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!
”I would appreciate that.” Taking his word for it, he means, and there’s a flicker of another smile on his face as he tucks the parcel beneath his arm and stands at ease, now, with the baker and the star whale. How long that will last exactly is not something he can say, and Finn raises his eyebrows at the prospect of going somewhere else, of turning down her generosity. He shakes his head a bit.
”Nowhere else in mind - though with the rain, I do have a room at the inn, if that would be more comfortable. I can return your scarf to you that way.” If it’s an inappropriate offer then Finn doesn’t know it, and he glances up and around the canopy, at the downpour pattering overhead.
07-28-2020, 09:12 PM (This post was last modified: 07-28-2020, 09:12 PM by Amalia.)
Amalia
the shield of safrin
"The inn is fine. I'm staying there too, actually." Strange that she hasn't seen him about, but then, it's certainly been a busy time for the Shield. Having made no purchases she has nothing to carry but the statchel full of bread; she shifts the weight upon her shoulder, casting a last look on the scarf before quickly turning away.
The walk to the inn is covered, if not exactly dry. "You never told me why you're in Torchline," Amalia remarks, turning to Finn with curiosity, the same shy smile still on her lips. "Or about your home. Where did you come here from? You're- you're a Natural, right? The way you spoke made me think..." She trails off, realizing her curiosity has run away from her again, an apologetic flush coating her cheeks.
”Oh.” It’s a small word, but it means so much more than Finn can really say. Oh, they’re staying at the same inn. Oh, he’s somehow missed her numerous times throughout this stay in Torchline. Oh, he must be blind. Oh, that’s... nice. More than nice?
Realising he’s fallen rather abruptly silent, he walks at Amalia’s side and zones back in to hear her questions. ”I am here for business. I find things - people, rather, for my government’s work.” It’s getting easier, to get that story out. The majority of the people he meets in Torchline seem very interested in where he’s from, and Finn is getting used to catering to them.
”I can’t really give details about the name of the place, at least not yet.” He taps the side of his nose, like it’s a badly kept secret. ”The way I spoke made you think...?”
He flushes suddenly, realising she’d asked about music, Finn smiling boyishly and glancing away into the streets. ”I write my own,” he admits. ”Guitar.” To answer her next inevitable question.
Huh. That's... vague, but Amalia lets it go, wondering if it's one of the things he was concentrating on not concentrating on. The way he touches his nose and says that he can't give details reminds her of something she can't quite place, deja vu making her skin tingle, though she isn't sure why. "A man of mystery," she teases lightly, her alto voice a playful hum beneath the steady patter of rain on tarp.
As for what his words made her wonder? Shrugging sharp shoulders, she feels heat rise again (so dismally easily) to her face. "You sounded like you belonged here. In Caido. Instead of... somewhere else."
The circling of topics back to music catches the Shield by surprise. Amalia turns to look at him, disbelief chased away by admiration and interest, curiosity. "My grandmother used to write songs, too" she volunteers, remembering the old woman's penchant for composition. "Mostly about the gods. I've... I've never been much of a writer, but I can sing. A little. Sometimes."
Embarrassed again by this admission she once more looks away, an awkward and anxious smile ghosting over coral lips. They're nearly at the inn, now, and idly she wonders where his room will be, if it will look like the one she shares with Deimos, if he's staying there alone.
”If you say so,” Finn says through a light chuckle, not particularly thinking there is much mysterious about him. (Have you listened to yourself for even a second, Finn?) He’s interested in her response about him, though, wondering what it is she’s considered about him that makes him seem to... belong. Belonging isn’t a feeling he’s used to. (Then again neither is mysterious, so... go figure).
Music, though, seems to bring him to life unlike the flush of colour it brings to Amalia’s cheeks. It takes a while for Finn to thaw, but the ice does seem to be melting in this regard. ”About the gods?” he repeats. ”Perhaps you’ll have to sing one day, and I’ll play along. I don’t write lyrics all that much. Mostly... compositions, I suppose.” His guitar is at home, though, so that sort of thing will probably have to wait.
