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!
A moment’s reprieve from entangling, foreboding contortions, no highlights of the damned beckoning and crawling across surfaces. No dwindling in jurisdictions of crossfires, of pending circumstances, of dangerous, treacherous persecutions. No unfolding, unfurling, uncurling of rapacious edges and gleaming claws, talons and daggers. Today was to bask in what they had – within those thresholds of fortunate moments, gathered and collected, melded and molded – reflections of the present, rather than the vicious past or the grim future.
He’d never been one to glance into the now; scarred, scalded, and wounded from lives and yesteryears intertwined, maneuvering onward hadn’t been a game he’d relished in playing. He conspired and schemed from interlocked histories, from the pasts spiraling against frameworks and fortifications and then the imminent lines falling into place.
Neither the Reaper nor the Sword would’ve ever predicted the Shield.
So for once he sought to cherish the outcome instead of question it, sought to behold instead of undermine, sought to devote instead of rebel. No insurrection carved into his outlook as they wandered along shoals and shorelines, as they meandered with no clear direction (other than pretending to inspect Samuel’s Torchline armaments), pressing into sand. The world was at their discretion, and he intended to make the most of it.
He turned into her orbit, habitual and routine, puncturing gaze seeking hers, inquiring mind stoking, kindling. “What next?”
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
05-19-2020, 06:41 PM (This post was last modified: 05-26-2020, 08:57 PM by Amalia.)
Amalia
Though their trip to Torchline is ostensibly for business, it can hardly hurt to throw some pleasure in as well, can it?
This is what Amalia thinks as she stand barefoot on the sand, eyes closed and arms outstretched, the sea breeze whipping at her light cotton dress and long gold hair. The smell of salt is intoxicating, so different after from the earthy aroma of the air in the Grounds, and the sun-! It tickles her skin in pins and needles, and though she knows it will burn and peel later, the Shield doesn't mind.
She is going to enjoy this last respite with her husband, before the darkness falls.
She opens her eyes at Deimos' question, fixing the Sword with a glittering gaze, a radiant, challenging smile. "I think someone promised swimming lessons, oh so long ago." Not that she needs them anymore - her shifts more than make up for her human inadequacies - but she wants to show him what he can do, the newest form itching delightfully underneath her skin.
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
His eyes lingered on the sea, on the rush of nostalgia eternally biting at his memories, of days in youth with gangly limbs and outstretched arms, intent on capturing the surf in his grasp, in his wake. Instead, he found war, desolation, and mountains; second lives to relive the trauma, the loss, the acrimony, and then here. So he breathed in amongst the wind, took and stoked fondness for its highlights of distinction, no moonlit wares present, but pieces, shards, formations of what could’ve been yesteryears.
But there were challenges immersed along ocean curves and currents, and so his recollections faded for new ones, piercing gaze riveting back to gilded tassels and onyx eyes, on radiance and reverence, on challenges and goading. A soft smirk found its way along his mouth, hands busy tying up long locks of hair, his body wandering towards the rush of water. Nothing more required: a silent coaxing, an enticement, inveigling, in something that felt like lifetimes ago. “I did.” She likely didn’t need it now – not with dolphin or otter skin, attributed skills inherent, embedded, infused into animal movements and understandings. But promises, oaths, and assurances had always been a part of him, and he wasn’t about to let a vow, a conviction, flicker off into the void. Especially not to her.
He strode along the sand as if he had been attuned to its dunes, a part of its reaches from the very beginning, removing his shoes, his socks, and placing them along the rocks nearby. A very ruffian assembled grin was tossed her way, before stripping down entirely, lifted hems and falling waistbands, the merest undulation of the chill coursing down his skin, flesh, and spine. Then he was within the depths, along shallows, threading his way within the tide, turning back, waiting.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
05-21-2020, 05:25 PM (This post was last modified: 05-26-2020, 08:57 PM by Amalia.)
Amalia
She follows him along the sands, already barefoot but ready to divest her other possessions: the bracer made by Remi, the bag in which she carries their lunch, the other odds and ends she carries around. And then the dress, only her breastband and underwear remaining. She turns around, stripped down and shvering-
-just in time to watch appreciatively as his bare ass makes its way into the sea.
A grin flashes across her face, underneath her blush; with a bright laugh the girl shakes her head, raising hands to finish tying back her hair before making her own way to the shoreline. Her strides are swift until they are not, the first kiss of water sneaking up her toes and causing her to stop with a squeak.
