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!
Cataclysm after cataclysm, with little repose in between, only further insinuated they’d have to carve out pieces of peace on their own terms. A recovery from the latest blunders, scarce, stretched moments across vast, open seas, and nothing so damned, so deplorable, on the horizon. While the spring had often rendered them busy, beyond their regrets, rues, trials, tribulations, and melancholy, there were far more opportunities here, in the rise of tides and oceans, than to brew and brood in the grounds left behind.
He wanted to forget, for a few hours and days and weeks, those brutal, barbaric things left behind. Indifferent towards Fiat Lux, after last year’s series of debacles, the beast figured they wouldn’t be missed from any of the festivities – sending their contributions towards whichever land chose to host.
Rented boats and picnics upon the sand, beneath wide-open skies, oars cutting through the waves, precision, might, and strength forged in the undulation of muscles, in the ripple of tides, eventually brought them to the rise of dunes. A smile, and some modicum of relief, both absent since LongNight’s fangs crept over them, appeared upon his features. His gaze swept towards the island before them, a notch in several nearby, scrutinizing gaze taking in the rapture, the reverie, of worlds beyond the one they’d left behind. The rumble of his vocals unfurled from his chest, lifting the oar out of the water, arching a brow, waiting for her approval. “Suitable?”
I belong to you the way the moon belongs to the stars
It had been a wonderful time, a week, a century, too little and too long. There had been beautiful days and starry nights, seaside walks and held hands and stolen kisses. Now as they sit upon a boat atop the rolling waves Amalia feels contentment, more at peace than she has been since LongNight, and maybe since before.
The boat stills, her companion raising the oars and fixing her with a look she knows so well. A look she returns with warmth and happiness, her cheeks tanned dark and scattered with freckles, lips chapped from the salt. "Perfect," she answers, reaching forward to pull out the basket laden with sandwiches and snacks.
Extracting two, Amalia offers one for Deimos to partake of before stuffing the other in her mouth. Eyes rolling closed, the girl leans back, a soft moan of delight leaving her lips. "Gods, this is heaven. I never want to go back."
i belong to you the way the stars belong to the moon
A chance, an opportunity, to return to something before disaster and ruin and bedlam – where torturous crags didn’t mark and sculpt their way through forms and figures, where worlds hadn’t fallen apart at the seams. One look at the horizon were sentiments of worlds before, one glance at her meant more; his smile didn’t fade as it’d done weeks prior, curling boyishly at the corners. The encouragement of perfection offered a quiet snort, before he removed himself from the boat, dragging it to the shoreline as she dashed across the sands with basket in hand. His hands wove ropes around a tree, knotting the lines to avoid the vessel’s escape, while they absconded into paradise on their own.
Scrutinizing, piercing gaze swept across the land for a moment, habitual, honed from years upon years of measuring distances and calculating devastation – only now it was to ensure a safe conveyance. Passing his meticulous efforts, he drew himself back to her (and wasn’t that always the way – winding and contorting, pulled back toward the sun and the stars, when before, before, before had always been shadows, darkness), palm snagging at the proffered sandwich.
Her words echoed and bounded, lingered along his stance, a softened sigh brimming thereafter. For those precious few moments, they could pretend they were only beholden to one another. No responsibilities, no duties, no businesses, no barracks, nothing at all but them.
Instead of sinking further into the world they’d left behind, the Sword bit into his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, mulling over mischief and phrases, swallowing down the remnants, then responding. “What profession would you take up here?” A wry grin settled on his lips, and his gaze landed on her only from the corner of his eyes, watching, waiting.
I belong to you the way the moon belongs to the stars
It takes her a minute to finish chewing, the mouthful of sandwich far more than what should reasonably have fit in her mouth. The act gives her time to think and consider, to mull over his question thoughtfully. What would she do, if she lived here instead? If they were truly to be transported away from their histories and responsibilities, reborn to start fresh in this land of sea and sand?
"I would be a dancer." Smiling playfully, Amalia waits to see how her husband would react to this declaration, a mischievous arch to her brow. "But I'd only dance at night, on the beach, when the moon was full. And I'd wear a mask so nobody knew who I really was." Anonymity, to disappear into the far horizon: that is what Amalia wants, and what she has forbidden herself to have.
Looking back at Deimos, she grins expectantly. "What about you? What would you be, if not General of the Hollow Grounds?"
i belong to you the way the stars belong to the moon
Contemplation continued over sandwiches, and the monolith moved forward, half a tease, half curiosity, head tilted to listen to her answer as he advanced along the embankment, piercing gaze notched over palm trees and dunes, the rise of shoal and surf on either side. He paused as she answered, a ruffian smile tucked along the edges of his mouth, glancing over his shoulder, barely containing, barely stifling, a chuckle embedded in his throat. “A dancer,” deep vocals repeating her refrain, like one of their secrets, except it hadn’t been at all, given the nature of their first maneuvers. The Sword didn’t loosen anything else from his accord, not yet, pondering the nature around them, the ways in which Amalia thought to keep herself hidden, away, out of the limelight.
