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!
Back into the barracks, into familiarity, into a comfort, a shelter in upcoming storms. The General knew the ins, the outs, every wake of its carved ministrations, his own hallowed sanctum, away from the noise of the void, from the hollowed contortions of blazing furies. For a man who represented protection, fortifications, and perseverance (despite the level of rampant ignorance his latest actions had caused), this world, clustered and coiled in its regimes, in its armory, in its design, was a welcome respite and solace.
The Sword repeated his habitual patterns, checking over progress in designs of defenses, and maneuvering the parchment, papers, elsewhere, rummaging through the wall of weapons and armaments, ensuring everything was returned to its proper place, serrated, etched for continual use, before wandering out onto the grounds. Neat and orderly, targets had already been put away from yesterday’s onslaught, which meant this morning was fresh and new, ripe for more practices in desecration, in movements, in motions.
So he stalked across the grass, unfolding the sheets over several targets and dummies, and pulled them out, presuming they’d be of some use for anyone’s upcoming skirmishes and preparations. Besides, he’d meant to meet Chulane here, after assurances of gaining skills; uncertain about what the man knew at all.
07-22-2020, 06:25 AM (This post was last modified: 07-22-2020, 06:32 AM by Chulane.)
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
Things hadn't gone quite to plan.
He'd ventured to the shrine in an attempt to seek strength from something bigger than he, something unique to this world, a deity, a spirit, a sign. Well, he'd received a sign alright.
Every movement hurt. Even when shifted, it was as if he could feel the cursed skin blistering, peeling and radiating heat from the magical burn he had earned with his efforts of praying at a shrine. He pushed onwards, the cool air of Halo giving way to the more temperate spring breezes of the Grounds as he made his way through the portal. Shifting once again, he took flight and headed to where he knew he was meeting Deimos today, the barracks that the then-hellhound had shown him that evening he visited before.
Landing with ginger motions, he shifted back to human and stood before the other with a small smile on his face - any bigger and agony would ensue as skin pulled taut and stung like a bitch.
"Deimos," he greeted with a small nod, breathing a slow and carefully measured breath afterwards in an attempt to dissipate the sting his entire body felt from the motion, barely succeeding. He was scorched, second-degree burns bright pink in some areas and deep maroon in others, the skin already giving way to peeling and itching where it folded and creased.
"I went to a shrine," he said with a hint of chagrin, to try and allay any further questions he knew might come from his appearance. "But I'm keen to learn from you, if you'll still have me." He added, to reassure that despite this hurdle, he was an ever-willing student to the man.
Chulane’s arrival was expected, just not in this way. The beast turned at the noise of wings, at the sounds of his own name coiled and greeted – to stare upon the familiar man, and his obvious pain. The first notion he had was to call Zuriel over, while wondering what danger the fellow Attuned had managed to manifest, when the I went to a shrine beheld an answer. “Did you spite them?” For all the times Deimos had been ignored at the altars, he’d never been on the receiving end of manifested torment (save for the anguish or melancholy he could readily bestow upon himself).
His attention went briefly to Zuriel, grazing nearby, a soft inhalation enough to grant her raised head, and a tilt of her skull. “She might be able to help you.” Though if it was a god or herald’s measured force, he wasn’t certain how far it’d go.
Despite the reassurance that they could still train, the General looked the man up and down, a scrutinizing predilection, analyzing the probability that a lot more pain was yet to come. “In what capacity – and are you sure?” Because he’d fought within multiple wakes of aches, despair, and torture, and none of them had been mere skirmishes. Each movement would pull. Each motion would wage its own feral war.
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
"If I did, it wasn't intentional," he responded, thinking on his actions, on what he might've done different, to elicit a different, perhaps more positive, reaction from the deities, or perhaps no reaction at all. Still, it could have been worse - they could have wiped him off the face of the earth altogether, or left him permanently disfigured, or…
He didn't want to think about what else they could do right now.
Deep blue eyes looked to the unicorn with a smile, a nod of greeting given to the equid. "I had one of the healers in Halo try already, to no avail," he mentioned. Returning his gaze to Deimos as the man questioned his conviction to this training session, he let a grin tug at his lips, the pain burning across his face with a stinging hot sensation, but he was determined to weather it anyway.