"It's cold!" the Shield declares indignantly as the ocean reaches up her feet, toes curling with every wave that dares encroach upon her ankles. It really is terribly far from cold, and she is being comically overdramatic, but Amalia is a waif with little excess fat or insulation; chill bites easily into her bones. As though a reflex her skin begins to change, otter fur manifesting on the parts exposed to the sea, though the remainder of her remains rather comically human. "How are you just fine, when it's freezing?"
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
He watched and waited, appraising looks and glances, purposefully inveigling as she marched and then ceased. Already submerged up to his waist, and seemingly unbothered by the slight chill, a brow arched as comedic interludes seemed to take shape, unfold. The beast managed to muffle a snort through his chest, shaking his head at the squeaks and curled toes. “I am used to the cold.” Mountains had embedded, had infused, had sunk down into his bones, though this was nothing compared to Siberian landscapes and refugee adornments, settling into caves, clawing their way into salvation. He wouldn’t have survived on the Steppe or within the Basin if he couldn’t handle glacial expanses, the shuddering undulations of ferocity and bite. “I grew up by the ocean.” Another excuse and explanation; no child of the Tides would’ve been permitted to complain even once about the temperature of the sea. None of them had ever dared.
Thereafter though, Deimos proffered a rare hint of impatience; though mostly out of provocation and mischief. “Are you coming or not?” A taunt, a goading, a challenge as he wandered in deeper, until it billowed along his abdomen, rising towards his ribcage. Either out of pity or exasperation, he unfurled contortions towards the water – compelling it to become warmer around her.
Then, because devilry existed in his soul (and she must’ve expected it by now), he contorted the undulations, the current, to splash towards her, a cascade of droplets, a shroud of irreverence.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
"Was it cold there, too?" Of course, Amalia has no concept of a truly cold ocean - here in a tropical haven, the sea is as warm as it will ever be. Still creeping in at a slow pace with frequent pauses to rise onto her toes, the Shield continues her slow approach to the point where the tides will strike as high as her knees. Though more familiar in these days, the ocean is still a foreign thing to her, dark and endless and beautiful in its expansive, elusive nature.
The note of impatience in Deimos' voice earns a raise of her eyebrow, the girl glancing sharply at her husband in amusement and surprise. Usually as patient as the sea itself, it entertains her to see the tables turned- though she ought to have known that it would only lead to retaliation on his part. "Don't rush me!" she cries back, her voice warm with laughter as she treads a step deeper into the brine. "It's not my fault I don't have as much insulation as- hey!"
A sputtering of laughter and indignation as the girls is unceremoniously doused - with warmer water, to be fair, but the surprise and shock remains. "Unfair!" she calls into the sea, wrapping her arms around herself, a bright grin on her face. "I wasn't ready!" Then laughing, lightly, she dashes forward, abandoning her trepidation in favor of retaliation. Leaping lightly into the air with the aid of qilin limbs, the girl propels herself briefly upwards - before coming crashing back down, splashing aggressively into the water beside him as a pink, eleven-foot dolphin.
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
“Yes,” he responded at first, thinking back over to days amidst the Tides, with the moonlight on the horizon and the world at their feet. He’d been immersed in kingdoms full of glacial wakes and tempestuous eaves, where the chilling ramparts sunk their way into his bones and carved him in their reflections. Still, the sands of Isilme had provided enough warmth so none of them died of hypothermia, and they looked upon the sea as a gift, as value, as power, amidst the undulations. It was vast, eternally strong, a place of peace and predilection all in one accord, something to be treated with respect and dignity.
Her quip ceased on the rush of mischief, and the Sword snickered from his place in the depths, feet touching the bottom of the sea bed as he still waited for her to make an entrance. Given her inexperience with the water, it was understandable, but he was also there, and had no intentions of allowing any harm to come to her. The beast shrugged at her unfair declaration, not giving it more than it was due (though she was probably right – admitting it out along the vestiges wasn’t something he was committing to). They’d had far more devilish, vengeful conflagrations in the past –
Ah, and there it was. An expectation of the inevitable, as she laughed and renounced consternation for melee and upheaval. A launching of attuned considerations, and he watched for a moment, piercing out what she was attempting to do, as qilin proportions forced leaps and bounds, and then crashing back down, pinkish hues announcing dolphin forms. He withstood the counter-attack, closing his eyes as the waves and splashes swept over him, soaking into tied-up locks and down vacant backs, a ripple of undulations through his spine, his flesh, as his body became used to the soaking stretches. A snort, a ring of laughter rumbled through his chest, shaking his head, hands going to brush over soaked features.
