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 first few notes ring out, early in the night, below the slight chatter in the bar, then stop. The girl hums, and fiddles with the tuning of her fiddle, and tries again.
The next few notes start slow, a mournful dirge, for a people who have lost much, for people who are neighbours and people who are visitors to her home. She’s not trying to inspire sorrow though, she’s trying to inspire hope, and her fingers move over the frets of her fiddle, the tempo rising into a drinking song, familiar enough in Halo that people could sing along, if they so chose.
Hester plays a handful of songs, each one cheerier than the last, trying to stoke to mood of the bar into something bright, despite the cold outside and recent events. The end of her songs comes up so quickly it seems to surprise her, and she bows out of sheer force of habit, a dozen practices and being exactly this way, though she hopes the chances of someone else bringing her a drink, or even better, a compliment on her playing, are higher in a room of strangers than they are with her parents.
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
That note. It did not cut, nor rend, no tear through any walls or drown out any chatter of the crowd, but Korbin felt it like a burn inside him all the same. A paper cut, something familiar and well known coming at him too fast, too suddenly, and a reaction that used to be instinctual suddenly flayed.
He stood behind the bar counter, tonight. There had been an uproar earlier when two of the hired staff got into a lovers spat and decided to quit both at the same time. Suddenly undermanned, uneducated, unskilled in general, two were left to do a five-person job and when the dust settled, Korbin - who had made the Kraai his latest haunt, indecisive, unable to take charge of what was his and unable to let it pass into the hands of others - had somehow wound up serving drinks.
The hands knew the work, even if the mind was not in it. Somehow he had just slipped back into a role from the past as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and as the music settled the crowd and slowly, song by song, altered the mood, he found himself conflicted. His fingers ached for a lute that no longer existed, throat close with all the songs he had failed to sing.
He used to love music. So why was it that when the last song ended, he felt relieved?
Leaning his arms across the bar like an echo of his sister, without any of her grace and sense of belonging, Korbin watched the girl take a bow and look around. With a nod to one of the remaining serving staff, he sent them off with the customary 'on the house' drink.
He hoped she wouldn't come over. Korbin didn't know what he would say. 'You play well' didn't exactly encompass all that her music did to him.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Despite her hopes, no one but a server approaches her, bringing Hester a drink she had hoped would come from somewhere other than the bar directly. She had played her heart out, and it was her first time playing publicly. Didn’t these people recognize greatness in the making?
Still, with no other prospects, and her fiddle now tucked neatly away, she approached the bar, unwilling to leave quite yet. It was cold outside - when wasn’t it? - and she couldn’t bring herself to make the walk home quite yet. Hester might have come in after whatever staffing struggle they had had, but she knew enough about the bar to know the man behind it wasn’t the usual face that lingered there.
Maybe it drew her to him, maybe not, but regardless of the thoughts god through her head, she sat directly in front of him, her chin propped up in her hand and her drink sitting in front of her, a smile on her face. Somehow though, in the time between making the decision to approach, and actually doing it, the confidence left over from her show had faded, leaving her gripped in a quiet shyness.
”Thank you.” Hester offers softly, a flush colouring her cheeks, despite her best efforts to keep it away. ”For the drink, I mean. And... letting me play. Was it good, you think?” It’s an extension of her own worries, something she normally wouldn’t put on another person, but well, he was some kind of authority, wasn’t he? He’d approved her drink, he was stood behind the bleeding bar, after all. Less of a stranger than anyone on the other side of the bar, to be sure.
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
He should stop praying. Korbin mused over his lack of fortune with the gods and with luck in general as the girl set course straight for him. Because of course she did. Like a cat sensing who the most allergic person was in the room, and instantly declaring that person the favorite of the evening. Fake it till you make it, whispered a voice at the back of his mind - it sounded annoyingly like Chulane - and somehow the young raven managed to maintain a neutral expression. Lukewarm, bland, impersonal. It was a new mask and it didn't sit well on his face. Far easier to maintain than a smile though; he had forgotten how to make those.
"No problem," he replied, just loud enough to make himself heard over the murmur of voices. The volume was already picking up again, now that the music was gone and the guests returned to their conversations.
