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!
05-25-2020, 05:06 PM (This post was last modified: 05-30-2020, 03:40 AM by Wessex.)
WESSEX
the wraith
It’s late. Cold, dark, and still reeling in the aftermath of two disasters, it’s no wonder that people are drinkin’ their sorrows and worries away. And there’s an unusual sight at the Kraai tonight - without Weaver or Korbin (or anyone else) to serve up the drinks, some people had gotten it into their heads that the Deepfrost stash was a free-for-all. Some of them were sneaky about it and some were not, but even though they know it has to last them for a whole season, they’re not exactly rationing it. Or paying, for that matter.
She knows a couple of people who would not be okay with that.
Tonight she comes in swingin’, removing bottles from peoples’ mouths, ordering people to clean up their personal items, get their feet off the bar, and throwing elbows and punches where she has to. The threat of banishment from the house is even tossed around once or twice, with some leaving of their own free will, muttering about fuckin’ outsiders and the like.
But in the end, the Wraith has managed to wrangle a cleaning crew and it busy setting things right again. She knows absolutely nothing about running a bar and has no intention of staying for long; as soon as she can find someone to take over for a bit, she’ll probably pop into Torchline with the news, but until then… she’s making sure to keep some sort of presence in Halo, just to see how the politics turn out.
05-26-2020, 07:11 AM (This post was last modified: 05-26-2020, 09:22 PM by Elena.)
ELENA
we had discovered an accursed country.
No one sane would be out in the deadly cold that was a Deepfrost night in Snowcloak. Which meant, of course, that far too many people were. It felt as if there had barely been time to gasp for breath after death and destruction had left so many lives gone and shattered. To have another death so soon after and by dragon, of all things, was more than some people could take.
So it wasn't surprising that some tried to drown their pain in alcohol. Once upon a time, Elena would have joined them. But after the death of so many of the Citadel's protectors, the retired guard had taken it upon herself to patrol at night. Her family had tried to discourage her at first, until she'd swept the legs from beneath her spouse's brother and pinned him to the floor. She was no creaky elder to be coddled and protected and she certainly wasn't going to let her injury stop her from making sure no one died from idiocy and exposure.
Bundled for the weather, sword strapped to her belt, and supported her ursur bone cane instead of her spear, Elena's first clue that something is going on around the Kraai is the drunkards who stumble past. More than one is slurring curses and something about an outsider bastard? Mouth pulled in a tight line, Elena marched toward the building which should rightfully be closed to any customers while the Hale boy was mourning.
"What in Mort's realm is going on in here?" Her words are clipped, tone as icy as the temperature outside. The door swings shut behind her and she surveys the mess and the scattered sober folk -- likely peope who were taking refuge in the Kraai -- cleaning up.
He was surprised, inasmuch as he could be amidst the numbness, the foggy drifting from one emotion to the next as he very poorly dealt with this latest blow. The destruction of the palace, the loss of lives there, had been one thing. He hadn't known them personally, though he resonated with the townsfolk as they mourned, he helped in whatever rebuilding efforts could be begun in the bitter, endless cold of the Halo climes.
But then a fucking dragon came along and fucked with his carefully guarded emotions again.
Weaver had been a friend, a boss, a drinking buddy. And more recently, a leader for the little community to look to. He had felt the shift in the locals, the Naturals, as one of their own had risen to take the mantle, he had seen how they supported her, and he had seen how she had carried herself too, with a quiet confidence and competence, the rank coming naturally to her. Chuy shook his head at the unfairness of it, his eyes puffy but spent of their tears for now, as he made his way towards the Kraai, more out of old habit than anything else. He worked there regularly, tended to the bar, prepped food, but now it was closed, and should be a quiet, peaceful refuge for those who had come here seeking a safe space to wait out the Longnight.
So he was surprised, however slightly, to see hear the angry slurs from those in the street, to see so many swinging through the doors. He picked up his pace and entered behind a woman ( Elena ), hearing her question directed to the one who stood behind the bar.