The inn appears before them a moment later, Finn walking up the steps and opening the door for her. ”After you.”
"Yes. She was very devout... even in the Barrier." Wistfulness creeps into her face, a longing for times and people now gone coloring her alto voice with rich lilac smoke. The suggestion of a duet is surprising, met with more of that crimson flush; shyly she pushes back her hair. "I would like that. I... haven't gotten to see many instruments played."
A grateful nod and a bright smile and she slips through the door past him, peering past the empty counter and down the familiar halls. Who else may live here that she has never encountered, ten feet away and never seen? Free from the barrier but she's still so isolated, bleeding into the open world in a way she never could at home.
She follows him to his door, pausing in the threshold. "I... let me grab a couple things from my room. And see if my husband is in. Is it alright if he joins us?"
”She sounds like quite a woman,” Finn remarks, following Amalia inside. The sloping walls and hard-worn countertops are things that Finn has also grown accustomed to; the scent of coffee and the feel of rough blankets - all are similar furnishings in his time in the inn. He leads the way, heading upstairs to his room overlooking the square outside, pausing by the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle.
It’s still a little hard to look at Amalia behind his glasses, the dazzling array of colour that shrouds her no less iridescent for their going indoors. Still, as he’s about to open the door and tell himself to get a grip, she speaks and forces him to flick stormy eyes her way. Quite why the mention of her husband surprises him he doesn’t know - but it does, and his words dry up momentarily on his tongue.
”Of course,” he forces out eventually, giving a polite smile (the quick sort, the sort that doesn’t reach anywhere else on the face), heading into his room to ensure that it is tidy. By the time Amalia returns (with her husband, he’s guessing), Finn will be standing by the window, lost in the picture outside.
To think that he has been here all along, on the other side of the upstairs landing from her, visible yet unseen. A number hanging crookedly on the door is scarcely ten off the one that dangles from theirs. Perhaps Deimos has seen him, will know him. She will have to ask, if he is in.
He is not. Amalia makes her way back to their shared room and finds it empty but for the scattered evidences of their brief habitation. Sweeping some food into a basket, she pauses a moment over a small blue box, hesitating before snatching it, too, and depositing it below the pile of food.
It is hardly five minutes later when she returns, knocking on Finn's door before slipping inside with a hesitant, low, "I'm back. Deimos wasn't in no." Making her way to the table - in the same place as hers but mirrored, a little disorienting - Amalia begins to unload her bounty. "I forgot to ask- do you have plates?"
Quite why he’s relieved to hear that Deimos isn’t there is beyond Finn; he thinks it might be something to do with the sudden social anxiety that flares with the prospect of entertaining.
Regardless, the sound of Amalia’s voice he jumps a bit, turning as if surprised to find her back so soon, and he smiles a little and nods in response to her question. ”I have plates,” he says, moving to get a couple of them from the small cupboard nearby.
”Oh - here.” Straightening up, he also retrieves the scarf from where it’s been folded carefully atop a stack of other clothes, offering it out to her. ”Thanks again, for lending it to me.” Lending, slipping it under his head while he was asleep; the usual.
As he fetches plates she takes out food: half a pie of roasted vegetables and smoked fish, a loaf of neatly swirled rye bread, a plate of passion fruit frosted cookies. A new experiment with the local fruits, but she has gotten positive reviews so far. Setting each one on the table Amalia looks with pride upon her work, her expression growing soft and vibrant in the quiet, rare flash of contentment and satisfaction and knowledge that she's done alright.
He breaks her reverie with his voice, and she turns to see the grey scarf waiting in his hands. "Oh- thank you for keeping it safe." Smiling, Amalia reaches to reclaim the fabric, her fingers brushing over his for the briefest hint of a second. She turns away swiftly, returning it to her bag, her tone now hesitant and self-conscious. "I... brought you something as well. But it isn't an apology, I promise."
