn gripping when he had lost and had replaced his fingers so quickly.
It was Deimos' words that finally pulled him from his staring at the glove. He had not expected anything but a replacement for the missing parts and for a long silent second stared at Deimos not understanding. At first he tried to reach for the books normally, then paused midway, something in him suddenly beginning to understand. Leaning back, Sam raised his hand (he had always found that magic felt more real somehow when he did this) and indeed one of the books began to wobble and slowly, unevenly rise from the table - then dropped back down as Sam gasped and widened his eyes, staring now at the glove.
"...I..I didn't know you could make something with powers like that. Will it...always work?" He asked, unsure if it would somehow run out, magic on an Ascended seeming almost blasphemous.
Layers and lacquers of scrutiny waited in his piercing gaze, watching for some inevitable movement or motion to indicate the contortions within had been successful. For several moments he wondered if he’d done it correctly; it’d been some time since the creation adornments had functioned normally, and perhaps this was another drawback, another obstacle he hadn’t foreseen, noticed, or understood.
But then the books began to rise, not so grandly, not so potently, but maybe with more practice, more precision, they’d be capable of withstanding a longer amount of time in the air. He nodded, somewhat pleased by the outcome (mildly satisfied that the enchantments could still be segmented into objects, that not at all had been lost). He permitted his eyes to wander momentarily, going towards the jar that would eventually have to be filled with ascended fluid, but Samuel’s gasp riveted him back to the instances at hand. “It should,” he shrugged. “I have not known them to fail.” Not a conceit or arrogance to the tone, rather a mere musing and mulling, pondering back to anything he or Remi had constructed. They’d worked sufficiently during any trial or tribulation. “With more focus and concentration, you should be able to lift small objects effortlessly.”
Deimos confirmed the glove would continue to work and a soft smile spread on Sam's face; he had sacrificed something large, but had at least gained more back in return than he had been expecting. The glove in some ways was more than just a useful tool as well: the power of an Abandoned on the hand of an Ascended, done as retribution for a sacrifice made for all...it was a good symbol of the unity he wanted to see between all the races.
Finally looking up from his new hand he met Deimos' eyes then looked to the jar of fluid, which was far from full. "You...need more than that, I suppose." He said with a quiet, uncomfortable laugh.
The Reaper might’ve taken from an individual and given nothing in return – but a majority of the time those were adversaries and enemies, snagging any avaricious claim, whether it be information or livelihoods, had been par for the course. Games of subterfuge, duplicity, and bloodshed; often times ending in some form of ruin. The Sword had been immersed in tolerance and acceptance, and therefore extended it back, granting without expectations. With Samuel’s sacrifices for the Grounds, it only made sense for the General to extend something in accord; besides bestowing some honorifics on a door (which he already had plans for; a mind musing and mulling again).
However, on Samuel’s uncomfortable laugh, on the vestiges of foreboding actions, Deimos managed to hide a wince, a cringe. “Yes,” unfortunately; drops of the fluid weren’t going to protect them from monsters. “How do you want to do this?” Best to move forward with what made the Ascended secure – his eyes roaming towards Zuriel, lurking and drifting amongst the room – and then back to Samuel, pondering where it would be best to cut, if their veins worked the same as everyone else’s, merely lacking blood, made up for in Voice contortions. He could always cut at an artery and have his companion heal while everything else spilled forth; an unpleasant notion all around.
There really only was one way to give his fluid, even if the thought made Sam want to put his head in his hands. With a heavy sigh, he lifted his wrist and turned it one way then the other as if considering the cut that would need to be made. "You said Zuriel could heal me and replenish the fluid as I lose it, yes...?" Assuming Deimos confirmed this he would hold his wrist out on the table, facing up.
"I'd prefer it if you could make the cut, please. I'm worried I wouldn't do it hard enough on myself." Really, he knew he wouldn't be able to. Unfortunately this was not the first time Sam had thought about cutting his wrists and those times he had been caught short by his inability to drag the knife over his own skin; then he had thought it was cowardice but now he wasn't sure.
05-10-2020, 06:33 PM (This post was last modified: 05-12-2020, 12:13 AM by Deimos.)
DEIMOS
And in your darkest hour,
I hold secrets flame
The weight of formidable things flexed and fluctuated along his shoulders, crawling down the depths of his spine; because portions of it felt wrong and some felt just and he wasn’t sure where his grey moralities blended together. Judgments settled within his cranium not by race, but by individuals, in the same stead that he never faulted Rexanna for her Ascension, and now Samuel, with his sacrificial alms towards the Grounders. Had either been a part of the blight? Had either caused any other fault or flaw in the Mathair treachery? A sigh threatened to bite and howl through his chest, and he released a slow, steady breath instead, nodding to confirm Zuriel would be able to replace the fluid.
Then the man’s wrist was offered; lifelines the same, no matter if they were brightened or attuned. He retrieved the knife on his belt, emboldening a flare of flame across the steel, cleaning, ensuring the edges, the serrations were pristine, before allowing it to hover over Samuel’s limb. His eyes went back up to Samuel’s features just once, looking for the certainty, the acceptance, before justifying one more nod, proceeding as he’d done so many times before. A drag of the blade across flesh and skin, tearing, opening, except instead of ichor and blood, it was fluid, and once the cut had been made, he placed the other man’s hand into the jar, where the liquid could collect.
“Zuriel,” he intoned and commanded, a deeper rumble echoing across the halls, and the unicorn materialized again, a haughty fragment suddenly at Samuel’s side. If she was annoyed or irritated with the concept all over again, the mare managed not to show it – and instead chose to be irritating, vexing, and annoying, lowering her head so the weight of her cranium rested primarily on Samuel’s shoulder, the glow of her horn indicating the healing prowess and process in motion; replication of the Ascended substance to return.
Deimos looked up just once before making the cut: Sam nodded, though his fear was clear in his eyes. Quite why he was scared he couldn't put into words. He knew it wouldn't hurt and he trusted that Deimos would not put him in danger, that Zuriel would be able to heal him...but his heart still raced at the image of the Sword getting ready to slice his wrist. At least it was swift and soon the jar was filling up, his fluid pouring out at a thankfully quick rate.
"So..do you have to take this to the Gods now, or do you know what to do to the door yourself?" Sam asked, more looking for something to say during the wait than anything else. Bizarre to be concerned about things being awkward when you were giving away your lifeforce, but he couldn't help it.