Gods save him, what did he say about the music? That the color of her tones were impressive? That her choice in songs had been tasteful, but hitting a bit too close to home? That he recognized the make of her violin, and missed his lute so much that his hands were trembling, and he had to press the palms flat against the counter to hide it... (it was not because he hadn't had a drink for the past two hours, promise.) How did he convey that hearing her music made him want to bash his head against the wall, scream bloody murder and cry for a week over all the things he would never have again, and that there was no happy ending to be found for him, but thanks for trying?
"It was... nice. A bit pitchy, at the end."
Please, someone shoot him right now.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Isn't he a ray of sunshine. Hester usually has more tact, or at least tries to, and would normally let the man keep his sullen quiet, knowing her words aren't welcome, but she'd got a nervous bubble in her chest, and the only way to get it out is to babble, to bother, and he seems a least a little receptive to her thanks. It's her follow up that seems to trip him up.
There's a long pause, and it does nothing to make her feel better, but it does give Hester a chance to actually look the man over, a familiarity there. He's cute, in the way a younger sibling would be, if she wasn't the baby of the family. But he looks so upset. Something in her just wants to bother him until he feels better, while a far more sensible part argues that she's not the person who should be comforting anyone, especially not a stranger.
Nice barely gave her anything to work with, nice was what people said in response to childrens gifts. Hester kept the light smile on her face though, at least nice was what better than what came next. "Pitchy?" She repeated, her face falling. The first, kneejerk reaction is anger --what does he even know, stupid little baby, is he even old enough to be working here?!-- but it fades quickly into uncertainty. Had she been pitchy?
It had only taken a single sentence to send her on a mini spiral, nerves raising her glass to her lips and refusing to put it down until she had finished it. "Another, please." Comes the immediate breathless gasp, her brows knitted together. "Do you think anyone else noticed? Do you think they liked it?"
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Being bothered usually led down one of two paths at this point. Either he blew the top and stormed off, uncommunicable until he had finished raging or spiraling or drank himself into numbness. Or it cheered him up, ever so slightly. Which path the conversation took was entirely random and not even Korbin could predict which word might set him down which path, and it was as exhausting to live through as it was to be around. He really should not be working around people right now. One might question if he even should work at all. But no one actually cared about his emotional fireworks, when he didn't cause himself or others deliberate harm, and Korbin tried to keep them to himself.
In this case, the hint of a smile crept over his face at her crestfallen look. His criticism seemed to shoot straight at some hidden insecurities, and he was a little bit glad to know that he wasn't the only one who questioned himself. Just a little bit. For a moment. Then he felt bad for causing her to worry.
Straightening up, he considered the empty glass and her concern, then reached for a shot glass and arranged one of Weaver's favorite drinks. A nasty mixture of different spirits that kicked like a mule. "Here. A Gutpunch." Pushing it over to the girl, Korbin regarded her thoughtfully as he leaned back down onto the counter top, fingers loosely braided together while thumbs tapped out a slow beat.
"A little bit, yes," he confirmed, standing by his claim. "But you'd need a trained ear to hear it... so no. I doubt they noticed. Seemed happy enough to me... Feel free to come back any time you like."
It felt strange to be doling out offers like that. He didn't actually work here, and it was Weaver's call to make, so... Then he caught himself. Had to breathe slowly to stave off the stab of pain, and looked about the bar for other customers as an excuse to turn away. There weren't any, unfortunately, and Korbin had no excuse to leave.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Brown eyes grow wide as the bartender goes to refresh her drink, mixing up something that looks like far too many things to fit in a single tiny glass. Despite the time she spent in the other local tavern, how much her parents entertained and boozed up their friends, Hester was not a big drinker. She also wasn't a coward though. Fixing the man across the bar with a fiery look, she threw back the shot glass, a shiver running through her body as she swallowed the alcohol. "Aptly named." She offers after a moment, fighting to keep her eyes from watering.
The mercy of such a strong drink is that it dulls his next words, his criticism of her playing. It's helps that it's a lot nicer than she expects as well, piquing her interest right along. There's a few things to ask, so she starts with the first one, her head cocking as she peers at him, suddenly interested. "Are you a trained ear then?" She asks, looking him up and down as if it will offer her some clue.