His features softened as he recognised Wessex, though he still couldn't quite put a smile on his lips, not because he didn't want to, but he was physically unable to, through the grief, the sadness, the numbness. Instead he nodded to hear, and looked for a task to be completed - grabbing a broom, he began sweeping at the mess on the floors, his gaze downcast, his posture tense and yet focussed on this small task he had given himself.
It’s a familiar coping mechanism: push the feelings down and away, find a way to keep the hands busy, to drift to sleep as soon as the head hits the pillow, to raise one’s sights to moving forward. Stopping meant getting lost in emotions. Emotions meant weakness. Theirs was not a world where the weak did well.
Her back is turned when Elena comes up, reaching up to place bottles on a shelf that might be a little less easily accessible, should anyone want to try this kind of stunt again. Turning, the blonde woman sees an older, clearly irritated woman in the entrance. “Some people started to take advantage of the situation,” gesturing the room, she grabs a rag and wets it, putting her attention to a brown sticky spot on the bar. Halovians and Grounders alike seemed to be the culprit - and whether it was based in boredom or anxiety is anyone’s guess. “Put a stop to it.”
A figure moves in her peripheral and Wessex takes a look, recognizing Chuy. She wasn’t aware of his position at the bar and if she hadn’t been there, perhaps he would have broken things up. Nodding as he takes a broom and begins to help sweep up, she casts her gaze to the woman again, quite happy to work in silence - but there’s an air of outrage and interrogation about her, so the Wraith steadies herself for the inevitable.
At first, outrage and anger smoldered at the outsider's words. So much so that she didn't answer at first, jaw muscles flexing. Her eyes snapped to the young man as he passed her. Another person trying to come in and make a mess of things? But he picked up a broom and the action relaxed her. Just a bit. Enough that she could properly focus on the person who had spoken. Enough so that recognition kicked in, even if it only came from descriptions. Wessex, the Wraith. An outsider, yes, but not freshly arrived or without having done her duty for Halo's people.
Elena's anger abated some, though her expression remained stony. "And while that'll be appreciated, why are you the one doing it?" She stepped further into the room, turning her head to get a better look at the mess and those cleaning up, her anger shifting from Wessex to those who Elena had passed coming in. The ones who had been so utterly disrespectful.
He keeps cleaning, keeps focussing on something to keep his mind and his hands busy, lest they fall too far into grief's grips. Already his thoughts churned in circles, asking the question of dragons? and why? on an endless loop, wondering, questioning, receiving no answer for all the time it echoed in his mind. It was almost a relief to be distracted, to be pulled into the terse conversation, the Wraith as always, direct and forthcoming with her purpose, the other now directing her heated words to the few who remained in the room.
Chulane felt for them, a pang of guilt going out. He should have known that there was potential for mourners to take it too far, he should have been here. He glanced about, surprised that there weren't more Grounders around (wondering idly where Kia was, but then ultimately knowing he'd track her down sometime during the night). He sighed, pausing his broom's stroke along the floor to speak.
"The place'll be set right again soon enough," he began softly, "give them this one night of bad behaviour to express their grief." Forgive them this lapse, this momentary loss of control, let them move on into the future without reproach - their hangovers would punish them enough. He shrugged, not really caring if his words fell on deaf ears, merely focussing on what he can change, what he can do to in this moment and the next. He went back to sweeping.
It’s a valid question; why her? She doesn’t truly live here, doesn’t have any apparent relation to Weaver other than friendship, what with the Devil’s Advocates more or less a secret organization. The idea that she might be overstepping had never occurred to Wessex (spoiler alert: it rarely does), she’d simply seen a situation that didn’t sit right with her and stepped in.
She’s about to answer the woman’s question when Chuy speaks up, far more kind than she might be. His point is important, though, so she nods and points absently in his direction for a moment, indicating her tacit support for his suggestion about a lack of retaliation for the perpetrators. “Why not?” she counters at first, with an easy shrug. Wetting the rag again, she moves to a spot further down the bar. “I helped Weaver set the Kraai up and am friends with it’s sister bar’s owner. Might as well help keep it safe until Korbin - or someone else - decides what to do with it.”
Protecting everyone’s interests, one could say. Including her own.
“Don’t think we’ve met,” she continues after a moment. “I’m Wessex.” Everything’s easier when it’s a little more personal.