"Kia has shown me some things with throwing knives," he shed his outer jacket as he spoke, revealing the set that hung from his belt. "But I would like to learn more about swords," simple, direct tones informed. "Everything hurts already." A shrug, as he shed his shirt to reveal a light singlet beneath, the expanse of his burn also revealed - it was everywhere, pink, raw, peeling and cracked.
The more he moved the more pain he stirred, but at some point, his body would grow tired of hurting and just enter a kind of hot numbness instead. He stretched, however gingerly at first, but slowly limbered up as he pushed through the pain with gritted teeth. "I'm sure."
Unfortunately, intentional or not likely didn’t matter to any herald or cosmic being. The affront would still be there, still unknown; he arched his brow and stifled a sigh. Things could be worse, despite the fact that apparently he couldn’t directly heal the ailment, shaking his head at the unicorn. She didn’t seem altogether worried or miffed, and continued to graze while he pondered the current predicament.
Regardless of his pain, Chulane appeared eager and fervent to wield wisdom, and in some way that could be admired. Warriors carried on along the battlefield, often too deeply immersed to find any freedom, liberation, until they’d cleared their own path. Allies and comrades could only do so much when they were fighting and waging their bloodshed, and independence was a paramount fixture. There was also a notion of foolishness in the same stead – of individuals carrying on when they shouldn’t (and if Deimos were to think about it, he’d been in this category a fair amount of times). “We will still take it easy,” he informed, an indicative nod as he glanced at the burns, then maneuvered across the grounds. No sense in manifesting absolute anguish in a mere skirmish, especially when torment had already been laden.
Throwing knives were grand, but didn’t occupy the same immersion of movements as a blade. He snagged hold of two wooden training swords, and then maneuvered the mobile target he’d made in Deepfrost, poking it lightly to ensure it was still satisfactory. When the dummy motioned away from the action, he nodded, and pulled it towards Chulane, handing over one of the swords, figuring the man would know how to grasp it. “We can do some basic moves first.” Then, depending on his range of skill, test it via the more experienced.
The General assumed a stance, one instilled since he was young. Left front foot, right front back, weight evenly distributed into the grounds, hips facing forward, as if he were looking at his opponent, rather than the target. “Place your body like this.” He waited for Chulane to follow, then raised the sword to shoulder level.
“When you strike, you want to think about how to protect yourself as well.” A fluid motion followed, bringing his weapon forward, stepping towards the goal, and a little off to the right, as if to avoid a counterattack. He brought the blade down in a straight line, along the dummy’s neck, and the fake body was shoved, as if stung. He mimicked the motion several more times, for Chulane to study, before backing away, permitting space. “Try.”
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
He wouldn't complain to being given easy treatment, not in his current condition. Had he been well, whole and otherwise free from such god-given afflictions, he might have argued, but even then, being the novice he knew he was, he also could not pretend to be prepared to stand against the force that was the Sword. A nod was given in silent agreement; he trusted the General to know how to best approach this rather unique situation, grateful that the man gave Chuy any assistance at all.
He accepted the training sword proffered to him with ease, having basic knowledge in their use, swinging it experimentally both to test its weight in his hand and how much it hurt. Each movement pulled and stung, splitting skin and echoing a sensation of burning anew - but he pushed on with gritted teeth, acknowledging the pain was there but persisting. Then he copied the General as best he could, mimicking the pose and watching as the tower of a man stepped forward and struck the dummy with a violent sort of elegance, a clean and deft motion that was both offensive and defensive.
Chuy put all of his attention into the General's words and motions, committing them to memory as if his life depended on it - and it well might, one day. He lifted his sword in the same way Deimos had, making a similar motion, stepping forward. The motion was not nearly as fluid as the General's, nowhere near as practised, and hindered by the pulling, twinging stings of the burns besides. The blade made contact with the dummy, but it merely tapped it, as he flinched from the burns at just the wrong time, resulting in his step to be only half as big as he needed it to be to fully replicate Deimos'.
