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!
There were reason why they used wooden blades: just for these occasions, when training was appropriate, and serrated edges weren’t. He wouldn’t have been a General for very long if he continually used his normal cutlasses, daggers, or knives, with their forged metal and steel, to jeopardize those willing to train, to learn, to become better. Those motions were reserved for reality, when danger lurked, when treachery slithered, when the world twisted and turned. These moments, here and now, were for preparation into the latter.
Chulane, for all his burns and pain, must have benefitted from his rest. Accuracy and precision carved its way through the air, and the Sword could give a nod of appreciation and accord for the movement. He caught it aptly, raising his own blade to intercept the motion before it bombarded his shoulder. “Now, think about if you are leaving yourself open. Your adversary will always look for a weakness.” An instant where Chulane wasn’t ready, or hadn’t managed to defend. The scrutinizing gaze of the monolith caught the residual stance, considered leaning into the burned armaments – of brutalizing where the other man was already scalded. Machinations of a world with mountains and war spun along his mind, where they’d carved their vengeance, where they’d plotted upheaval. But where this was mere practice, and not a time for him to pulverize, diminish, and decimate, he simply went for another target.
Deimos slid his sword underneath Chulane’s (brutal strength, raw power), preparing to make a counter-maneuver, intending to come across and down towards the man’s ribcage. He purposefully slowed the move so Chulane could see it, and act upon it, muscles honed and ready to snag and guard himself.
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
An old sci-fi novel from his homeworld echoed the sentiments that the General demonstrated today. There is no teacher but the enemy. No one but the enemy will tell you what the enemy is going to do. No one but the enemy will ever teach you how to destroy and conquer. Only the enemy shows you where you are weak. Only the enemy tells you where he is strong. And the rules of the game are what you can do to him and what you can stop him from doing to you.
Try as he might, his enemy this day was far better than he - it would come down to luck as to whether he remained standing at the end of today.
He was seemingly lucky, his stance a true copy of the one Deimos had shown him earlier, his muscles already clinging to the memory of it, already knowing the motion he was asking of them. It would take more than that to 'defeat' the General, he knew, but he was pleased with his attempt at striking the man, acknowledging the words he shot back with a grunt (it was all he could manage in his current state of focussed workout), flinching (grimacing from the flinch as it tugged and pulled at his raw skin), jumping to the side and bring his sword down to attempt to deflect the blade coming towards him.
Deimos might've been holding back, but Chulane still had to work to defend himself, his swordhand ringing from the effort of deflecting, the sheer strength the General wielded something he admired and aspired to achieve himself someday - certainly not today though, he thought with wry amusement as he reflected on the aches and shakes his muscles were sending him.
"I don't think I should push my luck much more today," words were uttered between deep breaths, but he wore a broad grin on his face nonetheless. "I'll be back for more soon though," maybe after I've gotten over this cursed sunburn, he added silently.
Targets were for reserved moments of new, foreign sentiments and movements; where the adversary couldn’t bite back, or bludgeon in return. They were helpful in obtaining the maneuvers required to achieve the motion, but once one had known them, had immersed themselves into the action, they were better suited to reality – where the world fought in return, and didn’t bow down.
Neither did Chulane apparently, for all the pain that must’ve been segmented through him. The stance remained, the deflection stood, and he’d managed to find a way to get out of range. “You did well,” the beast stated, not disappointed in any way by the measures of the Attuned, placing his blade back along his hilt, and motioning back towards where the bucket had been left, refilling it with a coil of water incantations. “Eventually, you can learn to blend attacks and defenses together.” And parrying, feinting, all other sorts of rituals, rites, and complexities once someone had handled their blade long enough.
He nodded at the notion of ceasing, stopping, and not prolonging the agony, arching a brow at the back for more indication. “Only if you practice in Halo too,” half a grin mustered itself on his mouth, but he meant it too – the learning and skills didn’t cease once he stepped out of the training grounds. Nor had Deimos ever suffered fools gladly; expecting those who yearned to become better to continue when they found time. They’d always be welcome to return, however, he expected them to come back eager, ready, and fervent for the next onslaught.
The Sword refilled the glass of water as well, pondering other ways Chulane might have found some relief. “There is the Oasis to soak in, near the Glade.” The Greatwood also hosted some springs, but he figured figments within the Spire’s shadow were closer, easier to wander towards, and at no risk of becoming lost in the Fae’s makeshift spirals and trails.
I need to grow, here I could be, Don't have to do this perfectly
They were done, him having arrived as a blank canvas, a clean slate, Deimos an artist, leaving his impressions and carefully controlled strokes against him. He was well worn, tired but not pushed to the limit of his endurance - he felt like he'd just had a hell of a workout, which was exactly what he'd done.
He had a hell of a sunburn still, too.
A half-smile tilted his mouth at Deimos' words, as he made no real motion to accept or deny his critique. He might've done well - but he could always do better, he had to do better. The only way to get there though, was to keep working, keep trying, keep doing better. He had a baseline to start with now, an estimation of his skills, and guidance to improve it.
He was… excited, to see what his baseline would be like in the future, what he might be able to show Deimos in a month, or a season, or a year.
"Of course," he would practice in Halo, hell, he'd practice wherever he went. Wandering back to the watering station, he drank deeply, before bending over the bucket and scooping water to splash up over his face, amazed at the amount of heat his face was radiating with its burn.
"Oasis," he nodded, returning the training blade to the stand, running a hand through his sweat-and-water-soaked hair. "A soak sounds nice," gods, but he was tired, and hot. It was as if the aftermath of such exercise was weighing down on him heavier than the movement itself, the adrenaline of the moments of combat fading and leaving behind a mildly sunstroked haze in its wake.
He'd be alright, ultimately, his determination and stubborn will to just keep going stronger than a cosmic sunburn.