I would still know you he wanted to goad and taunt, but left it there, hidden beneath all their other ramparts and fortifications.
The question returned to him, and by then he’d already tossed off his shoes, placing them near the boat, finishing the portions of his food, sinking toes into the warm sands, meandering, waiting for her to either follow or amble pretenses into further mischief. But the thoughts immersed into some venture of seriousness, because the man had held one occupation for so long, that another seemed strange to conspire and ponder. All he’d ever been was a soldier, or a King, and even the latter came with brutality, vengeance, and cutting, lacerating blades. To be anything else felt odd and strange, and the exercise left him muddled, perplexed, until he shrugged, forthcoming on thoughts and phrasing. “An explorer.” Stoked by curiosity, by discoveries, by enigmas, constantly emboldened by the unknown. "Someone who could blend between worlds and kingdoms." Capable of adapting, of being immersed in the ocean, and then rampaging along summits, infused with elements, twisting and turning until they knew them all.
His stare went back to her, away from the land, and then to the horizon, a laugh already infusing through bonds and reverberations, voice low, exalting along leaves and fronds. “Only to be lured and entranced by a masked dancer on the night of a full moon.” A little smirk remained, and then he kept walking – enticing a chase.
I belong to you the way the moon belongs to the stars
Ever barefoot, she has no shoes to cast aside as she slips into the shore, sand creasing between her toes. The last bites of sandwich can be eaten while walking; wherever it is he is meandering off to, she will follow as surely as tides follow the moon.
His own chosen alter ego catches her somewhat by surprise, a giggle rising swift and unbidden to escape from vocal chords. "I can't imagine you blending in anywhere," Amalia fires back, entirely complimentary in her declaration, I would still know you similarly unsaid.
A smile curls the Shield's lips at the promise he would find her still, captured in the light of the moon and the away of hips and hands. "No matter how many came to watch her, the dancer wouldn't care." Continuing to meander in his footsteps, she makes no haste to catch the Sword, content for now with their game of dreams. "She wouldn't dance for them. She would dance for the Gods, and for the hope that the handsome explorer would return again each month."
i belong to you the way the stars belong to the moon
Her laughter, swift and keen and unheard of beyond its forced nature, reached his ears, encouraged, allured, finessed the same semblance of repose and sanctity. Comfort here, in the notion of teasing and speculation, with nothing more on their shoulders save for the stretch of the sun. His walk turned wandering, listless, languid, incentive for her to catch up, before he meandered along a stretch again.
He’d tried, so many damned times, to hide in the shadows, to creep along the edges, to not be seen, heard, or noticed. Brawny figures made it nearly impossible, and the world persisting on reaching into the cover of darkness, persuading him to come out, clawing, tugging, assuring, meant he could only be within its comfortable refrain for so long. But he tilted his head, pondering if he misunderstood her quip, snorting with the stretch of his smirk continuing to reside. “Must be my charming personality.” The Sword looked forward, ahead, stretching his arms above to band his hair back, the warmth radiating and pulsing.
The story of alternate paths continued while he found one for them here, eyes catching onto a small pool nearby – attention diverting towards it, simply out of curiosity. He paused in his perusal to raise his head from its embankments, to fully regard her, arch to his brows, Cheshire grin to his features. Dancers and explorers, full moons, cyclical partings and meetings, another rumble of chuckles threatening to erupt – safe to dream here, with the lavender tucked behind his ear. “And if he tried to dance with her?”
I belong to you the way the moon belongs to the stars
"Charming personality, unspeakably good looks, boundless generosity, countless creative talents... You're truly remarkable, you know that, Dei?" There's a genuine awe and unabashed admiration in her alto voice, all playful pretence dropped for a moment in favor of open ardor. A man far greater than the sum of his parts, and each of those worth their weight in gold.
And she, a smattering of distant stars, content to glitter in eternal orbit of that great silver moon.
They make their way further inland, coming now to the banks of a small pool. While the Sword draws short the Shield continues, dropping down to observe the life that teems within this confined space. Robust, colorful, diverse and strange: the feels a keen sense of comradarie with it, herself being born trapped by the tides.
Trapped until the turn of the world- until the arrival of him.
Turning her smile up to meet his, Amalia replies with ready mischief, a light in her dark eyes. "I suppose she would have to catch her first-" the only warning before she is mobile, springing lightly across the pool and toward the opposite shore.
i belong to you the way the stars belong to the moon
What he’d meant as self-deprecating, dry, caustic humor, the Shield turned and shifted into something else entirely. His head lifted instantly from staring into the pool’s depths, eyes rounding in surprise as the words lilted into the air. The modicum of disbelief already began behind his teeth, ready to refuse and refute the compliments; for there had not been a day in any lives where he’d been proclaimed as remarkable. Malicious, spiteful, petty, iniquitous, and wicked were certainties – but seemed gone, vanquished, forgotten aspects on the awe and admiration. He snorted, striving to avoid the crimson flush courting along his cheeks, and maybe hidden by his beard, attempting to absorb the words for their worth. And yet, I still do not deserve you contorted through his mind, but he didn’t give it a voice, didn’t give it a soul, in between their bond.