A low grunt of pain might've slipped from his lips, but he didn't let the misstep stop his determination. He righted himself, shrugging off the mistake from before, and made to repeat the motion, this time knowing what pain was going to come, and doing it anyway. He swung at the dummy and attempted to move his feet again, taking smaller steps this time, striking the target dummy (again without much force to it) but keeping his feet beneath him this time. "Rinse and repeat, I'm guessing?" he asked as he returned to the pose and awaited further instruction, knowing he wasn't doing well, but he was at least trying, despite it all.
Pain and torment was an absolute hindrance; the General would know from experience. It tied and knotted, gnarled and reminded, constantly burdening the mind, the body, and the soul with bristling consequences. In some portions they were warnings, to cease and desist, in others they were impediments and obstacles, grinding down aspirations and ambitions. The perusal and study of Chulane’s stance occurred with all of these notions in mind; if the man was healthy, the Sword might have been less obliging, but understood why the steps were meager, why the swings were hesitant. At another time, the beast could be more demanding, requiring the polish, the finesse, the strength and accord, over lax proportions. It couldn’t be helped today.
Chulane seemed self-motivated anyway, and didn’t require Deimos to mention the lack of dominion on the first movement; trying again and again. The slightest arch to his brow quirked at the inquiry, and perhaps a smirk too, inching its way along his mouth. “Yes.” He adjusted the Attuned’s stance, then watched, waited, until he’d had his fill of this rudimentary maneuver. “When you are healed, it will be better committed to memory.” He wouldn’t need to think about it: automatic, inherent, lodged and coiled into his muscles.
He stepped forward, towards the dummy again, to display and demonstrate a technique to place into Chulane’s methods. “Another way.” His left foot forward, he balanced the blade upon his right shoulder, and then fluidly reached forward, brandishing, cutting, across the sanction of the dummy. Were the training device serrated, it could’ve left a huge impact – instead some proportions were a bit dented in. “This can also serve as a defensive maneuver.” Especially if the adversary came rushing in, and the tip of one’s blade could catch, or even swing high enough to lacerate along shoulders and napes. Deimos modeled the movements once more, slowing down, allowing the other to fully watch and visualize, before stepping back and away, so that Chulane might try.
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
A nod, an acknowledgement of his assumptions, that repetition was the key, that committing the motions to muscle memory would lead him to success more often than failure. And so he accepted the adjustment to his posture with ease, then repeated the motion again and again and again, finding each execution performing better than the last, with more accuracy, more power, more sureness to his stride, despite the pain, the burning, the sweat already clinging to him.
Breathing deep, he rolled his shoulders as if to loosen them again as he resumed a more casual stance while watching the next demonstration, idly scratching at his forearm where skin flaked and peeled. He appreciated not only the guidance, but the expertise that the man wielded, seeing many years of practice, of dedication to the craft of war in every muscle and every movement. So he did his best to give every bit of attention he could, appreciating that this master would deign to train him, to gift with him tutelage, knowledge and guidance.
When it came his turn to mimic the stance, he did so as best he could, accepting any refinement Deimos might offer before going through with the motion, his 'blade' swinging towards the target, landing an impact on a similar path to the General's, if much lighter, not making a dent but certainly a resounding echo against the dummy. It would take much more than a single training session for his strength to come near to matching that of the Sword's, so he was satisfied for now to have mimicked the motion for the most part in accuracy if not strength just yet.
He repeated it, wincing every other strike as the burns tugged and pulled and itched, pausing only when the General might indicate he'd done enough of this exercise and to move on to the next.
More of the same – a certain quality in the instruction – to permit Chulane’s practice gone unhindered, save for his own pain, while the General watched and surveyed. His instructors had been much the same, proffering their expertise, their words, and then allowing their young pupils and eventual soldiers to discover which movements worked best. Corrections were often rendered when they were necessary, and muscles grew, honed, understood the intricate balance and weight of their blades, of how one twist and turn could implement a harsher strike, or lose a key component of fortitude.
Chulane, despite the anguish he must’ve been feeling, didn’t give into its push and pull, and Deimos could respect the notions. “Good,” he nodded, as exercises shifted, waned, and then began again – allowing for breaks, for pauses, for an alteration in patterns when there was any fatigue flagging and winding. “Another one,” and then Chulane would likely have enough to go off of for a while, not choosing to overwhelm, to overload, with too many techniques and capabilities.
