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!
you are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world
Finn doesn’t want to be here, and he doesn’t want to do this. But after the intriguing if not unsuccessful meeting with Remi up at the lighthouse, he has no choice. Cian is the Eye for a reason, and he places his pieces where they will be of most use. And Finn knows when he will not be of use to a situation.
It is near dark when he gets down to the brothel called the Halenani, and the rain has intensified. He stands a few feet from the entrance with his umbrella overhead, listening to the beat of the downpour and allowing it to fill his ears with music. He watches the world through streams of vibrant colour, the lenses on his glasses glinting in the lamps that adorn the brothel’s porch.
The street is thick with aura here, making it difficult to separate one from the other, making it impossible to tell who has travelled alone, who is with a companion. Finn can only tell Cian by familiarity, and he knows he has not come outside again yet.
After speaking with Phoebe the Eye had decided to partake in the Halenani's offerings. With a heart withered away to nothingness but a body still virile and demanding, a brothel is the perfect place for such a man to find satisfaction. There are no questions, no attempts at adoration or love. Just hands where they ought to be, tongues lavishing what they're pulled across, and skin that rises to strong fingers.
Exiting, the jacket of his collar pulled up against the rain, Cian appears to have eyes only for the elaborate cigarette case he pulls from his pocket. Placing one between his lips and reaching for his lighter, the Eye's brilliant denim gaze is momentarily transformed into flame by the simple flick of a mechanism that lights the end of an expertly rolled cigarette. "Finn." It isn't just on observation of the man's presence, despite the fact that Cian hasn't looked at all like he's seen him. There is disappointment in the word making it heavy sounding despite Cian's accent.
Hollowing his cheeks as he tags a long and slow drag of his cigarette, eventually, the Eye turns to gaze upon the awkward man, awaiting an explanation.
you are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world
His name is lost in the rain, but Finn still manages to glance up in time because of the stirring of colours that moves through the entrance of the Halenani. Cian is wrapped in them - they cling to him, those vestiges of other people, and he carries them with them as he walks. The Spyglass doesn’t move from his place at the bottom of the steps, the umbrella tilted back enough for his stormy eyes to fix on the face illuminated by red lamps and cigarettes.
”Remi Taliesin will not help us. But he has advised that Ronin might,” he says, knowing better than to mince words. ”He was not home when I met Remi. But he has a young daughter, and another dead and buried nearby. It is not... I am not the right person for that conversation. We both know it.” Too close, Finn. He’ll get too close and then he’ll tell Ronin to stay home.
Finn's words receive no expression from Cian; it's as if he isn't even there. The Eye seems much more invested in the sweet tobacco smoke filling the back of his throat than the report of failure he's currently receiving. But to believe that appearances are an insight into Cian's mind would be a grave mistake.
"Remi Taliesin is one of Ludo's." The Eye says after a moment, the words all said on the exhaled as he regards the cigarette between his fingers. "He—" Now pointing those fingers at Finn, but only once, continues: "—does not have a choice." This is said with a rousing sort of tone that borders on propoganda. A ra-ra, your country needs you!
"Tell me Finn...what sorts of conversations are you right for?"
you are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world
He does not have a choice. Finn stiffens beneath the skewer of that pointed finger, his grip tightening on the umbrella, and he breathes slowly and evenly as if it might help. The world is loud out here in the growing dark, the colours are screaming and clamouring for his attention, and he tries to keep his eyes on Cian, like he’s an anchor in the tempest. ”The kind that do not involve convincing a man to leave his children for a cause that may kill him,” he says softly, a whisper of steel in his voice.
The regret is immediate, and Finn bows his head to gaze at the floor instead, feeling the pressure of a headache start its slow build behind his eyes. ”Ronin Taliesin still cares. He will be convinced, but Dorian would be a better candidate.” It goes wordlessly, without saying, that he does not think Cian would be able to get the man on side.
"We all die in the end, Finn." Cian reminds his associate as if he might have forgotten this fact. "Do you think he'd prefer to die trying to make a better world for his daughter, or having her killed in a war he could have helped prevent?" Almost casually said, Cian twisted the cold logic like a knife into an infected wound.
Finn's mention of Dorian does not inspire anger, if that was his aim. There are reasons aplenty for why one is the Eye and the other the Orator, none of which Cian takes personally. "Tell me, Finn. This grave and this daughter...where were they in all your search?" The accusation was subtle, but not because Cian was trying to spare Finn's feelings.
you are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world
The logic drives home and Finn feels it keenly, inhaling deeply and letting the breath hold there, in his chest, until it burns. ”That isn’t set in stone.” The war where Ronin’s daughter dies, where all turns to ashes under the Voice. But he’s already tying the knots in his own theory. Of course it isn’t set in stone - they can stop it, if they get the demigods on side. He runs away with himself, tangled in a web of his own making, and it’s almost a blessing when the accusation comes, subtle and deadly.
And Finn has no answers. ”There was nothing to suggest that they might exist,” he begins, before stopping himself suddenly. He turns, gazing off into the night, staring up towards the lighthouse hidden in the dark. ”I didn’t see it,” he begins, and it is unclear whether he’s talking to Cian or himself. ”I didn’t see it because it’s the same as theirs. Not two - three.”
"Nothing is set in stone, Finn. That's why we're here." Cian points out mildly, taking another long drag on his cigarette and blowing the smoke up and out into the rain.
"Maybe you ought to clean those glasses of yours, ey?" A helpful suggestion that is anything but. Do your fucking job, Finn, it instead says. "Not two, but three. All in the same house. Perhaps you should have taken the madame. Easier on the eyes, if nothing else." He's never seen Finn with a woman—not that he looks—but Phoebe's soft and squishy center seems a perfect compliment to all those broken parts and pieces of the Spyglass.
"Fine. Send word to Dorian then." So saying, the Eye unfurls his umbrella and takes a step down the stairs, glancing up into the brooding clouds above. For a moment it seems like he'll let Finn off the hook. "Oh and Finn? Three is a fucking far cry from two, in our line of work." The tone is the same, but the threat is razor-sharp.
you are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world
It will surprise Cian, probably, the way Finn barks out a laugh at his remark. ”If only you knew,” he says - easy on the eyes is one way of putting it when it comes to his meeting with Remi. More like looking into a mirror, one that was fractured and chipped in different places to Finn, but damaged all the same. He does unconsciously take off his glasses, however, slipping them into the inside pocket of his coat, like the world is too bright now.
He nods curtly, already drafting the letter in his mind and letting his attention start to slip towards the future, towards this third variable that has erupted onto the scene so abruptly. But it snags, his focus, on the knife-edge of Cian’s voice, and Finn swallows hard and rubs a hand over the scruff on his chin. ”It will not happen again,” he tells the Eye, knowing too well what may happen if it does.
"No." Cian agrees, almost pleasantly as he steps out into the rain. "It won't."
Finn is a bloodhound. A beaten and abused stray plucked from his would-be grave in the gutter and given purpose again. A purebred, possibly the product of incest than thoughtful choosing, he is useful only to a point. Once he starts pointing in the wrong direction, following his own trails and ignoring the commands and his training, he'll find himself in an altogether different sort of hell than the one he currently experiences.
Disappearing yet again into the rain, where Cian is headed is for Finn to only guess at. He has work to do, after all.
