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!
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Adaptation and assimilation usually ensured some aspects of survival, and Deimos had learned to do it throughout each land he’d wandered within. Whether it be through war, battles, skirmishes, or mere aspects of everyday life, he studied, contemplated, and devised, a man of method and schemes, his mind never going to waste. Which was just as well, given Caido’s predilection and persistence in keeping them on their toes, adjusting, changing, and altering their paths on a daily basis.
Or at this juncture, rendering him with new incantations.
The awareness wasn’t lost on Jigano as he sailed and coasted down, both somewhat battered and beaten from their trials and practice. The General maneuvered his shoulder once more, fought off the wince, but not the growl conforming in his throat; having survived much worse, it would remain as a nuisance unless dealt with. And while Jigano had the ability to mend and assuage himself, the Sword was beaten in those regards. Too much death and damnation in his blood to ever be quite so given over to light.
Zuriel ambled nearby, and he ignored the look of either dissatisfaction or amusement, remaining silent and stoic as her horn pressed to the knotted bruise, and he could finally address the implications of the tornado he’d fired. “Apparently,” and he snorted. “Not certain when I acquired that,” which was likely for the lot of them; no announcements given or granted when the foreign concepts intertwined in their veins. Just a noticing, a strand eager to be pulled at the right moment.
On the notion of knowledge and sagacity though, he grabbed hold of the letter in his back pocket, crumpled, a bit weather-beaten from its journey through mountains. “I did have a question for you.” He unfolded the note, eyes running back over Kiada’s scrawl and words. “Do you know what the Eirachi is?” Because other than the words the Harpy had encompassed, Deimos was lost (not a place he enjoyed), and the bard was known for snagging at any information he could find.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Wounds tended and weapons put away, the bard rejoined the General with a fading wince as his Healing magic put right the scrapes and bruises of a good training session once more. Fire bloomed around him once more, this time not as sword or shield but simply to keep him warm and help dry him off as the shivers set in from his foolish escapades earlier.
That Deimos didn't know when he'd learned to tame the wind wasn't a surprise not when Jigano had new magics of his own he'd yet to plumb. The Provost simply shrugged ruefully and accepted it for what it was: new powers blossoming under pressure and not before, all too often.
Mention of a question had a silver brow arching; it was rare for the General to bring a question to him, and he smoothed away the smiles and jests as he focused on his job as Loreseeker to answer as best he could. The name brought a narrowing of his eyes and a slow nod of affirmation as he drew together the bits and pieces he'd acquired - from books, from Ingrid, from Neron, from Weaver.
"She's an elemental goddess of snow and ice, though a lesser goddess than the heralds," he began, speaking slowly as he remembered the strange book he'd found last LongNight. "She is a capricious and harsh goddess who likes to trick Tundra travelers into devil's bargains and dangerous deals which she always gets the better of, according to those who live in Halo." He tilted his head. "All in all, it sounds like she's a dangerously powerful being that isn't necessarily malicious, but is very far from benign. A spirit to treat respectfully, and with utmost caution."
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The General eyed the fire scorching, in efforts to stave off the chill, and he motioned towards the barracks themselves, where’d he already started flames and conflagrations in their proper place. “We can move inside,” and he followed along his own directions, Zuriel swiftly roaming forward, ensuring she arrived to the hearth first, claiming her spot and curling up along the rug.
He was thankful Jigano didn’t pry anymore into the fold of incantations, how they’d immersed, revolved, or sunk into his veins. The beast had nothing else to go off of other than the simplistic awareness that they existed. No one else in his family had air plunging or pervading. No one else had earth tendencies. All part of the mystique of Caido itself, uncertain if they’d ever receive the answers they craved.
The bard adhered to his request, the smallest of grins working their way along his mouth, mostly out of tangible predictions, and while the Sage spoke, he took off his gloves, putting them along the table in the center of the front room, and the letter with it.
He wasn’t certain what to do with the information once he had it though. Another goddess, a lesser herald, adorned in elemental wakes of rime and glaciers, capricious and harsh (weren’t they all?). “Sounds like something else to avoid then,” he noted on a sigh, never having been an individual who sought out entanglements with deities (save for Safrin, and a majority of the time it had been seeking out a benefit to others). There were some other schemes involved here, either unwritten through Kiada’s letters, or frankly, unknown.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Jigano nodded grateful agreement with Deimos's idea, following the General (and collecting his cloak to warm it by the fire, too) as he did so. He gave Zuriel her space, too cold to properly grill his training partner on further magical undertakings at the moment. Settling closer to the fire than was probably wise - at least, for someone without control over the flames - he sighed and ran his fingers back through his hair, combing the wet tangles away as they discussed the second-coldest goddess in the growing pantheon.
