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!
06-02-2020, 01:10 AM (This post was last modified: 06-02-2020, 01:25 AM by Korbin.)
KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
The world was a blur of blue and white. A rare sunlight pierced the clouds and set the snow ablaze in dazzling rainbow hues. The sky above was high and the snowstorms a mere memory. Though the cold remained brutal, the change in light drew more than one cabin sick person outside, for fresh air and a change of scenery. There were even a few smiles and laughter could be heard, tentative yet still ringing clear above the rooftops.
It was beautiful. It was lovely. Life in the Citadel was picking up and moving on.
Korbin hated it. Resented the light and the colors, the way everything kept going on even though his own life had ended. How could the sun shine when Weaver was gone? How dare they laugh as if there was anything left to be happy about?
The world was a blur. He staggered down the back alleys on his way to the old tavern. Even though the day was still young, he was already roaringly drunk. Plastered, in ways he had always avoided in the past. But the liqour had become the only thing that knocked him out. It numbed the pain, numbed the numbness, made him drop off - eventually - and descend into a dreamless state where not even grief could touch him.
It was a slow method, but at this rate it would end him as sure as any dagger. Korbin did not mind. Loren couldn't stop him like this. Kiada couldn't nag. Noah couldn't interfere. Look, he was still alive, right? What more did they want?
Winding his way on feet that could barely carry him, Korbin bumped into a stack of planks that stood leaned against a wall. They crashed and tumbled to the ground with a deafening clatter, and though one of them smacked into his head hard enough to cut a gash in the skin, all the boy did was mutter a few curses and stagger on. A runnel of blood trickled down his face, stinging the eye; he wiped it with the back of a hand.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
It was a beautiful world. Snow was still something of an oddity to Chuy, who had been raised on farmland in a country where water was more rare and precious than oil. Though his homeland indeed had ski fields, he had not often ventured there - veterinary work alongside farm work had kept him quite sufficiently busy all year 'round. So as the sun peeked out for a rare look between the otherwise dreary, cloudy days, Chuy couldn't help but admire it, and wonder at how bright it could really shine when 'summer' came to the land.
He was at a stage of grief where life did indeed move on, and he knew he needed to move on with it, lest he be left behind. A great many strides had been taken for him personally: his relationship with Kia was deepening and developing, his friendship with his landlord evolving into something more akin to a business partnership, as Lenny entrusted him with an entire property to look after and repair, and Morgan was seeking him out for whatever advice he could give to ensure the survival of Halo going forward.
He didn't have time for grief to weigh him down forever. He gave the emotion, the memory of Weaver and those lost, as much time as he could. He had cried over them, drunk over them, but then ultimately, he had gotten up to keep on moving, to keep building this life for himself, and those involved in it.
Life wasn't going to stop just to let them wallow around blindly forever.
A nearby crash got his attention, pulled him from his reverie. He dropped the bag of food he was on his way to deliver into a helpful, soft pile of snow, before rushing forward to see what damage had been wrought.
He was presented with a bloody, murmuring and swaying Korbin, which elicited a surprised gasp from him. "Shit mate, steady on," he said, holding one hand wide as if to catch or direct the boy, the other diving into a pocket to fetch a clean cloth. He approached the young man carefully. "Let me take a look atchya," he asked, reaching up with his cloth-wielding hand to the cut that surely stung like a bitch (the thought that Korbin could be that drunk not yet crossing the young vet's mind).
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
With his head ringing like a bell after the blow and his eyes not seeing straight from booze, with nightmare and waking bleeding together, the last of the Hale's was quite out of his mind. The red that dripped into his vision soon coated his hands as he wiped and wiped, but it wouldn't stop running. A red river - the only kind that flowed in these parts - that distorted his view and reminded him of a carnage he had seen once. Bodies had been cut to pieces, crimson flowers blooming in the snow.
It had been cloudy that day.
A shape came looming up before him, almost as tall (but not quite, ha!) and even before the owner of the voice registered, Korbin flung an arm out to ward off the hands that reached for him. "Dontuch me," he said, words garbled, unintelligible, and spat when he realized that the red was in his mouth too. Coppery, full, a taste of life and death and other things he hated. He aimed for the ground, but quite possibly the spit went astray, towards some boot or other. Not his though. (Ha, again!)