Then he reopened them, inclining a brow upward. “You do not require a lesson in that form.” Maybe she didn’t, and inherent abilities of the animals’ natures would streamline into her mind, into her muscles, and she wouldn’t need him at all.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
The mischief and mayhem is an act of exuberant triumph; the girl's large form does indeed make a splash, waves thrown up before crashing down, dousing the beast in salt and sea. And in the midst of it all the pink dolphin chatters merrily, clearly delighting in her devilry and success, grinning toothily and exhaling water from her crown.
She makes a quick circle around Deimos, coming to float before him as he expresses his lack of faith in her need for teaching. Which, of course, is nonsense. With a series of clicks that translate vaguely to rebuttal Amalia flips onto her back, her belly exposed in mock helplessness, flippers slapping at the surface of the water to imitate a drowning figure.
A comical picture all around, anyone might think, the cetacean pantomime of human flailing. Help! I'm sinking! her mental voice cries, amusement and teasing clearly belying any idea that there's real danger to be found in this vignette, her happiness as bright as the sun in the sky.
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
Absurd and ridiculous tendencies seemingly blended into their relationship, easygoing patterns in between misadventures – though which to say was more illogical or foolish would take time. His smirks and snickers had remained, but hers heightened, dolphin devilry along chatters and enthrallment, taking theatrics to a grandiose display. He was half-tempted to fold his arms across his chest and let her carry on with the charades in her dramatic wake; opting for watching, waiting, with a reticent look pressing over his features, as if he were now only put-upon, a long, withering sigh following.
What he didn’t convey, except perhaps through attuned vestiges, ethers, and silence, was the relief in his shoulders, spine, and bones. That after everything they’d encountered, experienced, conquered, or suffered, there was still this; amusements and comforts, silly, inane benedictions, pulses and pieces of play. Happiness, instead of all the other traumas. Something to savor, something to relish, something to have and hold.
Deimos snorted, finally relinquishing another grumble of laughter, as she flailed around. Eventually he managed to speak, shaking his head is mock-dismay. “So you led me here under false pretenses.” A click of his tongue followed, a pretense of disappointment, before shrugging altogether, as if he had no hope of assisting any further.
Then, as if instigating, agitating, stoking more and more, he inhaled one massive breath, and dove down underneath the waves.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
Her comical flailing is met only with more mock-consternation, itself earning mkck-indignation through the Attuned bond. Still lying piteously on her back, the dolphin flops dramatically. Married less than a season, and already he leaves me to drown. She might have set an arm over her face dramatically; now she settles for a flailing flipper.
His turning and vanishing under the surface is enough to surprise her from her playful antics. Rolling back over to her front, the girl lets her body change again: this time becoming small and sleek, a creature meant for both water and shore.
With an inhalation of her own the Shield dives after the Sword, following his wake in her small, sleek form, a stream of bubbles leaving her nose. She swims in circles around him, driven by instinct more than knowledge. I hear there are creatures like Tulmhainars in the open sea. Can you imagine how incredible they must be?
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
Volleys and follies, dramatics playing out over vestiges of surf and sun, her first response earning a derisive snort, the smirk playing along his features, the roll of his eyes given over to the horizon. She’d know, more than anyone, the depths of his protection, will, and safeguarding, yet to leave another intentionally behind. Predilections of stalwart dispositions, even immersed and embedded into colder hearts, fixtures, and insurrection, still ran rampant over his soul, eternally driven to shielding tactics.
But that was not where they were now – no soulless ramparts, no haphazard wakes, no destructive forces clambering down around them, falling upon their heads. They weren’t collected or fragmented into acrimony, hostility, or frameworks of oblivion. A few moments of bliss, of repose, letting go of all the things bearing down on shoulders, on matters, on lives, on formidable, pending days spent in nothing but monsters, demons, and the clawing unknown.
Changes and alterations again, not along his own body, still formidably human, but hers. His eyes caught the shift into otter configurations, arching a brow beneath the waves, permitting the smallest of smiles to linger in realms of silence and held breaths. And while she swam in circles around him, his strokes were machinations and meticulous contortions of days spent amidst the bracken, shoal, and surf. Muscles honed for the accord, rippling and streamlined, curved, carved, and coiled undulations over scars, over lines of defiance. At home, in the midst of mountains or at sea.
