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!
07-23-2020, 04:25 PM (This post was last modified: 07-23-2020, 04:25 PM by Morgan.)
And hung from the rafters
The stratagem swings
Before Morgan headed back to Halo, she had agreed to spar with Deimos; she intended to take him up on the offer: since her guards had been all but wiped out, she had been training by herself, which while valuable, lacked the tactile nature of training with a partner. Another human added a layer of unpredictability, reality that would be present in any true fight.
Deimos was not just another human, too: as a General and a lifelong soldier, Morgan expected him to give his all, and for that all to be a good contender against her own skills.
She had met him at the barracks in the early morning and they had walked to a location Deimos told her would be absent of any others and large with plenty of cover; ruins of a civilisation now gone; she was interested to see the remains of the ancient society of the Grounds. Morgan wondered if people had walked there who somehow, distantly, were related to her own family tree, from a time before portals and barriers.
There was a more important matter at hand though, of course. Morgan turned to Deimos as they entered a large sun-dappled courtyard, a few fallen pillars and half-sunk walls scattered across the cobbles. "Do we have rules? Weapons, magic, shifts...?" The last one was a double question, Morgan unsure if Deimos had the ability. "I am fine with everything being allowed, but we are on your turf. You can set boundaries. I assume we fight until surrender, and not death."
This was a joke, though you'd only know from the smallest of smiles at the edge of her lips.
The Sword had never been an individual to remain stagnant in his skills. One could always improve, learn from others, and build up a repertoire of schemes, maneuvers, plots, and tactics they might not have otherwise experienced. The monolith wasn’t immune to mistake or blunders either, and still strived to hone in the inherency of his enchantments, strength, and formidability. He intended to remain a fortress, a fortification, for those requiring shielding, protection, and safety; instilling and extending, might, demolition into the wake of his existence.
Fervent to act outside of the barracks, to survey portions of the world since LongNight’s reign, he studied and scrutinized the remnants of realms long since passed; the rubble not seemingly out of place. It wouldn’t be disturbed by their presence either – ghosts of the ether likely used to the movements and motions of time slipping by, of individuals careening, and then flickering away into nothingness.
Morgan’s choice of ancient, primordial courtyard was suitable – flat and open, the pillars and stones likely to remain unbothered by any actions they unfurled. Zuriel maneuvered along, indifferent to the cause, nosey, poking about several ruins.
The Warden’s insistence about rules made the General wonder just how their skirmishes had gone elsewhere. Very rarely did Deimos have to set any parameters – respectable, honorable, a back and forth volley of maneuvers and defenses, ceasing immediately before anything went too far. His training exercises had been mostly about experience, involvements, thinking clearly, efficiently, and striving for an optimal outcome. So he arched a brow as he took up an area, stretching out his arms. “Death is unnecessary,” settling in his own cheeky sentiments, the slightest of grins. “Magic. Four rounds. No detrimental injuries.” Nothing Zuriel couldn’t mend anyway. He had too many things to accomplish in the near future.
He could feel the pulsing, pervading vibes of the incantations piercing through his veins, ready, willing, and able. “Your move.” An offering, since she was the visitor.
Well, at least they both agreed they weren't here to kill each other.
Hearing it was to be a battle of magic, Morgan smiled: she had always enjoyed using her spells and powers, finding them to be the most tactile and involving way to fight. Carefully, she set her warhammer down leaning against a nearby pillar and shrugged off her cloak too, to free her up for more movement.
"Alright." She walked a few metres away, getting distance between them; Morgan was not sure what magic Deimos possessed and while she was learning, thought it best to give him space. Then, she paused for a moment, took a breath, ready to begin her attack: before her began to appear a roiling, turbulent ball of water that shot forward, aimed at Deimos' torso. Starting basic, simple, to see what he would do.
