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 sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
In another world, he likely would’ve been chastised too – instructors looming before them, snarling, told not to waste ammunition, to folly, to fool around with weaponry. Ordinarily, he might have adhered to the notions, to lectures instilled after one too many daring adventures, but the concepts of LongNight dragged through shoulders, of traumas and tragedies marred at every god damned turn, had left them with fewer and fewer opportunities for relief, for mischief, for a way to drag themselves out of the murk. This was his machination, his creation, and he knew it well, could supply the stones, the tools, the incantations simply by the curl of his enchantments. There was no loss here except in time, and even that wasn’t so fettered away in predilections, calculations, or practice.
It had caught Morgan’s amusements and musings nonetheless, earning her an arched brow in her considerations. “I have only made this one so far.” There hadn’t been a real need for it, and it had been on boyish, juvenile pursuits, rather than requirements. But in the coming days of whatever was to follow, perhaps there would be more dotting the horizon, flailing and flying at the latest threat. “Halo does not have any?” With the way the landscape was set up, last he’d known, it might’ve made an ideal location for such an armament – capable of seeing anyone, anything, arriving for miles. Toppling towers. Sieging.
He watched, waited, for her to pull the lever, presuming upcoming destruction upon the targets to unfurl, but the conversation continued instead, and he leaned an elbow on a portion of the machine that wouldn’t maneuver. Mountains a deterrent was something that took him straight back to the Basin, a strange homesick notion reeling through his mind, the memories of narrow passes, of no one ever being able to invade them, of the power and prestige amongst and amidst the summits. Gone now too, eroded in shadow.
So the monolith nodded, back into the flattened landscape of the training grounds, listening to notions of the Ascended. “No. It sounded as though the monsters were some of the Voice’s first attempts. I have not seen anything like it in current Ascended.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion
"Nothing quite like this, no. For the last decades, our focus has been more on defensive than offence measures." Crafting the Citadel into a mighty stronghold, a hardy resilient place in the difficult environment. It was only in this last year, as the portals had suddenly become a matter in the life of the Halovians, that preparing to attack another nation had even become a concern or possibility.
She knew well enough how machinery and mechanics worked though and had watched carefully as Deimos had operated the catapult: Morgan had always been quick to learn. Making sure the shot was lined up she pulled the lever and watched the rocks soar, grinned as they found their mark on the dummy she had been intending for, making it sway violently from the impact. "Powerful. I do hope we never find the Citadel at the mercy of these beasts." Said with some humour, though she meant it.
That Deimos had not seen traces of the monsters in current Ascended was a good sign, to be sure. "Good. ...Truthfully, General, do you believe the Ascended to be a threat to the rest of us?"
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
A nod of understanding followed, defensive means and measures first and foremost, to be able to have a world of shelter, sanctuary, and security of one’s people. His mountains had always been the foretold dilemma, incapable of assaulting them without coming up the singular trail, for no fools had tried up cliffs and ramparts; the impending doom laying inside – him, and the rest of his citizens. The Grounds, and Halo, are entirely different matters and territories, and he’d been concocting plans, ideas, and orchestrations of his own for ways to instill structure and stability. There’d just been no time in between trials, tribulations, LongNights, recoveries, festivals, and then everything else following suit. “No harm in having both.” He shrugged, a man of assaults and sieges, of fortifications and disasters. But he needed to pause, to reflect, on the choices he’d made in those maelstroms too – jaw clenching automatically at the notions spiraling back.
He still couldn’t help the satisfied smirk as the catapult worked to some of its bestial capacity, slinging the rocks in ferocious ease, watching as the dummy was pummeled in the brief storm. The General accepted the compliment for its worth, patting at the contraption. “I can always make some for Halo,” an offer, arching a brow to see if she’d accept. “As a thank you to housing the Grounders during Deepfrost.”