He moved in front of the dummy once more, and began his demonstration. He held his sword over his shoulders, so that it remained behind him for a moment, before building up power, precision, might, and weight, then swung deftly into the target, listening to it ricochet violently along its mobile hinges. “You can use this to block as well,” especially with the amount of fortitude lodged behind it; tactics in both defensive and offensive maneuvers, so Chulane would be able to wield his cutlass comfortably in whatever antics he found himself lacquered within. Then, as they’d done before, his modeling continued, pressing, infiltrating, and then backing away, permitting the Attuend to try.
07-28-2020, 06:55 AM (This post was last modified: 07-28-2020, 10:42 AM by Chulane.
Edit Reason: Whit cannot count
)
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
Muscles flexed and then stretched, skin pulled taut and then relaxed, all the while he burned. He was radiating heat even without the exercise, every drop of sweat seeking to cool him down with the breeze instead searing a path across each trail it drew. But he persisted, until a break was granted, until his sides huffed with deep breaths and his brow dripped with sweat, until he heard the gruff good that Deimos gave, looking to the man for the next instruction.
He caught his breath relatively quick, though he still sweated perhaps a bit more than he normally would if he were not so sunkissed and feverish with a hint of sun-stroke slowly becoming evident. He watched the next demonstration closely still, focussing through the impending fatigue that tried to cloud his mind - he'd be finding a big cool body of water after this - and nodded as Deimos' blade expertly wound its way to the target, again and again, sure and refined movement in every stride, every swing, every intention.
Then it was his turn again, and he so wanted to do well. But as he stepped forward to try, he felt the pangs of a headache come on, fever and sunstroke combining in a spectacular head-splitting pain. Still, he swung his blade, the far end of it nudging the target, the movement as a whole hindered and rendered almost completely useless, barely a shadow of imitation of that which Deimos had demonstrated. "Ah, sorry," he said as he paused his motion, lifting his free hand to press his fingers against his eyes in an attempt to allay the pain.
"I think.. I just need a breather -" he shook his head, which did nothing to remove the pain that pounded within it. "I need.. I need water," he dared to look to the man, expecting to be told where he might find a refreshment station, a place to get a quick drink, that they might keep going.
Flagging, lagging, the fatigue, the exhaustion, the toil of curses mounting and overbearing – his meticulous gaze caught it all. The same had occurred with young, green soldiers on the battlefield, their swords too heavy, their armor too overwhelming, the war burning against their brows, and no matter how much training was instilled, there were time it couldn’t conquer the hidden enemy of weariness. Adrenaline pulsed and beat for a time, when one needed to survive, when fight or flight became the only thing searing and scorching at bones; but there was no need for that in the here and now, when they were merely practicing.
“A break,” the beast insisted, and pointed towards a bench near the entrance to the armory. They’d known there would be issues due to Chulane’s poignant injuries, and he’d done well to endure for as long as he had. Meanwhile, the monolith rolled back his sleeves, tucked his blade on his hilt, banded back his wild hair into a bun, muscles barely bothered, and then set to work.
Zuriel came over at his silent insistence, if only to waylay the building headache and any other pains she could overcome, sniffing at the man, remembering, recalling treats. While her horn glowed, attempting to coil in some soothing, mending capabilities, Deimos wielded his enchantments – first, a bucket contorted and created at Chulane’s feet, filled to the brim with water, to do with as he saw fit, and a glass containing the same pulsed from his hand – extending and offering it.
Then he moved away, not the coddling type, to put the mobile dummy back into its proper place – they wouldn’t need it now, not after demonstrations, modeling, and the following through. “Let me know when you are ready,” he called over his shoulder, as he dragged the target along the field.
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
A break, a moment of respite, where he might find some relief from the hurts that ail him. He dutifully wandered to the indicated bench, sitting and holding his head, gently massaging his temples to no avail. He hadn't realised the arrival of the unicorn immediately, else he would've greeted her more readily, but the proximity of a sniffing muzzle alerted him to her presence in short order, the gentle glowing of her horn understood soon after. He was distracted, absorbed by her ministrations over him that he didn't see Deimos get to work, crafting and conjuring, enlisting the magic he had mastered to easily form a bucket and a glass filled with water.