Watching, waiting, analyzing the situation, the mountain remained scrupulous and meticulous in his calculations. It’d always been the way on battlefields too, gauging opponents for weaknesses, for flaws in their movements, motions, where he could best strike. Magic was an entirely different venue though, mired and rooted in complexities of the unknown. He knew what he was capable of, but not an adversary’s potential, prowess, or incantations – what conspired and contorted through their figures.
He was pleasantly surprised to see water bursting, a swift, shooting forward of the cascading droplets, and though he dropped his smirk, Deimos was content with the familiarity of such enchantments. The monolith attempted to maneuver out of its range, but either Morgan’s magic had been too quick, or he’d been too slow – it pummeled against his left shoulder, a knot of aches centered along the mass of muscle. The Sword nodded in respect towards the maneuver, then began his own.
Water contorted and unfurled from his own entity, and he concentrated, honed, in on the size of its mass, growing, growing, growing, until it resembled a large bubble, filled to the brim. On mischief, on mayhem, on tactics stirred in mere bedlam, he attempted to control the accumulation until it was above Morgan’s head, and then intended to drop it; a sweeping gesture of deluges and torrents.
Morgan had not been expecting her attack to hit so early on and would almost be disappointed in the General, if she was not sure he would quickly recover and retaliate: that he did, hardly flinching at the onslaught and moving to respond. She set her feet down hard into the ground, imagining roots growing out into the floor to solidify herself; if this were a real battle she would begin another attack right away, but in a sense of fairness she let Deimos create his offense first.
She didn't quite realise what he was doing until it was too late: water did indeed crash down upon her; Morgan managed to make an arc over herself within a few seconds, but it had been enough for her to be completely sodden, her knees bending under the force of it. As she grunted and threw the water to the side, laughing as she sent the water from her clothes to go with it, she nodded: they were both able to toss about water, that much was clear; time to move things up a little.
Not that that would be clear from her actions: she moved as if she was making another orb before herself, the water appearing, but it was a rouse: on the side she used her telekinesis to lift a piece of a fallen pillar and send it arching around and to Deimos, aiming to hit his legs with it while he stared at her oncoming water attack (which would, she hoped, actually become a shield against his next attack).
Amusements and foolishness amongst and amidst something that should’ve been a touch more serious – the quirk of his brow as the water crashed down around her, a minute smirk balancing on the edge of his mouth. Thereafter though, after testing one another for the slightest, lightest measures, it was doomed and damned to amplify.
Deimos frequently measured caution when implementing his magic against others not considered adversaries – and perhaps he wouldn’t have to here, as Morgan orchestrated her strategy. He fell for the first instance, piercing eyes taking in the movement of her water, preparing for another onslaught, thinking the mastered bombardments of his own enchantments might be able to snag, to taunt with extending her element back upon her –
And then a portion of pillar rapped against his shins. He glanced downward with a rumbling growl, the might behind the wielded ruin meant to leave some bruise – he could hear Zuriel laughing through their bond, made more the fool. The beast snorted, arching his brow again in Morgan’s direction, granting compliments where they were due. “Clever.”
Which meant it was time to amplify his armaments.
No sign, no signal, with no movement of his frame, earthen incantations surged – though they were meant to erupt beneath Morgan’s feet – a contortion of maneuvering loam, silt, and stone, intending to ripple, to extort, to open up their newly-hollowed concaves, to trap, rob her footing, bewilder, or surprise.
It was hard not to smile when Morgan saw that her surprise attack had had it's intended effect, the water acting as enough of a distraction for Deimos to not see the missile aimed for his legs. Maybe she was not as poorly matched to the Hollowed Ground's militia and weapons as she had feared. "I have been known to be, sometimes." She replied with a smirk, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to relax for too long: Deimos would surely respond soon.
And indeed he did, in a way she didn't expect: not knowing that the General possessed Earth magic, Morgan was not expecting an attack from below. She barely had the time to stumble backwards, at the last minute building a cushion of water beneath herself to cushion her fall. Indeed, she was surprised and knocked off her feet for a moment, giving Deimos a chance to continue his attack and take the opportunity.