The subject matter following at hand though left a bitter, rancorous edge to his mouth, gazing out over the horizon, far beyond the mauled targets, along the fields, plains, and forests, stretching out a long-held sigh before finally answering. “I cannot say for sure.” They were all resting on knife edges, poised in the serrated fringes; waiting for the next move, the next strike, the next opportunity for either justice, perseverance, or tucking their heads further into the sand. “We had the blight, and the incident with the Fae at the Mathair. But afterwards, they seemed to have gone to opening portals.” Unless there was more to it, to permitting power of the Voice to escalate, unless they were merely biding their time, and his fingers wrapped around piece of the catapult’s surface, steadying in its defiance. “However, with recent events, I would expect some sort of repercussion.” Because he’d been carved and sculpted from a world that did exactly that – constantly avenging, marring, maiming, taking, and scraping away from one kingdom to the next, fueled by their hate, by their vitriol. Perhaps Caido wasn’t like that, but he couldn’t help feel the instinctual pull of a tempest brewing; he’d been layered and resurrected in too many storms. “Best to be prepared, no matter what.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion
"Indeed. I intend to build up our supply in the coming year." Of course, she would not tell Deimos too much (it was foolish to give away information to anyone, trusted or not), but Morgan saw no harm in explaining some of her plans. "Not that we are intending to attack anyone. With the world as volatile as it is though, being prepared can hardly be a negative - I will take your offer. Thank you." Smiling at the General, she began to think of where in the Citadel their new weapons could be stored.
She let her gaze follow Deimos' as he thought, wanting her mind clear as she heard his opinions on this matter, one that she found herself utterly lost on. "You think the portals are a positive, then?" Morgan asked, her voice carefully neutral so as to not give away her own position on them just yet. "Do you believe, if they wanted to, the Ascended could overpower any of us in a war?"
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He nodded at her acceptance, configuring when he’d be available for wandering through portals in his head, preferably after honeymoons, and perhaps Morgan would have ample opportunity to build up her supplies, as noted, before then. While she mused, he stepped forward and away from the catapult, magic contorting along the grass and plains, snagging at the fallen rocks, and maneuvering them into a pile, while he tended to the fallen targets and dummies.
The General didn’t expect the next inquiry – mainly because no one had ever really voiced it towards him. He’d been a decidedly neutral individual on the topic years ago – because this hadn’t been his world, and he’d been frequently reminded as an Outlander that his opinions had hardly mattered. He hadn’t been locked inside a bubble for hundreds of years. He’d only been pulled by the Voice, soul lodged and tugged into these void, and was a standing figure to watch the borders, the snares, the lodging come toppling down. So he thought, the introspection deep, and configured he was still unaligned on the front. “It is difficult to say.” A shrug, pondering the weight of everything enameled in those inquiries. “I was brought here without a choice.” Outlander: and now he had nothing to return to – and he’d been a shell, a vessel, a wandering, wayfaring soul. “I could not imagine being trapped in one land.” Restless for so long, caught in between hordes and tethers, lines of the unknown. “With the portals, came opportunity.” For good, or maligned contortions; either spreading like wildfire, or a slow trickle of disaster.
Then the Sword arched a brow, considering, tugging the goals and bullseyes back to where they should remain for the next several hours, unless someone yearned to train after them. “And what is a Natural’s opinion?” Someone outside of the Grounds, with all of them descending upon their world?
Her final question caused the briefest of snorts, arms crossing over his chest. “I never underestimate anyone.” Because it led to stupidity, to delved ignorance, to an arrogance eventually gutted and consumed. Maybe the realms would burn again, lost in the endless cycle of war, damned and doomed to repeat itself. Maybe the Ascended were gaining in power, maybe there’d be more surprises, more quandaries. “Which is why we prepare.” Why he’d already thought of a weapon to assist if worst came to worst.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion
Morgan valued the opinions of those who seemed sensible, and there were few other words she would use to describe the General. He seemed a man unlikely to give into sensationalism or rumours; his opinion would be one she respected. In this particular fight, she saw no reason why he might intend to mislead her.
"They have indeed brought possibilities, but I worry we have not yet seen the full extent of their impact: I suspect there is conflict on our horizons. I do not know how or why, but..." She sighed, a hand slowly stroking along the lever of the catapult to feel the woodgrain as she shrugged. "Perhaps it is just the restless soldier in me, but I do not trust the relative peace we have found ourselves in now." It felt like they were all waiting, on tenterhooks until the other shoe dropped.
She certainly respected his answer on the Ascended. "A good habit. How is it you are preparing for a specifically Ascended threat? I have heard they are susceptible to fire...?"
