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!
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Despite the fact that Deimos had grown up within ocean ramparts and sea fortifications, he’d never actually seen a volcano, dormant or otherwise. The same could be said for his life spent amongst the Aurora Basin, the summits never blowing their tops, the blended hues never churning to smoke, fumes, or poisons. He’d read and heard about them, but to survey the blown portions, the demolition left behind, and the world recovering around it, was an intriguing sight to behold. Power, might, and the things that came after, chaos, bedlam, rolling into one figment and faction, and then what happened thereafter. Repose, if for an instant, before the next cycle or wave?
Pondering devastation, the black dog wandered further out to the shoal and shore, gazing along this portion of the beach. It was littered with debris, but of the human variety, trash, sediment, and rubble left from whatever had occurred. Intrigue had brought him out here, but perhaps the purpose, the need, for movement, for action, would keep him amidst its dunes.
He grabbed hold of some garbage and refuse, clustering it together tightly in his jaw with an audible snap, and removing it from the dampened sand before the waves could carry it back out. The hellhound began to start a small pile, clambering it further up the embankment, figuring he could always burn the residue when he was done.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
There's a strange kind of calm infecting Nate. Though it feels like he's finally gotten out of the fire, after the frying pan, he can't help but hold his breath, waiting for the next disaster. At least he's getting the breath though. At least there's time to wander the beach, under the drizzling sky, along the very edge of the water.
Nate's gaze is unfocused, pointed vaguely ahead of him, his steps unhurried, at least until he stops. Squints ahead of him, trying to make the dark shape make sense.
There's a dog on the beach.
Altogether, it's not the strangest thing he could have come across, but that doesn't mean it isn't strange. It's a big fucking dog, and it has a mouthful of garbage, which, again, is weird but not unbelievable. Nate is fairly confident in his ability to outrun a dog, and even if he can't, he can run into the ocean and sink to the floor, wait out the creature. That's just enough of an exit strategy for him to feel pretty confident to call out from where he is, grin quirking his lips, lightening his face easily, even with the scar slashed across it.
"Hey puppy! Are you a good boy?" He even claps his knees, though he realizes a second later that it's stupid to think of an exit and then call over the thing he was planning on escaping.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Repeating the process was much the same, collecting fragments off the beach, and segmenting them into the designated pile. While it seemed tedious, dull, and monotonous, it was also mind-numbing; no need to think, no need to plot, no need to immerse himself into machinations or calculations.
Except a stranger meandered along the shoal, and instantly the hound’s attention was raised, ears pricked forward, blue eyes pinpointed, segmented, nares widened. The beast didn’t recognize the man at all, not from any particular stroll nor scar, and thought to continue his actions, apply nothingness to the shambles of these events.
But then the vocals echoed, the movements clapped, and he was caught staring, listening, to the words resounding.
Hey puppy! Are you a good boy?
If he were in human form he would’ve lost all composure, no matter how well versed and practiced in his veneer – the nonchalance warped to his jaw dropping, and then a likely course of bewilderment, confusion, followed by hasty retreats.
However, as a massive, soulless-looking heathen, Deimos had some options here.
He could ignore the man entirely, much like a cat – give no ounce of attention to the nonsense contorting further down the shore. It’d be well within his nature to apply the reserve, the impassivity, and simply believe the unfamiliar cretin would leave.
Or…
The wheels were turning, shifting, mischief taking hold when it likely shouldn’t have. A demonic press, a devilish inquisition, a seditious spark of pride contorted through the long limbs, through the irreverent bones, through the midst of vehement, immoral entities. No smirk chiseled its way, no snicker took hold along the dog’s maw, and he made no move to follow the calls. Instead, a long, savage, and eerie howl exuded from him – as if calling to let loose his fellow hounds of war and mayhem, slipping their chains, their tethers, their bonds. It was the only warning the other would receive; for Deimos had always been one for brief foreboding tactics, lingering opportunities many had left in the dust.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
There is a moment where neither of them seem to move, though waves still pound against the shore and rain still drizzles from the sky. It's a strange feeling moment, Nate feeling like he's being sized up by the dog as much as he's sizing it up, wondering what the next move is going to be. And it's not what expects, not by a long shot.
The howl is haunting, in a word. Seems to cut right to Nate's chest and spread out, a chill running down his spine. Suddenly, he's not so sure he could outrun this beast. Suddenly, the ocean is looking much more welcoming.