Power, strength, and might had spoken volumes in the Aurora Basin. It’d been the way he’d wielded and reigned, not with iron fists, but in sheer potency, prowess, and fortitude. The world had known his sedition, his brawn, his capacity for violence, vehemence, and vigilance across any battlefield. They’d tested it. They’d tried to overcome it. But he’d grown in measures and means, in parameters and particulars, in the twist and bend of acrimonious and hostile pursuits – domination and supremacy in the flick of muscles, in the undulation of movement and motion. The Reaper had been the mountains’ shadow, and a soulless monolith. Endurance, fortitude, and stone; digging in until he couldn’t fight any longer – and most of the time, he outlasted his enemies.
Which Morgan was not – but still he analyzed, the once King and now Sword, watching and waiting for the next maneuver. The earthen wares seemed to surprise, and his nonchalant expression remained scrupulous, meticulous, in its quiet examination, the Warden stumbling, knocked off her feet, with no defense moving forward.
Were this Helovia, or any other echoing war drum, this would’ve been an opportunity to finish what they’d started – oblivion, insurrection, death, and demise.
But this was Caido, and he'd differed in its machinations and wiles. Not a dais of battle, but a skirmish of practice and harpooning. Not to see who could do the most damage. Not to obliterate another individual. Instead, it was a correlation of what they knew, understood, and how they could improve.
So he chose to up the ante, to see how she’d respond, and use the incantations he was most inexperienced with. Air; filaments of the ether around them, curled and coiled at his behest, and though he hardly understood it, hadn’t known it for very long, it listened, corresponded. It built and built until it was a twisting revolution, heading her way, picking up rocks and stones, loam and silt, bits and pieces of broken pillars. His intentions and attempts were for it to wrap around her, perhaps trap and ensnare, with an outline of curiosity to witness how she’d combat it.
My, the General really did have a whole arsenal of tricks. Seemingly not done with the surprises, he began to cast an air spell: Morgan felt the whipping of the wind coming before it's effects and could see just what Deimos was trying to do as parts of the scenery began to be wrapped up into the cycling air.
For a moment she let herself be lifted up and surrounded by the currents of air, trying to remain calm even as the roar became deafening and the force picked up. Then Morgan began to work with it, adding in water to the mix, trying to slowly replace the swirling dirt and debris with fluid, which she had a better control over and an ability to rise within, get to the top of the swirling mass standing on an eventual pillar of water.
The plan from this moment was to aim the water at Deimos, ride the swirling wave down and over him; Morgan began the motion downwards and forwards, but swiftly the roiling and turning waves proved to be wilder than thought. Before long she was indeed going towards Deimos, but she was caught up in the flood too, on course to crash into a wall behind the General after the wave hit him: she could only hope he'd at least be hit.
Helovia had its own methodology in magic, and while most had original contortions, they were bound to a certain extent and quality, limited to the expanse of so many at their disposal. Here, each enchantment user seemed to have far more flexibility, and it was always impressive to see the assembled machinations they came up with.
For instance, manifesting a water pillar.
The image was a striking one (and here he struggled to control his motions and not laugh), as air and stone gave way to liquid, and Morgan rose to the top of the towering structure, very much a Warden. He half-contemplated knocking it all down just out of sheer amusement, but then she chose to counter his incantations, and he needed to be at the ready, not the mercy.
A wave undulated towards him, rolling, veering, intending to collide. Mastery of water, perhaps in some part thanks to his mother’s bloodline, permitted him to contort the incoming tide with little effort – they stoked around him, swirling, churning, threatening to swallow, but couldn’t touch, couldn’t entangle, couldn’t ensnare. He gave the picture an arched brow as the careening contortions seemed to move onward, wild, untamed, and seemingly without the power to stop before one of the ruins’ crumbling walls.
So, perhaps to save Morgan from rushing headlong into rubble, the Sword’s veins pulsed with intention. His mind presided in striving to cease and slow the movement of the current, and then extend a buffering zone, nearly like a foaming, bubbling shield, to cushion an impending, potential blow.