Hester's chin rests on her fist again, a precarious perching point as she leans forward, a little grin on her face. She moves right along to her second question, her brow cocking now in a gentle tease. "Are you the one who gets t'make those decisions? You're real young." And that was her saying that.
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
It was apt, and since Korbin was the one who had decided on the name for the drink, he could only nod in quiet satisfaction as she fought the burn. He almost smiled again, and went to refill her glass with a smooth cider this time. Easier to talk around... it was only as he sent the glass towards the girl that he caught himself, wondering when he had decided not to chase her off. The offer, the drinks... what was he doing?
"I used to play, so... guess you could say that," he shrugged, hands pushed back against the counter... he didn't know what to do with them. "And this is my sister's bar. Was... I guess it's mine now." His expression tensed, fell as he looked around. Things had gone to seed around the tavern since Weaver died. No one had been around to direct the staff, and while they had kept working... too much had been left for later, or been done improperly, or...
His jaw clenched. Turning back to the girl, he looked at her properly this time, tried to place her face in a context. She was pretty, cute and eclectic in an interesting way. Not someone he had interacted with directly before, but... Snowcloak was a small town.
"You're... Mac Girr's youngest, right?" he guessed, recalling a man he'd seen a few times at the old tavern, and a few older siblings around the town. They were more around Weaver's and Erebor's age, likely friends of theirs at some point. "I'm Korbin Hale."
Offering up a slim, long fingered hand in greeting, Korbin couldn't quite shake the feeling of being out of place. Unaligned with the whole situation, like he viewed himself from the outside. Was this real? Was he actually doing this?
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
There's no mention of her painful, but successful, choking down of the shot, but she seems to have inspired some kind of pity, yet another drink poured out for her. She might accuse him of trying to get her drunk, if he seemed just a little more inclined to take the joke well. Already though, Hester can feel warmth crawling up her cheeks, her head feeling light, her smile gripping to her face far easier.
"What did you used to play?" Comes the immediate request for more information, the simple answer igniting a kind of kinship in her chest. Or, igniting something. She can definitely feel a burn. Even in the state she's in though, she knows to be sombre at the next words, to not immediately speak up again as his gaze left her.
There had been so much loss lately, for so many people. She had been lucky, hadn't lost anyone too close, though one of her sisters had lost a husband, fallen in the line of duty. It wasn't quite the same kind of pain though. It clicks together, quite suddenly, a piece sliding into place in her foggy mind. She knows who he is, at least knows of him, and her heart suddenly aches a little bit. "I'm sorry about your sister. I can't imagine it." The words are soft, a silent prayer sent out for him, for Weaver. She doesn't dare look back up until she can feel his gaze return to her, and even then, Hester is careful to avoid his eyes, lest she see too much emotion, and start to tear up herself.
"The youngest and best!" She confirms brightly, trying to fight the darkness back with a overly saccharine tone, her head tipping to the side cutely, the gesture making her more dizzy enough that she couldn't quite recover right away. "I usually go by Hester though. Hettie, if we're friends." She leaves it up to him to decide what to call her, and reaches out to take his hand, shaking it easily. "It's nice to meet you Korbin. I wish it was in a happier time."
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
She said 'used to', apparently willing to accept that his music making was a thing of the past. It was a bittersweet thought, but quite a relief too. No pressure to perform. To revive something that should have died with his instruments.
"A bit of everything... mostly the lute," he replied, before turning away. Because he only owned that lute. It had been an indulgence, the only nice thing he ever gave himself. How many long hours he had labored and scraped by to afford it he couldn't even say, but Korbin still recalled the feeling of holding it for the first time. More precious than any newborn child.
The lute was gone now. Dead, burned, on a glorious pyre. It had burned brightly.
Humming something indistinct at the condolences, it took him a bit to recover, but by the time Hester offered up her name and took his hand, Korbin's face was carefully neutral again. Not a slight against her, but a self preservation attempt.
