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!
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
There had been a reason for not holding back today. There had been, right? Korbin was sure of it. He'd been in a fairly good mood when they started, but somewhere along the way it had all gone dark in him. It would seem he had crossed that boundary in his mind that he'd always been afraid of. Slipped down into mindless intent, where all that mattered anymore was to win, to defeat the opponent, to be the one who came out alive.
His eyes had stopped reflecting her face. He was back on the Tundra, with the stinking breath of the cannibal rushing over his face, the emaciated body struggling in wild frenzy to get loose. And he couldn't let it happen, he would die if he did. He, or someone else.
So he didn't move when the arm beneath him caught fire. The heat seared his flesh, burned into the clothes and singed the skin, but though the feeling was agony, Korbin grit his teeth around it, growled wolf-wild and just settled more firmly. The knife cut into his side too, adding to the blinding pain, hot blood gushing out, seeping onto her fingers...
He shifted his legs to fit them over hers, to pin her down. And again he tried to catch her throat, attempting to pin it beneath his lower arm. Everything about his expression was wrong, the blackness in his eyes, the teeth bared in a snarl; it was all wrong.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
She knows something is really wrong when her flaming arm doesn’t stop him. Fuck winning, it’s not worth burning her brother over. The fire goes out and she stills, dropping the knife in her hand so it clatters to the ground, opening both palms in surrender. She liked to win, but not like this. Somewhere in the middle of this fight it had ceased to be a spar and become something else entirely for him. At the moment it’s all she can hope that he will stop, that she won’t be forced to do something even worse to get him off of her and her throat.
Still, her magic seeps into him, doing what it can to stop the blood that flows from his open wounds, to ease the blistering flesh on his hand and arm. She cannot heal it all, but she can heal enough that he won’t bleed out on her, at any rate. Though still, she can feel the blood that drips from his side onto her shirt, soaking it with warm, sticky liquid. ”Enough,” she says, exaggerating the word so he can read her lips. As her eyes find his, those bottomless black pits, she can look back only with concern.
05-11-2020, 06:24 PM (This post was last modified: 05-11-2020, 09:31 PM by Korbin.)
KORBIN
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
For a while, it seemed as though he wouldn't stop. The pressure of the arm on her throat just increased, his face controrted from pain and straiin and something awful, a grim determination that had no place here.
But then, clarity returned to his gaze. Whether it was the surrender or the healing magic, or if her words actually managed to reach him was impossible to say. One moment he looked completely gone, lost in some place that was far away from the here and now; the next, he blinked and stared down at her, and his own arm, and horror replaced that cold blackness.
In an instant, Korbin let go and rolled off her. Sat up, looked around as if he barely recognized the place... and buried his face in trembling hands, chest heaving as though he'd been running for hours.
"I'm sorry," he said, hoarse and muffled. "Gods, Weaver I... I'm so sorry!"
He couldn't hear, yet still there was a ringing in his ears. And still the image haunted his inner vision, of the figure lying crumpled in the snow. Still, silent... dead.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
There is a moment when he doesn’t stop, a moment when she’s getting ready to light him on fire simply because she cannot breathe anymore and there may be no other option. She calls to the fire, feeling her magic, holding back because she doesn’t want to hurt him, not like that, and thank the gods he backs off, rolling away.
Weaver rolls to her side, coughing, trying to catch her breath. Honestly she’s just glad she didn’t have to hurt him, because she would have. That’s the real truth, that she would hurt her brother to stop him, if that’s what it took. She sits up slowly, one hand rubbing at her throat as she works to heal herself, ending whatever bruises he might have otherwise caused. Her throat relaxes, and she can breathe again, slowly able to catch her breath.
It takes her a minute to finally lean over to him, to reach a hand out and place it on his arm. It is her way of saying ‘I’m fine’ without actually saying it at all. Because she is fine, and it would have hurt more to burn him than it did to have her throat slightly crushed. After a moment, she pulls out the paper and pencil, scribbling. You are not fine. What’s going on?
Honestly, she almost doesn’t want to ask, but she can’t just leave him like this.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
He flinched when she put her hand on him. Flinched, almost withdrew... but reined himself in, and just sat there. Korbin didn't look up. Couldn't bring himself to look at her. His hands wouldn't stop trembling, even as he closed them tight and pressed them to his forehead.