"Isn't that always the case?" he agreed with a wry tilt of his lips. "I haven't met her, and I'm not sure I want to without some protection from her rumored chill." He was already quite cold enough from the Grounds's Deepfrost air!
As the shivers began to ease with the surrounding warmth the bard slanted a blue-eyed glance up at his friend, gears beginning to turn again. "You mentioned your creation magic was back in its entirety... does that include making magical items again?"
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Marked down as another on his list of indifference (unless it directly involved some of his own), the Eirachi might’ve been something the Basin would’ve savored. Rather than the God of Time, a deity of their own ilk, flesh, and blood, could’ve been an ideal candidate for smiting the rest of the world. But here, in Caido, the art of making deals seemed far more treacherous, the payments too great, the hazards too grand to warrant an excuse. He’d had power. He’d had might. He’d had abilities. He’d taken what he could and the rest of the world with it – and felt no need to do it again. Years of toiling amidst debacles of diplomacy, politics, and then the following wars had riddled him far more withdrawn from the potential of it happening once more.
Content, to remain as he was, General, where familiarity and armaments carved over his bones, something to relish and savor.
Out of need for movement, instead of leaning against the table or crossing his arms across his chest, he wandered over to the drinks section, eyeing what was available, and shrugging at the hot refreshment boiled by someone passing through earlier. “Tea?”
While he wandered, prepared, and found some mugs, his eyes riveted back to the Sage for a moment, stifling, withholding, a sigh. “Yes,” not warranting much of explanations yet. “I made one for Sam.” His brows furrowed once more, lost in thought and methodical portions of what had come back. “Nothing was a struggle, and everything seemed normal again.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
"Yes, thank you," Jigano murmured grateful acceptance of the offered beverage, knowing hot drink would help him warm up from within as the fire was warming him on the outside. He still stayed close to the blazing logs though, steam wisping from his wet clothes as he turned his head to watch the General's wandering preparations for a moment before turning his gaze back to the dancing flames.
Confirmation of the full range of Deimos's magic came with a surprise, and the bard tilted his head in invitation for the warrior to divulge more... though such was rarely the case with the taciturn man. "How long ago was this?" he asked instead, making a note to seek Sam out later for his side of the tale. "And... hm. What other things have you been able to make with your Creation magic lately? I've felt it combine with earth and fire myself. Does it do the same with your water magic? Life drain? Other magics?"
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Upon acceptance, he passed Jigano a cup, and then went scrounging for another mug within the nearby cabinets. Still remaining well-stocked, preparations a key in his fastidious, meticulous lifestyle, the beast poured himself a cup, waiting for the eventual response from the Sage.
“A few weeks,” he muttered into the cup, raising it to his lips to sip, eyes narrowing only in brief calculations of intervals in time. Before Samuel had gone to Torchline, and subsequent letters sent back and forth between Amalia and her brother. Deimos made no mention of this either, not his place to unravel the Ascended’s decisions, and the complications, consequences, bombarded thereafter. Guilt raised its clawing potential in its wake anyway, because some of his actions had set it all into motion, and had he not gone to Samuel first, the entire situation may not have happened at all. He clenched his jaw for an instant, and then nothing more.
At least Jigano felt no need to delve into it now, going back and forth over more revelations and considerations of creation adornments. “I have not tried.” The truth, he’d been prone to not using it exclusively or bonding it to another incantation until recently; uncertain if it’d be capable. Speculation conspired and rolled though; because if it could wind around earth, and fire, why not water or life drain?
And what would come of it? The latter, his best, most familiar enchantments, could only bring siege, destruction, and a siphoning of strength, vitality, life. Mixed and combined with water? A feral snort meandered through, echoing along the barracks’ chambers. “Do you have need of poisons?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
05-31-2020, 06:42 PM (This post was last modified: 05-31-2020, 06:58 PM by Jigano.)
Weeks, that he'd been able to create enchanted items once more? But no notion of how long the wind had been whispering through his other magics; if it was of more recent origin, or of it had preceded the return of his mystical inclinations towards objects of stone or steel or wood.
"Something to consider, at least," he suggested to the admission of lack of attempts to create with more than just the wood and fire they both could access. Deimos had water as well, and now air, and others beyond the Provost's purview. The suggestion of poison, however - while the General was making him tea, no less! - brought a wry grin to facile lips as his friend snorted his own opinion in dark humor. "Possibly," he admitted, a touch rueful. "After our last foray into the stacks of the Atheneum, something to deter all the vermin hiding in the shelves is, admittedly, tempting." Indoors, unlikely to get out amidst the wildlife in the world beyond the thick stone walls... "But companions accompany their humans in there too often to risk it," he decided with a sigh.