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Conflict on the horizon – a brewing, brimming, foreboding aspect. For soldiers alike, who knew the weight of pending circumstances, who’d experienced chaos firsthand, who’d understood the small moments leading up to larger instances, it was an exercise amidst intuition and preparation. For what, and to the extent, he couldn’t be certain, but things kept colliding, kept escalating, and it felt like they’d done so very little in the management of defenses or recourse. “I have similar suspicions.” His piercing gaze went away from the horizon, and back to her, a nod following. How many times had it happened while he’d reigned, lifetimes ago? How many times had they marched into battle for soulless circumstances? How many times had he faced adversaries and opponents, for the sake of his land? And was it all damned and doomed to repeat? Would this world share the same fate?
After everything – why wouldn’t the Ascended plan or plot vengeance?
Because the Hollowed Grounds hadn’t, after blights? Or did they not have the numbers? Was there something else stopping them, or the biding of time aiding in the repercussions?
He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure anyone else did either. All they could do was suspect, guard, and start preventative measures. At her inquiry, he arched his brow, extending one hand to show the sudden display of embers, flames, emboldened, stretching upward, before he ceased them altogether upon closing his fist. “Heard the same.” Though he hadn’t witnessed it firsthand; Wessex had been capable of wielding his to an extent when the fiery luxere had rambled from Halo’s portal, and the Sword was moderately convinced something else had been at play. Then a sigh filtered and flickered through, eyes narrowed as he glanced down at the catapult, the grains of wood interlocking. “The door was a mistake.” And unfortunately, very effective in rendering an Ascended vanquished.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion
It was good to hear that she was not alone in her unease; Morgan wondered if her and Deimos were paranoid, or the only ones who could see the writing on the wall. Time would tell and while she truly hoped that their predictions were just a symptom of old habits, she felt deep down that it would not be long before they both found themselves once more on battlefields.
That in mind, it was good to have her thoughts on Ascended confirmed. "I will have to find a way to wield flames." She said, mostly to herself, wondering if the Academy could help her to unlock such power in herself; she had always been someone more connected with water, but needs must.
"The door?" She asked, frowning as she tried to think of what he could mean. "I have not heard anything about a door; what do you mean?"
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
It would be foolish, ignorant, to ignore the caustic friction unfurling, unwinding, from the thresholds and vestiges. It had been there before LongNight, in fractured pieces and pockets, here and there in the ethers, but there was a full-fledged line drawn in the sands now. It was only a matter of time before someone crossed it, pledged and plunged intent behind the misconduct, assaults, some measure of brutality justifying vengeance in its vehemence. When and how churned in his mind, hesitant to be on the waiting end, but uncertain where to go from here. The Sword was a foundation, a fortification, in patience and diligence, but here the unknown bled through too much. He’d always known what to do in Helovia (fight back, blood and bone, pressing weapons into the schism, unleashing hell, grit and mettle, unafraid, undaunted, by the wake of circumstances). Here, no matter what he seemed to try, dealt very little, or exploded in his face.
He arched a brow at the notion of learning, wielding fire, justifying it with a nod. It’d been one of his favored elements, secure in lineage, bloodlines, and the feeling of home, back in the Moonlit Tides, watching his father ignite blades and spiral fury.
Morgan hadn’t heard about the door though – and Deimos had presumed everyone had, once the news of Rexanna’s death had reached their ears. He grimaced, mouth pulled into a tight line, brows furrowed, jaw clenching, thinking perhaps he shouldn’t reveal it all. Relive the horror. The stupidity. The consequences of actions. But maybe this was his penance too, a knife to the gut, a dagger to the spine, cutting down backbones and marrow. “I asked Safrin for a door to help shield us from the monsters during LongNight.” The beast paused, gaze stretching away, off to targets and shambles. “It worked against Ascended as well.” Perhaps she could piece the rest together by herself, the nuances, the shattered, charred remnants of a Queen and best friend, gone within an instant, and only because he’d wanted to guard them.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion
Morgan waited, quite perplexed indeed, to find out what this 'door' meant. When the explanation did finally come it was short, characteristically of Deimos, and she was left to piece together a story from the fragments he gave. "...So you did not intend it to work against the Ascended." She confirmed, the parts falling into place in her mind: she knew their Queen had been Ascended.
Her eyes widened as she looked him over again, wondering if he looked like someone that would commit treason.