With his eyes tightly closed, he didn't see the note. Didn't see her question, though he felt the concern and knew he didn't deserve it. Gods, he'd laid hands on his own sister! The only person he would never harm, would rather die than injure... or so he'd thought. What was wrong with him? What was he becoming?
Nausea roiled through his guts, but just like that day on the Tundra, he managed to hold it down. His breathing remained quick and strained though, and he felt clammy with cold sweat. Knew it was caused by more than just excertion and pain, though that definitely didn't help any. He was still bleeding, but didn't move to check the wounds. Couldn't bring himself to do anything at all, lest the fragile control he had on himself shattered.
And who knew what he might do if he broke down again? This was the second time someone got hurt when he lost control.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, rocking slowly back and forth where he sat. "I'm.. I'm sorry..."
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
She lets him sit like that for a little while, but when it’s clear he’s lost it, when he just sits there muttering that he’s sorry, when he doesn’t bother to look up at the note, she smacks the side of his head. Not too hard, but enough to get his attention, because she isn’t in the mood for this. Yes, there is something wrong with him, and maybe someone else would be gentle about it, but not her. Straia wouldn’t have been gentle either. She would not have wrapped him in a hug and let him crumble to pieces. Possibly Straia actually would have lit him on fire. Weaver is slightly nicer.
Weaver shoves the paper at him with some force this time, poking at his arms with it. Gods, this would be so much easier if he could hear, but of course he couldn’t. She notices the blood still dripping from his side, and tries to heal it again. It should stitch shut, though it might still be sore and raw for a while. At least he didn’t need to bleed out in the damn training hall of the Palace as he fell to pieces. They were lucky it was early, with only a few people around to stare, because this was soon going to turn into a scene.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
The sound of the blow should have echoed in the room, reverberated through his head like a whip lash. But it did not. The pain that bloomed in his cheek and the way his head was jerked aside was the only thing he got, and somehow it seemed so very lacking without the sound. Like it somehow dulled the whole experience.
But at least it caught his attention. He looked up, if slowly, and the way he took the paper with her question was a bit off. As if his fingers had gone numb. Staring at the words, he couldn't quite piece them together into anything that made sense. What was going on?
"I... I don't... know," he croaked. Searched for something more to add, some explanation, but he found none.
When had he slipped? At what point had he lost control, started to take this seriously? Korbin couldn't remember. Couldn't recall when his sister's face had turned into the cannibal, when the game became real, when reality slipped off into something else.
And it scared the shit out of him.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
The sound of the blow causes only a few heads to turn their way. It’s a training room, after all, so the sound of physical combat is expected, but there’s something distinct about the sound of a slap. It’s not what one usually hears in a training room. Slaps are specific, not used in a proper fight but rather in a brawl, or in situations like these.
”Ludo, give me strength,” she mutters, glaring daggers at the men nearby who seem to get it and turn away rather quickly. They all know she’s as scary as she looks. He gives her next to nothing in response, and she gets up, grabbing his hand and trying to drag him to his feet. They needed to get out of here. Not just because they are actually causing a scene now, but because maybe the freezing cold air would snap his brain back into place.
She tugs on him, trying to drag him out of the training hall. If she literally had to drag him, she would, though hopefully he’d at least stumble along behind her.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
Following the tug of his arm, Korbin staggered up on his feet. The wounds in his side had been closed enough that he no longer bled, but the flesh beneath was still torn and tender. All his muscles ached, and as he followed after Weaver, that ringing in his ears persisted until he was no longer sure if it was an actual sound, or a memory. The dragon had sounded almost like that.
He didn't know where they were going. Home, maybe. That would be good. The exhaustion that came over him was such that he could have fallen asleep right there on the cold training hall floor. He could use his bed right now... just sleep. If Weaver said anything, he didn't register. There was a haze resting over the world around him, and his gaze was unfocused, distant and unseeing.