Morgan had already steeled herself for the blow, knees braced to try and hit the wall with her feet sideways, when Deimos saved her from this fate; she fell into a soft foam that cushioned the blow, only letting her hit the wall with a gentle tap and allowing her to slide down. When her feet touched the ground she patted herself down and focused magic on herself to dry her clothes, before looking up.
"...Thank you. I have not attempted anything like that before and it seems I cannot yet control it." She admitted, finding no shame in accepting what she could not do in front of an equal. "Let me reposition...unless you wish to stop here?" Morgan walked a little closer, inquisitive eyes on Deimos; how far, how long, did he want to take this duel?
An air of amusement remained on his features, the slightest rising of his brow, as Morgan admitted a lack of control. “It will come with time and practice.” He shrugged, not bothered by it. Composure and jurisdiction, supremacy and sway, were never ready available until they’d put the effort in – it’d been the same in Helovia, gradually earning their dominance over enchantments as the tactics became more familiar, more inherent, more honed. He had no explanation for the other manifestations though; pieces of puzzles and incantations not readily apparent or bestowed by bloodlines; appearing like threads, like strands, like portions of the unknown until pulled and utilized.
His eyes went towards Zuriel, continuing to graze nearby, not even remotely bothered by the interplaying scenes of water pillars or tornadoes. Neither of them seemed very injured or fatigued (minus the bruises on his shins, easily rendered and fixed when they were finished); his fortitude and endurance had long since grown since the day he’d spent in the Spire, mind screaming warnings of not lasting much longer (burning, blistering, death read in the lines of his bones). The Sword’s gaze swept back to her, proffering the decision to the Warden. “I am fine either way.” To continue, or to cease and desist there. “Up to you.” Maybe she had other tricks she wished to strive and try. Maybe she’d had enough.
08-06-2020, 09:35 PM (This post was last modified: 08-06-2020, 09:41 PM by Morgan.)
And hung from the rafters
The stratagem swings
"As do all things." Morgan agreed, finding that she didn't mind Deimos seeing her not entirely prepared, as opposed to her guards; he was an equal (possibly, she could admit, even stronger than her) and she knew he was not patronising. She stood and stretched, considering if she wanted to continue this training; it felt like they had both demonstrated considerable magical power...though there was still one idea in her mind.
"There is one more thing I'd like to try, actually...can you see if you can block this, if I try to lift you with magic?" She asked, walking to be a few metres ahead of Deimos then turning, holding up a hand as she gathered her telekinetic power, hoping to lift Deimos up into the air. However, Morgan would find that her powers seemed to struggle to get a hold on the General, even her mastered magic not fully able to lift and drop a human as she had intended.
A nod to accept her attempts mustered its way through neck and cranium, pondering the lengths of lifting with enchantments. She’d done so earlier with portions of broken pillars, so he didn’t doubt her potential or strength. It was a magic, telekinesis, he wasn’t wholly familiar with, not amongst the threads and strands pulled from his repertoire. Pondering how to defend against it was another matter – figuring he’d be sent off into the ether quickly if it wasn’t dealt with.
Earth, perhaps? In a moment, he sent down the fluid incantations down into soil and loam, imagining vines to spring forth and wrap around his boots, merely to keep himself centered, grounded –
And then only the slightest tug was felt, lifting his long hair off his shoulders and into the ether – a pull, a snag, but nothing else.
He didn’t laugh, but the amusement was there, all the same. Skills and techniques could enhance, or maybe it'd reached a line, a level, a limitation in its expanse.
Another notion sprung to mind though, on the subject matter – and he dissipated, dismissed the earth measures, not required for this next onslaught. “What about air?” A question he measured along with the aforementioned magic again, means and machinations of its attempts circling back towards Morgan, trying to do the very same thing she’d concocted toward him – a lifting, striving to make her depart from the terrain.