The world was a blur, tinted with red, and as he squinted against the blood and the sun at Chulane, it dawned on him why he found this person so hateful. He was always so damn nice. All fucked over, dragged here and there and with nothing, no one, so why was he smiling?
Old ire rose up in the boy, and he meant to stagger on, to slam a shoulder into the other as he passed. "Fuchoff," he snarled slurred. Half hoping for a reaction. Half expecting none.
This guy had never fought back before. Why would he start now.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
The blood ran freely along the raven-boy's scalp, as head wounds were wont to do, flowing excessively over the pale face, sticking down dark hair, giving the appearance of a far greater massacre than what was actually present. If only the boy would let him near, Chuy could administer first aid, could get him cleaned up, could ensure infection didn't have a chance - but as he approached, arms came at him, knocking him aside, and harsh words slurred their way through reddened lips.
The spittle did land on him, a wad of blood and saliva that would surely stain his boot, but it didn't matter to Chuy. He did take a step back, he did try to de-escalate the situation, especially now that he saw Korbin was definitely not himself. The boy stank, the alcohol may as well be a cologne, a cloud that was produced by his every pore.
No smiles graced his face, only a concerned frown, a sad and downcast line defining his lips. He didn't know any other way to be, he had always dealt with trauma this way, always got up and moved on, tucked the uncomfortable emotions away with the intention to deal with them later. Sometimes he did this too well - sometimes he forgot to ever look at them, and that was when he broke, when he couldn't function. He was getting better though - because he was trying to get better.
He stood his ground as Korbin came near him, bearing the shoulder ram full on, the words the boy grumbled out heard but ignored for now - he was Dr. Chulane now, the wild animal he was trying to treat a drunk and unfriendly Korbin. Steeling himself, he reacted quickly to the proximity the raven-boy gave to him - as the shoulder barge connected, he made to grasp at the boy's forearm, and then to swiftly step in behind him, and twist it sharply.
"No." He softly replied as he attempted the manoeuvre, determined to disarm and treat the wild beast he had been presented with this day.
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
He was wild. A loyal dog left without a master, a half-grown wolf with no leader, a raven without flock. What place was there for a boy without family, when family was all he knew how to love? Where did you put all that feeling, when no one was there to accept it anymore?
Unfortunately, this particular wild beast had been taught how to fight since he was old enough to stand. How to fight, and how to take an opponent out, without mercy.
In the moment of surprise where action was taken though none had been expected, Chulane was able to grab hold of Korbin's arm, and twist it up behind his back. But the boy's retaliation was immediate, instinctive and swift. The elbow of his free arm came flying back against Chuy's head, and at the same time Korbin shoved himself backwards, trying to unbalance the other enough to loosen the lock on the arm.
"I'aid gedoff!" he snarled, actually baring his teeth as he fought to free himself. Korbin wasn't thinking, too gone in the drink to really form a coherent thought. But it wasn't enough, and this person, this annoying ever present guy was interfering with his quest to drink himself into unconsciousness.
Who cared about a little blood? It would dry eventually.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
06-02-2020, 12:12 PM (This post was last modified: 06-02-2020, 12:12 PM by Chulane.)
He had him, restrained, detained, the wild beast just another in a long line of animals Dr. Chulane had diagnosed and treated. But he was too sure, too confident in his ability against an inebriated foe, that he could not predict what unfolded next.
(He was falling - )
It happened so suddenly, like a well practised step that Chuy simply had never seen before. He came from a world simultaneously tamer and wilder than this one, where the weapons of choice were one's mind and wit against another's. He was growing stronger in this world, he was learning the many different ways that conflict arose, and that hand-to-hand combat was far more important, and that almost everyone here was better at it than him.
( - brightness danced across his vision, sparks against a blurry backdrop - )
The sheer ferocity and immediacy of the response was ultimately what did it. The weight shifting into him rocked him, his grip loosening as his balance began to teeter. But then came the blow, the elbow on a path straight for his temple.
( - somewhere there was pain, pounding and throbbing, humming along with the rhythm of his heart - )
It connected in a glorious strike, an echo of a crack clearly resounding, though whether it was Korbin's elbow or Chuy's head that cracked remained to be seen. All Chuy knew was that in barely an instant, his head was suddenly rammed backwards in a violent and definitive way, and his body was soon to follow.
