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!
all of me is damned. From earliest beginnings, my fate has been solitude- elegant solitude, elegant loneliness. I let it walk into me like a cathedral, down its isle- wedding bells sound in the secret place of my heart.
Phizarae had existed in solitude for so long that it had developed home in her soul, more swarming than the umbra which loomed behind her refined body. It hung on her shoulders just as her lavish alabaster dresses did (plausibly even weightier and more tangible than the delicate lace folds). Even though there was an onyx rose within her, she could respect what was before her: a nation of vitality, Halo.
Though part of the silver-haired maiden wanted nothing but reserve, eclipsed woods, and bitter gales, she appreciated that she did not lie in snow-clad rigor mortis, knotted and grounded as an ophidian, in conjunction with a decaying planet. She had believed so strongly that her weathered core was eloquent in death, able to disunite and retract with the pious purpose of a reaper, but death was not her power at all; it was her cowardice. Thus, the other part of her silently thanked the powers that be for the solace offered through unison and harmony.
As she moved through the citadel, a yearning ballad, a weeping willow, she made no move to talk to others. They looked upon her as if she hailed from a place very exceptional, between the realm of revenants and the universe of the living, a ghastly white horse; the fourth and conclusive of the apocalypse. They did not hear the full-bodied moan of her soul, only believing her essence mangled with theirs, fastening to them, a silver strand combining them as if she could shake it with her fingers and draw them nigh.
If Phizarae Ephereia were less porcelain and instead raised as a being of scorching heat and exuberant openness, would they have loved her more then?
The girl with white hair caught Delphine's eye. The way the other Halovians were avoiding her said more than words. She was like her, an Outlander, different. Torn from her world and tossed into this one. But just how long ago had she been tossed?
The young woman had slipped out of the home she shared with the Olson man before the sun had risen fully. She had a day ahead of her, of trying to figure herself out. She wanted to be useful, she wanted... to learn about herself. She'd come to this world and she had stopped, isolated herself with two children, and she had let herself die inside.
No ambitions, but then, when did someone who expected a man to make every decision for her, have ambitions? Ambitions were a threat to the man that had claimed her. Now that he was no longer, and her children were no longer, what was there but to wallow in her pity until death?
That was in the past. Remi had told her of somebody, a friend, who could check on the children in Mort's halls, and she planned to seek that woman out, someday. But Halo was snowed in (something she had not known about until Noah had told her), and perhaps she would have been better off staying in Torchline, sleeping in the streets, or begging Remi for a bed.
But no, she'd wanted independence and Remi was her friend; had known her; did know her, and would always know her. They were just close like that, siblings in everything but blood. She'd do anything for him, and she believed he'd do anything for her.
So Halo was the better choice.
Certainly better than the Hollowed Grounds, that horrible place could rot. Though, some of the people had been nice.
Nice-ish.
Not really nice.
"Hello," she finally called, softly. "Do you need any help? I'm sorry all the natives are avoiding you." Delphine didn't belong either. She knew the weary looks, the judgemental glances, the sneers.
He sprinkled me in pixie dust and told me to believe,
Believe in him and believe in me,
Together we will fly away in a cloud of green,
To your beautiful destiny.
all of me is damned. From earliest beginnings, my fate has been solitude- elegant solitude, elegant loneliness. I let it walk into me like a cathedral, down its isle- wedding bells sound in the secret place of my heart.
Phizarae's features were more representative of her kin athwart the universe - pastel, frosted, scintillating - but here they scored her as an immigrant. The sterling shimmer of her locks, the unblemished complexion of her skin, the diamonds that slept in multiplex chain ornaments throughout her hair and along the involved stitching of her dress were startling to these natives. Puzzled by her mere proximity, with mandibles more vicious and thinner lipped, glowers more disastrous, and gazes more permeating, it was seemed strikingly evident she did not belong.
And when she is ultimately addressed it is done by her opposite, a woman nostalgic of summertime; cherry-stained glasses, tactful vanilla, and golden highlights. There is more pronounced in the unspoken and Phizarae initially only reacts with an investigative gaze, assembling her thoughts before submitting an appropriate answer to the stranger.
"I do not believe so," she murmurs listlessly. What aid would a girl birthed from the loins of a rich man's war and poor men's blood truly need? The grief of the cosmos and the dim weeping heavens had already rooted and propagated within her mortal, irreproachable flesh. There was nothing beautiful about the wreckage within Phizarae. And what of the natives' avoidance? Her thoughts on them expanded within her like bruises. She cannot unsing another man's song, and so she allows those apart from her to look on with piercing eyes.
Phizarae had always had the separated, faraway gaze, as though half of her continually dwelled in the unseen world of pale thoughts. "It is a blessing and a curse to be avoided." Some would say it was as if she was engraved from sleet - a thinly concealed, specter-like figure - freezing and synthetic and overflowed with isolation.
“Oh. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Delphine.” She offered her hand to the strange girl, flashing a smile. “Nothing at all? I’ve got...” She had nothing, everything she had, she had because Noah got it for her.
The woman, a remniant of a bright summertime, is as sweet as a summer wine. The kind of woman who would, at one point in time, have given the very clothes she wore to a stranger if they needed it more. A selfish husband had tainted her, but now the shadows were gone.
“I have some extra food, or clothing, if you need it.” She offered, finally piecing her words together. She’s pretty sure Noah would offer the girl the same, if not more. “It is nice, sometimes, to be avoided. But not always,” she agreed, with a bright smile.
Those who had known her back in Northaven would probably comment how much she seemed like the old Delphine; the one who had never had her hand held by a man of shadow had no other thought than to be a healer, a painter, and a childcare provider.
“Do you… perhaps, just need a friend?” She asked, instead.
He sprinkled me in pixie dust and told me to believe,
Believe in him and believe in me,
Together we will fly away in a cloud of green,
To your beautiful destiny.