A sly look over his shoulder once more, a knowing brow raised. "Not that there isn't some use in the idea for coating blades or arrow tips, should the need arise. A pity we can't find a poison that works on the LongNight monsters, though, for those that have to face them." Isla might have been able to concoct something, familiar as she was with the Spire Demon's venom... had she survived.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos had never been one for poison. While furtive, specious, duplicitous measures were often employed, utilized, and conformed in plotting, in schemes, in divulging minimal information, venom and toxins hadn’t been granted any jurisdiction in his decisions. When the Reaper had been coming for his adversaries, they’d known it, in the stalking, presiding glimpses of his figure, in the smoking fathoms of the shadows, in the presence, grasp, of death and rasp of potency. Arts of intimidation and strength had done the rest, earning his reputation no matter which world, land, or kingdom he sought to defend, preferences leaning towards swords, towards munitions, towards armaments. There was a relish, a quiet satisfaction, in felling one’s enemies with the slash of a blade, with the emboldened, entangled lacerations, with a burst of incantations smothering, choking, the life out of them.
Poison was sneaky, underhanded, covert, an asp in the grass, rather than the monolith towering above it.
Except Jigano hadn’t meant anything of such accord – more for the vermin and pests in the Atheneum – and he nearly laughed at the notion of it. Hellbent machinations withstanding for eternity, bred and borne and blistered in his blood in spinning lifetimes; incapable of shaking away the irreverence in the shape and webbing of notions and speculations. The afterthought ceased his comment; no need to taint the whims of the library, too many other subjects, much less children, who could wander into the midst.
Complicated, really, as he sipped his tea and maneuvered away from kettles, leaning against the massive table, blocking out the endless maps and sketched he’d adorned on the walls – defenses to take shape later, in Flowerbirth hopefully, when LongNight’s press wasn’t so grave and pending. He arched a brow at the sly indications of the Sage, hastening away another snort, leaving it alone to settle into inaudible ethers. “I still prefer watching my enemies perish quickly.” Dry tones, with an inkling of a snicker, rumbled, speculations of a slow-withering death via venom a little less satisfying, as they wandered off across the earth and ceased breath elsewhere. He liked to know when they were felled and destroyed. To see the life drain away. To know they were no longer a threat to those he guarded, shielded, and protected.
Then the Sword’s musings drifted off to LongNight monsters, and upcoming entanglements with the hollowed hell. It was best to avoid it altogether, but if they were mulling and considering, they might as well have weighed their options if another nightmare arose. “Perhaps it would be worth a try.” So they knew what was ineffective, and what was not. A shrug to his shoulders; but not quite willing to cast someone out into the void for the mere gaining of knowledge.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
His own knowledge of poisons was sadly lacking, for all that he would once traveled in company with one who mixed them with frightening ease. Jigano himself had been one who supported warriors; a protector of minds, a healer of bodies, and a caster of spells from a distance in most cases. He had once been used to others landing the final blow, only rarely reddening his own rapier with blood. At least... when there had been those he shared a common goal and quest with. A common enemy. A thread of fate that had woven them all together until that thread had snapped.
Or been snipped, depending on how you looked at it.
He had not thought of the ghosts of his past in long seasons now, though, and he resolutely refused to let them ruin a day that was otherwise going quite well. "I prefer that, too," he agreed with a wry grin. "You don't want them running off and finding a Healer, after all." One like himself, for instance.
He was surprised that Deimos took his wandering thoughts on the monsters seriously, but he paused to turn the idea over with more care as the General took interest. "Mmm. There is that. Do we know who all is planning to be out and about in the dark this year? Ronin, Amalia, and myself, I know. Will you be joining us? Though I think we'll all be in animal shapes as much as possible, so any weapons would need to be suited to those shapes. Talon sheaths or iron claws or spiked caps on Ronin's antlers... things like that."
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The Basin once had its own poison doctor: D’art, master of venom, toxins, and any other infernal, gallowed thing. Deimos had never gone to him specifically, but the fellow conspirator had been worthy of merit, grit, and mettle, forging onward in his own means and measures. He hadn’t asked about any experimentation, and it was likely better that way – though now he wondered how much he’d missed out on, just in sagacity and wisdom.
But those were ghosts and fragments again, factions and fractions he couldn’t have again; a clench to the jaw, a gritting of teeth, and then it was gone in a breath, returning to the pervading interludes of nonchalance, a fading of wraiths and finite bones. “No,” uttered with a wry grin, as if he’d been the one to chase them down, to bombard and assault until naught moved again.