( - the brightness got brighter, until suddenly it didn't - )
He fell. And he landed hard on the packed-down icy road, a whomp of air rushing from his lungs as the impact was made. His skull cracked again, upon the earth this time, the origin of the crack unable to be questioned this time.
( - darkness enveloped, followed soon by a dreaded, slow, and deadly cold.)
He was alive, but now he was the one in desperate need for attention, for healing, else he slip into that darkness forever.
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Exquisite pain zipped up his arm. His elbow connected to Chulane's temole in a perfect angle. Somewhere, Straia and Weaver whooped in astonished delight, and Erebor nodded in mute approval. Just like they taught him. It never worked against them, but then, they were all trained fighters, just like himself.
The guy that crumpled to the ground behind him was not. But Korbin didn't know that, didn't consider it. He was just glad that the grip loosened on him, and he spun around to jeer at the intrusive fuck who wouldn't leave him alone. "Tolya, gedoff me! Yarown fault, Chulane."
Seeing the guy still lying on the ground, Korbin rolled his eyes. "Oy. Gedupp. We ain' done ere." His blood still boiled from the audacity of the guy. To try and restrain him!? The fucker deserved a headache, and would probably have a nice one after this.
But the figure before his feet did not reply. Didn't move at all, really, and Korbin stared at him. Uncomprehending. It hadn't been that hard a blow, had it? "Hey. Get up, man. Stop 'ucking around, I'll leave you there." Irritation stirred within, along with something else. A deeper unease, that quiet sensible voice that suggested something wasn't quite right here.
Again, Chuy did not respond.
Looking around, as if expecting someone to be hiding nearby and just waiting for the right moment to jump out and shout 'gotcha!', Korbin didn't see anyone. The street was empty, the sun fading in behind a cloud.
If only his head worked properly. Maybe he could figure this one out. Blood kept runneling down his face. Staggering over to a pile of snow near a house wall, he grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it to his forehead. Then reconsidered and shoved his whole head into the drift. Ice burned his skin, darkness eased his straining eyes, and something like panic rose up, a bubble of emotion that wasn't grief steadily rose up in his sea of nothingness. Fear. Guilt.
Gods, what had he done? Chulane wasn't moving.
Breaking free when he couldn't breathe anymore, the boy shook his hair free from snow and stumbled over to the prone figure. He was drunk, and his hands shook from the onset of adrenaline as he peeled off a glove to hold it over the man's face, but he was still not gone enough to be entirely incapacitated. Loren had trained him to deal with injuries. He checked for breath, for a pulse. Examined the temple his own elbow had knocked into, and the snow around Chuy's head, for signs of blood. Careful not to disturb the man's head.
The veneer of calm was thin, a fragile thing with panicked emotions roiling within. "Chulane, can you hear me? Move your fingers, if you can." Korbin spoke slowly, carefully articulating to avoid slurring.
He could have left. Just walked away from this, gone to the bar and left the guy in the snow. It was his own fault for meddling, and Korbin had no obligation to stick around. Wasn't supposed to care. Did not care, at all.
But strangely, the thought of leaving never even occurred to him.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
The thought pulsed somewhere in the dark fog of the world.
Cold. It echoed again. It was more than a thought - it was a sensation, creeping and crawling along his skin.
Why am I so cold? The question was posed to the fog, and the fog only laughed in reply.
A shiver tried to manifest, but wouldn't The cold kept creeping.
Loud, came the thought as words were flung across the expanse, his senses capturing them but unable to derive logic from them. All he could think of was loud as they crashed against his ears, loud and unwieldly, nonsense to his nonsensical mind.
Cold, as the sun dropped behind the clouds, the fog grew darker.
A pressure exerted itself somewhere on him - a hand on his neck, hovering above a face whose eyes couldn't see. It would feel a pulse beating strong but slow, and breaths coming shallow and wholly insufficient.
Then his name. Chulane, followed by a command. He could hear it, but could he comprehend it?
A low groan breathed through his lips. A twitch, a shiver, in the hand that still somehow clutched the cloth meant for the raven-boy.