"Okay, okay. Not a nice doggy." The words come with a weak huff of a laugh, a few anxious steps back. Both of Nate's hands are up in as placating a gesture as he can hope to make to a dog, not that he really thinks this is a normal dog anymore. The single blue eye rises, glancing further up the beach, towards his destination, and Nate has to think, for a long moment. It would be anticlimactic as fuck, to be ripped apart by a dog on a beach, but also, also, there was a little voice inside of him, a little shred of pride that refused to let this be a hill he was going to give up on.
Stupid shred of pride, but, it is what it is.
With a steadying breath taken, Nate takes a step to the side, closer towards the ocean than the dog maybe, but that's still closer. He's ready to throw himself into the waves, if he needs to, eye locked on the dark beast. "I just need to squeeze past you here, yea? Then I'll be on my way, and you can... get back to whatever this is, and we can all go on with our days, huh?" It feels right, somehow, to announce what he's doing, though maybe it's just wishful thinking on his part.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Feral, savage amusement coiled through the length of him, wicked and eldritch, born amongst those used to being the unattainable, unreachable demons. Cold-blooded machinations drew their way through his skull, through his bones, through the layers upon layers of anarchy, distortion, and decadence. He could become a sinuous, unwinding thing, a detached machine, a seething maelstrom crossing over sands, limbs contorted in rapid succession, in allured danger, in finessed ferocity, in no time at all. What would it take, to set apart the pernicious, the macabre, the potent? How many times had he done it as the Reaper, chasing, driving, massacring the foes that dared to think they could pierce their way into the Basin? King of death and desecration, of wiles and tempests – eons and lifetimes ago, conjured and compelled now, a surge of memories and potential.
But he kept his fiendish foreboding, sitting back on his haunches like a primitive, primordial enmity, an entity possessed by hell and thriving in its discord. The howl had completed the task, and there was no need, currently, of summoning the rest of demonic, monstrous cretins, of shattering the world in his hedonistic elation. Disappointing, really, as the man placated instantly, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender, in explanation of movements and motions.
Deimos glanced at the sea, and then back to the stranger, settling along the dunes by his pile of debris, pondering his next maneuver. It came on a slow, predatory walk, grabbing hold of the nearest trash, some piece of paper threatening to float into the waves, and then dropping it into his heap of rubble and ruin. A hint of his actions, of his motives, beyond terrifying wandering fools. The hound still cast a wide berth, permitted the man to move along if need be, the threat and warning there in his mere presence, in the way his frame stoked and paced.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
There is something entirely too human about the dog, the way it watches him, waits. The way it understands what it is he says, what it is he's doing. And it finally, finally has something clicking in Nate's head, an association, an assumption he should have made far earlier. An attuned. Though that still leaves him in a lurch, the other clearly not in the mood to shift back, probably not in the mood to talk at all. A pity, because Nate has a trick up his sleeve.
Shifting, especially fully, still comes awkwardly to him, the trick of it something Nate has yet to learn, but at the end of his efforts, he has managed to shift into a panther, sitting neatly at the very edge of the sea, a wide berth still between him and the other. A single eye, still blue, roams over the dog, before Nate tentatively reaches out, only barely understanding how the attuned telepathy works. Did... you want a hand with your cleaning?
It feels a little safer to ask immediately, instead of faffing about with small talk, with wasting both of their time. Would be safest to just take the chance to walk along, he's sure, but there is a part of him that refuses to leave well enough alone.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Acts of comprehension seemed to emerge, and the hound was a study in meticulous scrutiny, the barest tilt of his head coming to understand the proceedings. The stranger didn’t leave, as either might have hoped, lingering, pressing into the beach further, and the once Reaper almost maneuvered closer, just to see if he could intimidate again.
But then was shifting, a change, and his presumption of Ascended parameters clustered and coiled together. The end result was a very familiar outline of a panther, and there were a few instances where his machinations wielded a horde of presumptions. That man hadn’t been Sunjata, and there were possibilities of other, similar felines in the midst, but the inkling, the notions, were present in his skull, biding opportunities and calculating airs.
The reach out seemed tentative, inexperienced, much like many Attuned when first adapting to the telepathic connections and communications. The beast’s eyes narrowed, pondering if he did want help. A spiteful, petty edge to him almost insisted on no, he would be fine, and in between his restless coils and roaming, the beach’s embankments would be clean once more.