The list of those wandering out into LongNight hit a nerve, and it was mostly pertaining to his own inadequacies. “I was not asked.” In fact he’d received multiple lectures from Safrin on staying inside, while others were permitted, allowed, told to ramble out into the earth (and wouldn’t he want nothing more than to tear into the monsters, to rip demons into shreds, to call back to forces of violence, vitriol, and vehemence, to ensure they couldn’t, wouldn’t return). Perhaps he wasn’t strong enough (not worthy enough), no matter how much effort he put in, and the world knew it. “I am to stay in.” And guard, climb the walls in his restlessness, haunt the doorframes, sulk, brood in the corners. He listened to the list of items and weapons potentially needed or required, knowing Amalia wouldn’t want to wield one, and uncertain to the lengths in which Ronin or Jigano would be willing to go. “Let me know if you want those though. I can probably make them.” So he would feel somewhat contributive to the massacre; hating to be on the sidelines.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
The tension that came and went in Deimos's carriage didn't pass without notice, but his past was one fraught with blood and steel, from what little Jigano had learned of the man. He let the General's ghosts rest beside his own, unwilling to keep resurrecting their dead when LongNight was just around the corner and likely to add to the lists. He tilted his head in acknowledgment of the hunter the Sword had been and remained, but turned his attention from the past to the future, musing thoughtfully and finding himself surprised again at his friend's answer and tone.
A silver brow rose and he turned fully, putting his back to the flames as he watched the big man with a curious sobriety. "You make it sound like your mother has forbidden you to go out," the bard pointed out quietly, shifting to lean on a bent knee. "I was not aware that you needed an invitation to put your life at risk with the rest of us god-dazzled fools." His lips quirked faintly on one side, acknowledging his own place among their number, who took unnecessary risks. "And it is a thought, especially if we can make something particularly ravaging to the monsters more than each other." He tilted his head to the side, watching the big man solemnly once more. "All joking aside, I'd welcome your company when I go out soulcalling." Unsure where Amalia stood in all this, aside from at Ronin's side for reasons he didn't really understand. The four of them would be even more formidable a pack against the night than only three, though.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword’s eyes narrowed considerably at Jigano’s first comment, attempting to gauge if it was a joke, or something he should be taking offense at. His stony fixtures might not have given away any of his discontent, but the notion wasn’t well received in the back of his mind, the twist and turn of ravenous, rapacious claws. As if he were being goaded into something. As if there was a challenge in the air, and any rebuttal would be met with a callous interlude. Just another reminder, another recollection, of failures in the past, of Sages and Harpies wandering out into the midst, naught accomplished. Of broken, whittled bodies. Of fire burning all around them. He wisely bit down on any number of responses.
Because he wasn’t god-dazzled. Because he wasn’t chosen. Because he didn’t fall to his knees and plead fealty to any deity. Because it wasn’t his place.
But he listened.
“I have already decided to guard the door and brood.” Dry tones behind his empty mug, placed down on the table on a dull echo to fill in the rest of the void. Perhaps someone did need to be there, a guard, a sentinel, a monolith, so no one opened the aperture, so history didn’t repeat, so the compelling, insinuating throngs didn’t echo over their ears, bound their hands to grasp at handles and knobs. “We will see how it goes. Maybe I will change my mind.” A shrug to his shoulders, predilections of the restlessness that would most certainly gnaw at his bones, the urgency, the insistence, of protection at every angle and shroud. He was likely one of the few caught amidst the in-between – most were bound and determined to stay inside, or amidst the deity-oriented, already instructed in their duties for the week. The others would drift to Torchline, or stare in remorse and rancor like him.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
If he hadn't been watching he might have remained oblivious, but Deimos's narrowed eyes and chilly silence were impossible to miss with Jigano turned to watch the General, and he hid a sigh of his own at the dry voice that finally rumbled forth, forbidding further comment. When they had a task at hand things went well, but given the chance to sit and talk...
Well. Foundations built on shaky ground had a tendency to crack and shift, threatening to topple all that had been built atop them. The last thing he wanted was to cause more rifts between them, but inevitably when it came to Deimos he said something to offend, even when he didn't intend or want to.
"An important task as well," was all he said quietly, drinking back the rest of his tea without a wince for the heat that burned down the back of his throat. He rose to arrange his damp tunics more decorously. "And wiser than ours." He reached for his cloak, a last wistful glance down at his cup before he offered it back to his host. "If you need help with any of your Deepfrost preparations, let me know. I'll make time for it." It was what they did, best and safest, perhaps, with little time to talk and work to keep hands busy. "Thank you for the training and the drink."