But her question gave him pause, a furrowing of the brows in thought and consideration. I never got to see the Tulmhainar in truth, having to leave before he perished in the first Spire misadventure, and then not taking part in the sacrificial accord amidst the Greatwood. The tones weren’t regretful, just veracity, opportunities lost in otherworldly facets. Nor was he one for much imagination, but Caido had instilled a firm element in the mystical and enigmatic. He maneuvered to the surface again, briefly, to instill another breath, before making his way back down, swimming and stoking in a firm line beside the current. Where do you think they would be?
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
Rivulets of air streaming from small nostrils, the otter continues to dive and pursue, bright happiness and eager curiosity coursing through Attuned accords. There is no small admiration among the mischief, her eyes ever lingering on his sleek and defined form, awed and impressed by the ease with which he maneuvers through the embrace of the sea. Now at last she sees what he has always said: that he is a son of the tides and swells, offspring of the ocean, built for sand and surf.
Returning to the surface of the water Amalia flips onto her back, floating comfortably and keeping pace with her husband down below. It is true that he hasn't met a tulmhainar - and here a stroke of darkness permeates the sunlight, remembering acutely their failures in that area. So many opportunities lost, dreams failed, hopes decayed.
No- today is not a day for sadness. Not yet, at least. Far out at sea, I imagine, the Shield reflects instead, pushing away fears and uncertainty in favor of warmer thoughts. The waters around it will be rich with life. And it may speak to us, if we listen, and ask for memories. Happy ones. Like that of today.
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
He smirked in the midst of admiration and mischief; returning it in volleys of the Attuned, half-tempted to rise up and poke the otter persisting on the surface. Instead, he continued, persisted, to rumble and traverse below, stoking through the fathoms of the surf and tide, drinking in the serenity, the tranquility, of worlds he’d once left behind. It was something to snatch and linger within, to hold in memories and recollections when they stowed away for LongNight, when other eldritch notions threatened to overwhelm and consume. The bright, beatific view before him, arms unfurling, like a machine, coasting and coasting and coasting until his lungs warned and he rose again. At home, at peace, capable of embarking into one of the elements that made him whole, that made him human, that made him complete – yesteryears not so fargone when it pooled over his skin.
And along the veneer, if he chose to take in a mouthful of water and then spray it, very boyishly, impishly, devilishly, along her resting form, then so be it.
Deimos tread water for an instant, thinking, reflecting, pondering while muscles rested in the wiles of repose. The Sword could feel the slightest weights of darkness pervading from the Shield, hadn’t meant to instill it, and shoved the cumbersome, overwhelming nature of it away, imploring into the range of misbehavior or predilections of waters enriched with life, rather than melancholy.
His eyes wandered over the horizon before he had an opportunity to speak, watching as something else, a bony fin, rose over the void and back down again. Distant still, but he arched a brow all the same, curiosity brewing, brimming. “Or another might be here,” of a different sanction – given the bleached contortions of marrow, lost, vacant tissue – no turtle of contented memories and remnants. His head and jaw jutted forward, indicating the direction, arching a brow, waiting for a decision to be made. Follow? Watch?
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
No answer from a Tumsea, but there is something else: a loud and eerie voice, the sound of water rustling through reeds. She hears it, feels it, a moment before she spots it, a mind the likes of which she has not known before.
Ghost whales, the Shield breathes, eyes growing wide in fear and awe.
Here is the creature that slew Maea; and oh, if it isn't beautiful despite that. We should fly to get a better view, the Shield suggests to the Sword, eager to come closer and reluctant to risk inciting the ghastly cetacean's ire. Which, she realizes, may prove hard: adopting feathers and leaving the sea while soaked in water is a difficult task indeed.
Luckily, she has an idea.
Diving back beneath the water she lets her body change, adopting once more the dolphin's shape and sleek, undeniable musculature. Grab onto me, the girl instructs, mentally gesturing to her dorsal fin. If and when her lover agrees she will put into action her play: pushing fiercely through the water with the speed and strength of a fired missile, launching them both - Deimos and herself - into the air, the better to then contort and change.
reach for the stars: but child, first recognize
the constellations of light you already carry
inside you