"What has happened to this door?" She asked, admittedly wondering if it could be traded for, taken to Halo in case of an emergency: perhaps for Deimos it was a tragedy, but to Morgan it seemed an opportunity.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Blunt overtures followed, on the presumption, on the scalding of rancor, errors, and visible faults. “Correct.” He hadn’t intended for Rexanna to be desecrated in its midst, the opposite of the emblem it was supposed to have symbolized. Where he’d pledged protection, it’d unleashed demolition, but only due to his own ignorance. The door had been molded into an armament of his naivete, shielding, guarding, and deluding himself into believing it could’ve been so simplistic. All he’d ever wanted to do was shelter them from the storm of demons and infidels; what they’d received in return was a maelstrom for his stupidity. He should’ve known. He should’ve calculated more. He should’ve devised this route. He should’ve seen it coming.
Those flaws would etch their way into his bones for an eternity – and while time might erase some of the wounds, the scars were still there, cut, embedded, carved.
The Sword could feel her eyes on him, the passing of some scrutiny, some judgement, and he said nothing. Were he in her place, looking over a fool, he would’ve done the same. His jaw clenched and eyes went down to the ground, feeling every inch the cretin, the idiot.
Her question about the door sparked the cataclysm of conversation he’d already had with Safrin. “It is gone.” Not necessarily a lie, tucked away and hidden with the herald, out of anyone’s clutches for the moment – it’d already done enough damage. Then, because of notions and wiles, his stare still upon the ground, he inquired, a shrug to his shoulders. “What would you have done with it?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion
"I see. I'm sorry." Morgan knew, as a lifelong server and soldier, how much it had to pain Deimos to know he had seen to the end of his Queen, that he had thrown his own people into a new age of chaos (though from what she knew of the Grounds, it seemed like it had always been in an age of chaos).
She was careful not to show her disappointment upon hearing that the door was gone, knowing when to hold her cards close. Instead she just nodded with the casual apathy of someone who had just been curious. When he asked though, she supposed there wasn't harm in pretending she was just now considering: "See if it could be crafted or incorporated in some bigger weapon to use should things grow worse. Would you be opposed to it's use in that way, after what happened to your Queen?"
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Oh, he’d certainly had a hand in the chaos; but a moderate amount, given how much they regularly met, saw, and chafed against. The underlying fumes, vestiges, and tension had only heightened – and now there were other assortments and things on the loose, incapable of making heads or tails of them until other information came to light. It was mentally exhausting on the heels of everything else coming into fruition and play; exactly why he and Amalia intended to slip away, quietly strive to recover before the next wave of bedlam. He took her apologies with a brief, gruff nod, elbow leaning on the catapult, a sigh heaved from his chest.
The fact that her considerations had gone the way of his in a similar ilk wasn’t lost on the Sword; though he meant to make his smaller, a blade, wielded and serrated, intended for monsters lurking during LongNight. “I am not certain,” because it was the truth – torn between the need for preparation, and the fine line between animosity, acrimony, and pledges of guilt. A powerful component, a weapon in the art of concoctions and incantations, meant to obliterate an enemy wasn’t lost on Deimos; they’d done the very same in the Basin. But here, lives were different, arrangements not constantly on the annals of war – even though they could all feel something simmering. “One would have to be committed to the end results.” To know and understand the possibility of those brutal demises, to the decimation of that race, and despite his anglings of swords, and the actions leading up to now, he hadn’t been. Would the Warden be?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion
It was expected that Deimos had conflicting feelings about further use for the door; Morgan did not have the relationships or knowledge of Ascended that he did, had not loved the Queen that had recently died, though even she still understood the complexity of the situation they all found themselves in. Even with her distance from the situation, she knew it was not as simple as picking up a weapon and diving in.
"Well, since the door is gone, I suppose the matter is moot." She finally said, shrugging, pretending that she was not still thinking of it. Curiosity had set in though; Morgan knew she would one day want to ask Safrin herself if the Goddess could fashion her a weapon of a similar quality and purpose. If the Goddess had done it once, she assumed she would be willing to do it again, if it were for the cause of fighting the Ascended.
That aside, the barracks was tidy and they had had their fun with the catapults: the time had come to leave. Bidding Deimos farewell, Morgan agreed to come and spar soon: he would make a good partner for a duel.