And pain.
It was exquisite as it was excruciating. Blinding pain caused his eyes to see not the cloudy sky or the raven-boy hovering above him, but stark fireworks against the dark fog.
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Breathing; shallow but existent. Pulse; strong. The blood in the snow was a bad sign, but Korbin told himself that it was better than no bleeding. Hidden injuries were more dangerous. His gaze fell down to Chulane's hands, and there was a twitch in the fingers in response to his command. A bit delayed, but it did not repeat, so Korbin concluded that it was an actual response. Chuy was alive and he was conscious, if barely, and the neck was not snapped.
Very gently, Korbin pried open one eyelid, then the other, and checked the pupils. They were dialated, uneven and did not respond when he moved the free hand to shield the light. Alright, a concussion for sure... question was, had the skull cracked? His instructions had stressed not to move someone with trauma to the head and neck unless absolutely necessary, but the cold would soon do far more damage if he didn't get Chulane inside. That was a priority. Unless the skull was fractured; then he would have to find a healer. One who actually had magic, unlike himself.
With sensitive fingers he examined the temple where the first blow had fallen. Then, as steadily as he could, Korbin lifted the man's head and peered at the pool of blood in the snow. No brain matter, no bone pieces, and though it was hard to tell from feeling alone, all his searching fingers found was a cut in the scalp. The skull did not yield under the minute pressure of his fingers. No crushed skull. Fractures was a possibility, but there was nothing he could do about that.
A small wave of relief made him light headed. Reaching for the handkerchief meant for his own head - it was still bleeding but slower now, and he didn't have time for the pain - he held it against the cut in Chulane's head. With the other, he scooped up a handful of snow and held it lightly to the temple.
"Chulane, can you hear me? You hit your head. Nothing appears to be broken, but you are bleeding. Can you speak? I need to know how you are feeling."
His speech came out clearer than before. His head was a jumbled mess, the alcohol in his system making everything take longer to process. No doubt he was doing things wrong, and in the wrong order, but it couldn't be helped. This was the best he could manage. More than he'd thought himself still capable of.
It was a fucked up mess, but there was no time to process that now. Not yet. He could fall to pieces later.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Thoughts sorted themselves under a few different headings within the man's foggy mind. The sorting was a slow and tedious process, but the fact that it was happening at all was a good thing.
First, there was pain. It seemed to echo from opposite sides of his head, first from his temple, and then the back of his head too. The pain wanted to consume him - his eyes could not focus, and even thinking seemed to hurt. But he kept slowly thinking anyway, from his position prone on the icy earth.
Second, there was a general fuzziness. It seemed to slow everything down. Perhaps that was just his blood pressure dropping, as his heart received garbled messages from his brain, unsure about whether it should keep pumping, or slow down further.
Third, the cold. With his heart rate dropping, and the icy world around him, he felt the cold - it bit and stung at him still though, numbness not yet setting in.
Then he was being poked and prodded, and his skull felt like it was being split open as even gentle pressure felt like knives. He groaned at the touch, but couldn't yet tell his hands to rise and stop it, couldn't do anything much useful really.
Something pressed against his head, cold and wet. Something else against the base of his skull - he hadn't registered the removal of the cloth from his grasp.
Then more words pierced his mind, definitive and stern. Authoritative, and yet familiar. A frown crinkled his brow in response, which was promptly followed by another sharp grimace as the expression hurt - but then, everything hurt.
He coughed as he tried to speak at first, to offer a reply.
Then he vomited.
Somehow, something in him pushed him off the ground as the gut-curdling sensation crawled through his abdomen, his survival instinct of do not aspirate your own vomit overriding all other sensibilities. He was on his side suddenly, the world spinning all around him, coming into a swimmingly blurred focus, as he retched up his half-digested breakfast on the road.
Hunched over the pile of mess now, leaning on his forehead in the snow, he managed to spit out a reply through the gasps. "Shit. I feel… like shit."
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
As soon as it happened, Korbin realized that he should have remembered that particular response. But it didn't dawn on him until Chuy was already retching, and by that time, it was too late to do anything but follow along, steady the man as best he could. The sour reek rose up and it was all Korbin could do not throw up himself in response. Clenching his jaws he swallowed and swallowed, breathing through his mouth until the reflex was at least marginally under control.