When she turns back she is holding the box extended in her hand, a shy blush creeping once more over tanned cheeks. "You don't... you can open it whenever you like. I thought you might appreciate it more than I would, given... well." Trailing off awkwardly the Shield shrugs, eager to sit down and begin to fill her plate with food, to drown out the anxiety that rises in her ears so easily, especially of late.
He catches it, the expression on her face - one of pride, of rapt attention to the things she has unwrapped. And Finn, woefully unprepared for such a thing (and utterly naive when it comes to the enjoyment of food for anything other than sustenance) is momentarily stunned. ”This looks...” He clears his throat awkwardly, a compliment nearly spilling out unprompted, and he offers a surprisingly bashful smile instead. ”Thank you.”
The scarf is exchanged - their fingers brush against each other, and he’s lost in the sensation for a second - then Amalia surprises him by offering something in return. Finn’s eyes widen a fraction behind his glasses, the Spyglass predictably terrible at receiving gifts, even ones that aren’t apologies.
”I.. don’t know what to say,” he murmurs, reaching out to accept the box (and there it is again, the warm, soft touch of her hand). He sits as well, thoroughly perplexed, but he does go ahead and open the box as if caught up in it now. Indeed, he’s forgotten all about their shared meal currently.
It's a good thing she has already sat down, because otherwise she might have gone to stand behind him, fueled by curiosity and insecurity and a sudden, devilish sense of what in Vi's name were you thinking? She tries not to stare as he opens the box, her heel tapping anxiously on the floor, fingers creeping over her wrist. Anticipation and hopeful delight creep across her face as she peers between the small item and his face, striving and failing to appear nonchalant, like it doesn't matter to her what he thinks.
The object inside is a little globe, glass wrapped around a carefully crafted image of a stormy sea. It rests on a stand of wood and gears, a dial at the bottom winding up the thing she thought so magical. "I wasn't sure who I would give it to, but then you said you like music and..." Trailing off, the Shield waits for judgment to be cast. Will he like the song the music box plays, the way it catches the light?
Leopard ears have risen, unbidden, on her skull, and curls of lilac spiral among the gold of her hair. Oh, and now she's staring again, intensity in her sharp black eyes. Abruptly the Shield turns to the food, setting about serving plates.
Surprise makes him younger, Finn lifting up the small bauble on its stand, turning it here and there with interest. In fact, whilst it may seem unproductive, he even takes off his glasses; unlike most, he can see more clearly without them, and for this trinket he wants to look at it as best he’s able. Setting the spectacles down on the arm of his chair, a small smile curls at the corners of his lips. There’s something boyish in the way he reaches up to turn the dial, eager to hear the music that it creates.
”Thank you,” he says softly, watching the ship and the stormy sea inside the globe, equally stormy eyes flickering up to Amalia’s face - suddenly realising he has left her to do all the work. ”Oh - sorry,” he apologises immediately, setting down the gift (its melody is still tinkling at them) and moving to help. ”Did you make all of this? Or is it from somewhere in the market?”
The song is something almost like something she knew as a girl, a sweet melody with lyrics that tell a predictably sad tale, if only one knows to listen. She does not tell him that, however, too taken with the way his expression changes, the light that comes into his stormy eyes. How long has it been since she was able to make someone smile like that, genuinely smile, their shadows pushed away to allow only quiet radiance and delight?
The moment is broken when he looks up, their eyes meeting for a split second before self-conscious embarrassment causes her to look away. "No more apologies," the girl chides with a curling smile, serving a slice of pie onto his plate. "The ingredients are from the market, but I... cooked everything. The recipes are new, so they might not be great. Sorry."
With this immediate defiance of her own rule Amalia sits down, taking her fork between her fingers and trying not to wait expectantly for his judgment of her food.