Instead, he might aspire to be all of those things, for her, for this world. To hold true to her claims, her ideas, her notions of him – not so blackened, marred, and splintered.
Giving himself a few moments to find composure, Deimos inclined a cheeky snicker back over his shoulder; but the truth was still there, uttered in deep reverberations. “You are still far better.” In convictions, in promises, in determination, in beauty, in morality, in the beacons of stalwart stars.
She joined him briefly, and the monolith allowed his own open reverence of her in the quiet, in the stolen glances of a Shield peering into the water, and his eyes only for her. He saw the mischief contorted and rampaging when she twisted back to him, an extension of their game, a way to manifest something beyond heartache and woe; returned with a devilish glimmer in his stare.
Then Amalia sprung across the water, gaze following, one brow arched in amusement – then everything narrowing, the pulsing thrill of a hunt, of a chase, one to end in beyond enticement and temptation. He stayed where he was, the fervency building in his bones, pervading through limbs, a feral accord curling in the midst. “Hm. And if she is caught, then the explorer might show his generosity?”
I belong to you the way the moon belongs to the stars
He doesn't pursue as swift as she expects, instead staying placed at the side of the pool. He is patience where she is impetuous, stone where she is flame. While Amalia waits, taut as a bow and ready at a moment's notice to spring away, Deimos watches with a predator's gaze.
It sends a shiver down her spine.
Each muscle is drawn and ready for flight as she looks at him from across the water, fire in her eyes. "Yes. If she is caught." If he catches her - and he will catch her, already has, snared again and ever entwined - he might bestow whatever it is he wishes, and take more than that besides.
i belong to you the way the stars belong to the moon
All a part of the game they’d built up, fortified, measured in their regard for one another. Sometimes simplistic, eternally amusing, meant to rid away the other cataclysms of the world – and his focus was solely on her. No trials, no tribulations, no wounds, no burdens, only an emboldened indication pulled along his features. His gaze drew, along her taut form, along her shiver, along her fire and flames, along the cinders, embers, stoking the coals, raking, taking, biding his time. Rarely impetuous, purposefully meticulous, he arched a brow at her comment, at the yes, and then the if-
Another challenge, another goading, another provocation coiled in muscles and sinew, tendrils of promises, further intrigue, foolishness, and everything else they’d managed to notch between.
No need for words then, as he took a measured leap across the pool, long limbs making short work – nodding his head, expecting her to bolt, to flee, to escape, to evade, for the sake of bemusements, and reverential regard.
I belong to you the way the moon belongs to the stars
And there it is: the string uncoiled, the hunter released from his confines. She senses the movement with an animal's instincts a heartbeat before it happens, and springs back with the skill of a dancer, or more accurately, a deer. It isn't that she wants to evade or avoid him; she simply wants to play a little, to keep up distractions of sunlight and mirth and continue to blot out the dark.
Light and lithe and flush with laughter Amalia leaps back from her husband, landing in a ready crouch should he continue to pursue. There's a wildness to the Shield already, her golden hair cut through with strands of lilac, her ears now curved to feline shape. She could take readily to air or water but for now she stays on land, waiting for him to make the next action in their ridiculous, juvenile game of chess.
i belong to you the way the stars belong to the moon
The quirk of his brow in the midst of silence, the challenge on, the inquiries silently asked, the gestures of movements springing and coiled – watching, waiting. If it were anyone else it could be likened to predator and prey, but these were their childish indentations into the world, wrangling juvenile intricacies out of realms and kingdoms that had long since lost the foolishness. It was familiar, it was fervent, it was better savored than any discord, triumph, or tragedy; chasing down ramparts along the sea, the only cares reserved for one another.
The laughter baited, the leaping tempted, and the wildness enticed; playing the hunter’s role, features full of rapacious, ravenous promises, the depths of piercing, raking stares, the air of his smirk as he took a step.
Meanwhile, the beast utilized incantations, quietly, silently, intending to trap, snare, and catch. Earth connotations unraveled into the sand, into the soil, and the beast blended the enchantments into a rise of loam, attempting to form a blockade of rocks, stones, and terrain behind her.
I belong to you the way the moon belongs to the stars
She keeps her eyes fixed on him, focused on the radiant comfort that is his figure in a world of uncertainty and chaos and pain. One step forward, one step back; measure for measure Amalia meets him, not springing yet, not running or fleeing, always keeping just out of reach. His mirror, though smaller and lither in her actions, their dance a playful, unbending thing.
So it goes for one step and another, until the earth behinds her change. Too late the Shield realizes what has happened; spinning around she finds the wall, her palms pressing flush on earth and stone. Outplayed, out maneuvered, by a master of the game, Amalia looks at the creation in dumb surprise, her mouth formed into a silent O as she waits for him to claim his triumph, her capture inevitable from the start.
i belong to you the way the stars belong to the moon