But other than calling him in such a foolish manner earlier, the other creature hadn’t done anything untoward or irritating, and he had no reason to growl, to sear, to devastate, beyond exasperation. If you want were the only deep rumbles the panther would receive, and thereafter, Deimos was moving again, catching a few bits and pieces of paper rolling along a strong breeze.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
His hunch paid off, the suspicion of an attuned confirmed when his fumbling outreach was returned, the silent voice just as terse as he'd expected, considering the immediate threat that had been howled, the warning to not overstep. Alright. An unnecessary confirmation maybe, with the way Nate immediately starts to wander the beach, holding onto the panthers form for a little longer, to keep some kind of communication open.
It doesn't take long before he's struck with the urge to speak, as much as he can at the moment. As it turns out, gathering up remnants of other peoples good times kind of sucks. There is something he has to do, before he can attempt to spark up a casual conversation, or an introduction. An apology. the notion of it has Nate holding his tongue even longer, giving the other a few moments of blessed silence before he finally swallows his block.
Sorry. About the um... An awkward stretch blooms, Nate fumbling for the explanation, before finally settling on I didn't know you were attuned. Perhaps, if he knew the form, the man that lurked behind the already intimidating hound, he'd be a little less cavalier, a little more careful with how he proceeded.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
A predator’s stare followed the panther’s movements, too many questions and conclusions unwinding through his mind, the eyes narrowed in suspicious intervals, the layers and lacquer murky. When it seemed there was no other threat immersed, Deimos regained his movements, maneuvering out of the dangerously still formation, pressing enormous, Stygian paws into the sand. More than once he wandered along the embankment, and unbothered by the tides, by the current, by the notions of it streamlining around him (because it held an essence of home), he snagged at a few stray portions of debris.
Unlike the bizarre counterpart, the beast saw no reason to speak, no urge, to reason to share anything with the stranger. Once he’d swam out a little ways, he returned, shook the remnants of water from his hide, and released the bits and pieces back into his started pile. So he didn’t expect the apology, immersed into his work, causing him to raise his head, arch a canine brow.
At the very least, there were regrets in the decision (not for the Sword; who thought his warning and foreboding presence had been adequate). Sometimes it was difficult to decipher which animals were merely creatures, and which had human qualities embedded in them, wore the forms like a second skin. He accepted it with a vague nod, indicating naught else in his silence, rummaging for another trash heap that had been dug into the ground. Dry, rumbling tones followed thereafter, eyes not fixed on the feline. Do you frequently call over large dogs? Was this a habit with others, and Deimos would have to be careful when and where he shifted? He thought the size alone might daunt and intimidate, but perhaps he’d been mistaken. After all, despite his imposing figure, many still came to talk to him.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
While there is still a grace in Nate's movements, it's clear it does not come from ease within the shift, but rather from his own confidence, however much it may be a front. The shift will give him a touch more warning if he oversteps, able to communicate with words and feelings, instead of a haunting howl echoing over the drizzling dunes. Though the other didn't seem to be a particularly chatty kind of guy.
Which was fine with Nate, really. Gave him a chance to focus on the exceedingly exciting world of garbage collection.
Nate wandered the places he hadn't seen the dog roam around, collecting scraps and bits of trash in big paws and wide jaws both, and returning them to the rapidly growing pile. It almost felt like a shame that he'd missed the party on the beach, that he was cleaning up someone else's fun, though it would have been difficult to celebrate with what had happened in the long week of darkness.
As frequently as I see them. Nate replies easily, the edge of a grin cradling the words through the bond, the trepidation melted away with the apparent understanding between himself, and whoever the man within the dog was. Though, admittedly, he did not often see large dogs, not in this part of the world at least. I imagine most people leave you alone though, right? If the general size didn't scare most people off, and it would, then the howl that had left him would certainly have any with sense turning tail and fleeing.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Claws slid easily over loam, as they would flesh and blood, carving entropy and acrimony into the dunes instead of lives. If the thought was disappointing, he gave no thought, attention fixating on the amount of debris some moron buried under walls of sand. He used his enhanced power of scent for a moment, sniffing at the loam and silt, intending to discover if there were others shoved beneath by a lazy fool, and when he found naught, returned to the growing pile.