"Same," he offered back. "Well, as I said. You're welcome to play here whenever you feel like it. Place could use a pick-me-up." It might not work as intended on him, but the other patrons were not as difficult to get.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Hester took a sip of her cider while he answered her question, just to have something to do with her hands, so she didn't have to think about what to do with her face. "I only know how to play the fiddle." She offers, after the cup is back down on the bar firmly, after there's been a moment of quiet. Another one grows while she hums, letting her eyes slip away from him so she can feel a little less guilty about asking the next question. "Why'd you stop?"
It was, in her mind, an entirely fair question, though if her judgment wasn't quite so affected, she'd probably be able to hold her tongue a little better. It wouldn't have stopped the wonder, but it would have kept it quiet. Stepping away from her music now felt like an impossibility, felt like severing a piece of herself.
Eyes stayed away from Korbin for a while longer, the rest of the bar suddenly very interesting. It was only when she offered her hand that she looked back, coming face to face with a mask. She offered another cheerful smile regardless, not really knowing what else to do, how else to respond.
"I'll take you up on that. I've been looking for people to play for other than my parents." A laugh bubbles out of her, and she shifts in place, finishing off her cup again. "Are you gonna be hosting folks through Longnight?" Maybe, she can spend the week here, instead of in the family home, get some more practice in, spend some more time with the people, strangers and familiar faces alike.
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Why had he stopped? It was a string of unfortunate circumstances, really. Being cursed with deafness, having the lute repaired, the Citadel being attacked, being swamped with work, his sister dying and then that night when his house burned down with everything inside it. The drunken haze after that, which still had not lifted - not really - and now his hands shook too much and the mere idea of trying almost sent him into a panic.
But he didn't tell her any of that. Just held up his quivering hand as if that was answer enough, and maybe it was. Maybe it could be.
Korbin reached for a glass and poured himself a shot. Whiskey, not the best but at least it was liquid. Taking a sip, he relaxed ever so slightly when the taste flooded his senses, soothed by the familiar burn.
At the question, he shrugged. "No idea. Haven't decided yet. Maybe, unless the Warden says people should hole up elsewhere. I know supplies are running low, might be more efficient to heat up only one building."
The Academy would be a better choice than the Kraai. Bigger, studier, and it had withstood Eirachi's attack.
"Why, don't want to stay home?" he asked, eying her with a shrewd look as his fingers toyed with the glass.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Somehow, Korbin holding his hands up, out, answered everything and nothing. How has he gotten like that, what had happened? Would it fade, did it hurt, could he learn something less contingent on his hands? But the wordless answer is not enough to even really formulate a real question, not when there's so much she'd need to ask, and she can recognize, in her affected state, that that particular line of questioning is too much.
"Do you drink while you work a lot?" She asks, instead of mentioning his hands, one of her fingers twirling through her hair, twisting a long lock into a loose curl. There's nothing but a quiet curiosity in her voice, the way he seems to settle as he drinks not missed by her.
It's a little confusing, a lot alarming to hear supplies running low, though Hester realizes after a moment he means in the bar itself, not Snowcloak as a whole. With the extra people, it makes sense. Still, it does put her dream of a week filled with music and chatter on hold, until she found out where people were staying instead. "I guess that makes sense."
At the question, it's Hester's turn to let her eyes drop, back down to her empty glass, though it doesn't stop her answering, an almost rushed tone in her voice. "No, not really. We stay with my sister usually, but," There's a pause, while words weigh themselves on her tongue, liquor loosening it enough to let them slip, to confide in a stranger, "her husband died, in the attack. I wasn't close with him, but everyone else..." A shrug, and brown eyes rising up to look into a pale mask again. "I don't want to spend the week in that."
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
"Not usually," he replied, reticent but still responding, at least. "But then, I don't usually work here. Or work alone." Weaver had been the one who drank on the job, or seemed to in order to keep her customers relaxed and friendly. Nothing wrong with keeping up tradition, right?
It was her turn to become downcast, but Korbin couldn't muster any real care for her tragedy. He should have the empathy, if anyone, but it was hard to feel anything beyond vague pity.
"May he burn - " he started, and staggered on the words at the memory of flame, of grief and black despair from the last he said that phrase - "may he burn brightly." He forced himself to finish, quiet and hurried, and downed the contents of the glass he had raised in salute. Set it down, looked away...
Realized, that he didn't have any words comfort anyone with.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