But hey, the guy was moving. He was talking. No report yet on whether he could see, but that was a matter for later.
Korbin peeled off his own coat, and draped it over the leopard-man. "Serves you right, for pulling a stunt like that. The fuck were you thinking?" he grumbled, anger rising as relief gave way. Even with guilt roiling with the bile in his throat, it felt more alright to lash out now that the immediate danger was lessened. Not gone, mind; still had to get the fucker indoors.
"Can you stand? Gotta get you inside." And himself too, probably. Without his coat the boy was already shivering, the cold far too intense to withstand in only under layers.
Pushing up on his knees, he offered steadying hands in case Chulane attempted to rise. And if not... eh... well, he would think of something.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
06-03-2020, 04:18 AM (This post was last modified: 06-03-2020, 04:18 AM by Chulane.)
Groaning was becoming his new way of communicating. Ugh, but it hurt - everything seemed to hurt. His guts were most displeased by their sudden need to evacuate everywhere, his head felt like it was ready to split open, and now he had to deal with Korbin's shitty attitude too.
"Your… bedside… manner…-" he coughed, raising a hand to the cloth pressed against his head, belatedly realising that the warm wetness he felt when he did so was his own blood. "- fucking sucks mate." he managed to finish, slowly but surely catching his breath, taking deeper and deeper gulps of the cold air and eventually steadying it.
Warmth had nestled over him, he realised with quite a delay, as the world spun around him, even though he barely moved. His head kept tilting as if to correct an imbalance that wasn't there, his eyes blinking dumbly as they tried to clear up the blurred mess before them.
Somehow dodging the pile of steaming vomit before him, he too managed to rise into a kneeling position, though he was very much reliant on the support Korbin offered. Idly, Chulane looked at the hands pressed against him, his gaze slipping every now and then as the imbalance kept threatening to tip him over.
"The fuck you thinking, mate?" he retorted, knowing on some level that they needing to be moving more, to be getting inside, but unable to comply at any decent speed without inducing another round of vomiting, or else tumbling back down to the icy ground.
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Korbin chuffed, a rusty sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. Possibly it masked something suspiciously like a sob, though looking at his face would reveal nothing but furrowed brows and something stern beneath a half mask of blood. "Never pretended otherwise. More incentive to get better; faster you recover, the sooner you're away from me." It was only mostly a joke.
With one arm around Chulane's shoulders to keep the cloth in place over the wound, he used the other to guide Chuy's arm around his neck. "We're going to stand up now," he told the other, without room for argument. "We'll go slow, and you can lean on me. Puke all you want, but don't fall."
While not strong enough to carry a full grown man on his own, Korbin was still quite a bit hardier than his thin frame suggested. With as slow and steady movements as he could he got his own feet under himself, then heaved Chulane up. It was impossible not to jostle the guy, but Korbin was as careful as he could.
"I don't like being touched," he replied, belatedly, when he thought they were standing more or less upright. Casting about for the nearest door, he found a shop not far down the street. It would have to do; if they could make it there, and get warm and settled, Korbin could run for a real healer in a bit.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
The world was still quite hazy. "Con..cussion…" he said idly, nonsensically inserting the word as his brain made the diagnosis. Fuck, he thought, never realised how much they hurt. He blinked again, hearing Korbin's words again, the almost-laugh, returning it with a sound of his own as the raven-boy retorted with his usual sharp jabs - though there was a difference in these words, which his addled mind couldn't dissect with much detail just yet.
He was too focussed now on being told that they were going to stand up, and he nodded (and winced again), at the idea. Yes, standing. He could stand, right?
His legs felt like jelly, twitching and spasming beneath him. He was shaky, and as his head spun he felt a mouthful of bile-tasting vomit hit his tongue. He spat it out, barely keeping from inducing another round of dizziness with the motion.
They were walking - well, they were limping, leaning and moving, at least. Chulane didn't bother trying to direct the way they would go - he put his trust in the raven-boy much like he had in what had just been a raven to him out on the Tundra.
"Your head," it was almost a question, almost an explanation, almost a belatedly realised memory, his tones soft in reply to Korbin's final comment.