Considering his next step, he could nearly hear the grin established by the stranger, embedded in their response. He shook his head, and then thought better to judge it, considering how frequently he’d picked up stray alley cats. While pondering over his reply, or wondering if he should just fall back into more silence, he gave a single stomp of his front paws. Extended from their armaments came flames, rising, falling, smoldering, and devouring over the refuse, the trash, entangling it within their embers, stoked by instinctual soullessness.
Then he sat back on his haunches, to watch, to ensure it maintained control, and only tilting his head slightly to the panther. Did people leave him alone? Once – once they had seen his intimidating features from the shadows, skulking along borderlines, menacingly chasing down his opponents, adversaries, and enemies, and stayed clear. Here was far more different – but so was he. So with a long-suffering sigh, he granted the answer. No. They sought him out at every turn – for training, for advice (gods knew why), for amusements, for some level of sanctity in a world that provided little. And maybe, because he was willing to extend those shelters and sanctuaries, they did the same to him in return.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
Most of the immediate area has been picked clean by the tireless efforts of the other, but there were still scraps for Nate to catch, paws reaching for airy, fluttering bits, catching them like butterflies to add to the pile of refuse that was slowly building. There’s no real response to his silent answer, apart from an aborted shake of the head, and before he can poke at it, the dog stomps, igniting the pile and sending Nate scrabbling back a distance, panic grabbing at his limbs, washing away any facade of confidence he had thrown up in his mind.
Thus far, he’s done well to not let his attack affect him, to not fall into any new phobias, but the surprise, and the additional element of a stranger both have fear rising up in him. It takes him a moment for him to grab hold of himself fully, to force the feline body to sit still, a distance away from the flickering flames, and pull that mask down again, though it’s less effective in the wake of what happened.
A long tail curls around his body, flicking its new discomfort, and Nate tries to focus on the dog, the man, the deep sigh that leaves him. Thats a shame. Comes the response, a touch distracted sounding, though the blue eye is locked on the dog. Sorry to have added to a problem. He manages to recover a touch of his humour for this, thought not too much. I can go, if you were looking to be alone.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
In other circumstances, the Sword might have been rendered into volleys of laughter as some confidence from the other was completely shaken; petty, spiteful, amused by the fear that flames brought. He’d been raised in their range – his father’s enchantments of wild infernos a distant, looming memory, a burning rendition of things that could singe and demolish, conflagrations reaching toward skies, mesmerizing bursts of destruction. The element was a kindred spirit, the lingering threads of cinders and rage, of molten, infernal havoc, of where enemies and adversaries would screech and burn, of where the world learned and understood the layers of his ferocity.
But not here.
His eyes caught the wary void, felt it flood over Attuned armaments, and maneuvered towards the flames. He might’ve maneuvered straight into the scathing, blistering hearth and heart of it – let the rush of smoke and fumes lacquer against his bones, make him better, make him stronger. Instead, his paws dug into the sand and hurled it along the embers, choking the life out of them dimming their potency and prowess until they were mere, crackling whispers, remaining on the edges and fringes. They ate away at the refuse instead of the air, quiet, subdued, the enamel below the surface of his silence, of his fortitude, of his might.
A shrug of his shoulders followed as his great head turned back to the panther. It is fine. Not bothered for the present, now that he wasn’t going to be utilized as someone’s amusement; gaze sliding back to the fire, tending to its ramparts. I am used to it now. To people, to company, to bombardments; plotting escapes only when it was necessary.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
There is a newfound anxiety, a trepidation that comes from going against his instincts, what he’d been taught, what had been beaten into him. Don’t crack, don’t show weakness, never give anyone a up on you. Nate has more than cracked, has more than shown weakness, and despite all the years telling him that the world, this world especially, didn’t follow his fathers rules he can’t stop his wary stare, can’t keep from worrying about the response.
What happens is the opposite of horrors his mind had conjured though. A breath, where it seems like all will go awry, and then, a compassion, a mercy he hadn’t anticipated. The flames are throttled, not completely, but reduced to a more manageable level, a less present danger. Thanks. The word slips from him lightly, almost flippantly, but is backed up by a wave of relief and appreciation both, Nate unable to hold back a deluge, not knowing it’s something he has to do.
I hope you don’t mind me sticking around a little longer then. The feline liquid shape of the panther reclined into a more relaxed lounge, stress bleeding out of him with every little stretch. I imagine most people don’t see you in this shape. Might keep more of them away. The ones who aren’t me.