Elena is ready to keep her anger going, expressing her own frustration and disapproval. But the man who had come in behind her -- an outsider for sure with that accent, possibly even an outlander -- spoke first, quiet words that had her metaphorical hackles lowering a bit. He had a point, no matter how much she disapproved of the results. And the woman leading the clean up operation agreed as well, soothing Elena's initial burst of indignation further with the fact that she knew the owners well enough and that they were keeping the bar safe.
"Elena Rimewind. I have heard of you, Wessex. Mouths tell tales when the cold puts a stop to almost everything else. But... I did not know you were a friend of the Hales." Her tone is considerably less icy, jaw unclenching. How could she continue abrading someone who was likely in as much pain as those she'd expelled from the bar? Though her outrage hadn't left her, it was focused more on the situation now than the people still in the building.
She turned her attention to the young man who had broken in with a quiet plea. Her tone softened as she spoke. "I don't begrudge them their mourning. But this is just...." She trailed off, huffing in annoyance and tapping her cane on the floor before continuing. "Disrespectful and shameful. There are better ways to let it out."
He was nervous for a time as words were exchanged, sharply spoken and barbed, he worried for a moment that it might go further. But explanations were offered, and seemingly accepted, and he breathed easy again, his sweeping motions uninterrupted.
He didn't approve of the actions either, but he was just so tired, from the grief, from the lack of sleep that grief often brings, that he couldn't muster the effort required to get angry at the perpetrators. He just wanted to get going, to keep busy and to move forward, however painful that process might be.
It was hard. Wessex's form behind the bar played tricks on him, every now and then he'd catch her from the corner of his eye and think automatically that it was Weaver, because it should be Weaver. He shook his head slightly, as if banishing the thought, the trick his mind was trying to play on him.
The other woman was speaking, to him this time. He had caught her name inasmuch as one does when others are talking in an otherwise relatively quiet space. He nodded. "There are other ways," he agreed, grabbing another broom and offering the handle for her to take. "I prefer the way that helps the world move on."
He spoke with a soft tone, not trying to accuse her of anything, merely offering another option rather than to hold onto anger or point blame at those who probably did deserve it - but for Chuy, the kinder route will always out. "I'm Chulane, by the way. Help out in the kitchens here, mostly."
Nodding absently at the memory of meeting Weaver, the Wraith can’t help but let a small, sad smile loose. “Nice to meet you. She was actually one of the first people I met here.” The others being Neron and Noah, but Weaver had stuck out. “I don’t know Korbin, really. But Weaver was… someone I liked. A lot. And will miss her.” Unable to really say more, Wessex turns and reaches for something dark - good or bad, it doesn’t matter to her - and then pulls out three shot glasses. One for each of them. Tipping the booze into the glasses feels like a good momentary distraction, and she pushes one in each of their directions.
“May she burn brightly,” Wessex murmurs, before tipping her head back and seamlessly swallowing it all.
Putting the empty glass into the sink, Wessex returns to cleaning, nodding in agreement at Elena and Chuy’s assesment; there are always better ways, but grief is strange. It can cause some to be weary, others to be angry, still others numb and destructive. “Afraid I can’t hold down the bar for long - duties call me to elsewhere. Is there someone who can take over? Will Korbin want the Kraai, do you think?” The inquiries are directed at both of them, deferring to those who actually live here - trying to respect that while still being helpful.
And then there's the secret door she'll need to go through before she leaves, just in case there's anything in there that should be removed.
Elena took the drink Wessex offered, how could she not? A salute to the honored dead couldn't be ignored. She raised the glass and echoed Wessex's blessing, "May she burn brightly," before downing the glass herself.
The young outsider -- Chulane -- had a point, one she couldn't disagree with. It was a good sense she would one day appreciate better. But for now, she nodded, acknowledging his greeting.
To Wessex's question about the younger brother of the dead, Elena would have no answer. It would be at least a week before she met him and saw what a mess grief had made him become.
Until then, after she would stay for a few more words and then take her leave. She had to make sure the worst of the drunkards didn't freeze on their way home. The LongNight was coming, and with it the killing cold. There would be enough going on that they didn't need more deaths before it even happened.