First, he gratefully accepted the healing Zuriel offered, and in the clarity of having his headache lifted he searched his jacket pocket for a treat to give her, always keeping some on him being the animal enthusiast he was. "Thanks Zuriel," grateful tones murmured as he held the treat beneath her muzzle for her, offering a gentle scritch under her chin as well if she would have it.
Then he accepted the glass of water from the General, noticing the bucket as well, relief evident. He drank, doing his best to sip and not gulp, to pace himself lest he make himself sicker rather than better. After consuming half of it, he put it aside and promptly lifted the bucket to pour over his chest, to wash away the hot sweat that just wasn't enough to cool his burnt and aching body. It was a huge relief, and while his skin still burned, it had at least settled to a dull itching ache that he could once again ignore, that he could push through and complete this training exercise properly.
He didn't rush into it, however, relishing the feel of the breeze on him, sipping at his water, taking his time to ensure he could stand without swaying, without tempting another headache to rise up and knock him over. When he was recovered, he stood and strode across the field, wielding his training sword, giving it a few swings, stretching himself again into the motions Deimos had shown him already in a slower, more deliberate way, before repeating them against invisible enemies. He tried to do the final manoeuvre that the General had shown him, and managed to find a patch of grass to trip on instead, interrupting the motion altogether.
He barked a laugh at himself, shaking his head - it was better than getting frustrated, angry or sulky about it, at least. "Will have to keep working on that one," he said with a roll to his shoulders, nodding to Deimos. "I'm as ready as I'll be."
He took his time so that Chulane might have an adequate amount, placing the target back in its proper accord, amongst the rest of its brethren until time or other opponents marched their way through the grounds. Zuriel, on the other hand, was very attentive and obliging, content with munching on her treat, lifting her chin as the man scratched it. She gave him another snort, teeth going to pull on some of his hair, before drifting back off to graze, leaving him to his own devices.
The bark of laughter assured the General Chulane had manifested and righted himself to some semblance – not an adequate enough restoration to be certain, with a curse ignited along him – but enough to keep proceeding. His eyes went to the movements the other was making, precision not quite in amongst the practice. “I still work on new maneuvers.” A rumination accompanied by a shrug and half-smile, before he stalked back to the middle of the grounds. Which was why he implemented these notions – learning, experiencing, honing, the skill until it rendered itself another part of his repertoire, muscles finding it easy to manage, maintain, when onslaughts reigned (and here he didn’t stop to think of some inevitable thing, when the world stopped shifting and ultimately collided in force and ferocity).
The General removed the training blade from his hilt, extending it back into calloused palms, assuming a stance. “Good. Now, attempt to attack me. We will work on your blocking.” On something, someone, who would fight back.
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
Respect for the General only grew as he assured Chulane that he still practiced, still had things to learn. He supposed it was like becoming a master in anything - even as a master, one was always a student to their chosen craft, always learning new techniques, always honing, refining and striving to perfect it. Chulane was, so far, very much a beginner, a novice - everything was new to him about this craft, at least practicality (he had admired it greatly in TV series and movies, he knew the theoretical already). He gave a grateful nod and return slanted smile, understanding clear.
The thought of attacking the Sword was enough to make anyone hesitate, images of himself being rendered limbless or headless from a mere tap of the General's sword against him. He swallowed and banished the thought away as quickly as he could though - this was all a part of the training. Swinging a sword was all well and good; swinging a sword against an actual opponent was a whole other game. He stretched, testing his reach, his fatigue, his cursed skin, and then took a moment to decide on how he would approach the task set before him. Then, readying his 'blade', he began.
By some stroke of luck he rolled a 19 woo he found himself executing the first motion that Deimos had taught him with surprising accuracy and precision. His weapon swung sharply towards his would-be foe's shoulder, the motion of his feet and torso preparing his body to dodge a likely counterattack, his aim straight and true, his strength fair (though compared to the other man's still woefully insignificant).