But he did follow her. Not quite there, unspeaking, numb and aching... But he put one foot in front of the other. The blast of cold air when they stepped outside did nothing to change his muddled state; he just kept walking, allowing her to lead him wherever she pleased.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
He is a zombie. The cold doesn’t help. He merely lets her lead him as one might a dog, stumbling along behind her. There’s something so lost about him, and it makes her nervous and worried and angry all at once. The temptation to shove him down into the snow and leave him there is real, though she would never actually do it. Particularly not now, when a few seconds in that snow would probably result in hypothermia.
So she drags him home, because there’s nothing else she can do. His hand in hers, she leads him through the streets of Snowcloak and back into their house, slamming the door behind them with a kick. It seems pointless to try and get him to talk, so she stops, determining just how much he can actually do himself, though setting about removing his outer layers if she needs to before dragging him upstairs to his room.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
The bang of the door made him turn on his heels. It reminded him of the sound Loren's fist had made when it connected with the cannibal's face. The twang of the bowstring that had sent an arrow flying skyward towards them. His breath tried to pick up again but Korbin tried to resist it, forced each lungful down slowly, deep and deliberate.
His hands were still shaking. He tried to pull the heavy overcoat off, but his fingers were so numb, they wouldn't obey. Forced to let Weaver peel off the layers, he couldn't quite recall how he got from the hallway and into his room. He just saw the bed and wanted to crash down on it, sleep and never wake up into this nightmare again.
It was so backwards. He was the one who should be caring for her. After what he'd done, what he'd almost been unable to keep himself from doing... This was all wrong.
Very slowly, the young man eased himself down onto the bed. Sat on the very edge, like it was full of needles. The blood staining his torn shirt and skin was sticky and itched; he should remove it. Clean up, before the skin got irritated. Halfway through the motion, he remembered that there had been no blood that day. Only Loren's torn sleeve and light graze; his own hands had been clean, even though he'd sullied them with murder.
So very, very clean. Korbin shuddered and closed his eyes. Tried to shut the images away, but only succeeded with blocking out Weaver.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
The only thing that catches his attention is the sound of the door. He whips around and stares at it, and she can fight him something though she has no idea what. So she peels off his coat and throws it on the ground, not particularly concerned with being cleanly at the moment (or ever, honestly). She drags him to his room, where he manages to sit down on the edge of the bed and begins to take his shirt off, but though he stops halfway through.
She sighs, disappearing down the hall for water and a cloth, coming back and pulling his shirt over his head. He’s the one training to be a healer, not her. This is not what she wants to be doing, and yet...and yet this is Korbin, and so she does. She peels his shirt off if he’ll let her, and then begins wiping the blood away, dipping the cloth into the water and carefully dabbing the blood away. Though the wounds had stitched shut, her magic was not good enough for them not to be raw and sore still, and so she is careful as she cleans the wounds.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
It wasn't right. This wasn't him. He was aware enough to realize that, yet he remained so caught up in that haze of memory, of half-hallucination that it was impossible to tear himself out. There were gaps in his awareness that frightened him just as much as the times when Weaver's hands were replaced with others - frost-blackened, hard nailed, gray with filth and the blood of humans - and it didn't help to close his eyes. Those scrabbling hands remained even in the dark of his own mind.
Why now? Why was it hitting him so hard now, and not when it happened? The hours after the fight with the cannibal, he had been just fine. Talking, laughing, even singing like it was any ordinary day. But now... he couldn't get it off his mind. It haunted his dreams, infected his days, until finally this happened.
"I can't... get it out of my head," he croaked, a quiet rusty whisper. Korbin flinched slightly when the cloth rasped against his sore wounds, but didn't stop Weaver. Was barely aware of anything beyond the visions that filled his mind.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
She simply works on his wounds, cleaning the blood away until the water in her pail is filthy and red, until his skin is as clean as she can make it without dumping him into a bath. He speaks, and she looks up for a moment, putting the water and cloth down. She pulls the paper back out, writing simply what?, because she’s not sure what he’s seeing right now. There are so many demons in his past. The cannibal, her, Erebor…
She leaves the paper for him, getting up and digging through his clothes to find another wool shirt, coming back and pulling it over his head. The fires were going in the house, but still, she’d rather he not freeze to death. The fire would only keep out so much of the chill, and unlike her, he had no magic to keep him warm. Besides, she’s a little concerned he’s going to go into shock, and then what? Maybe she should have taken him to Loren...
