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!
Away, away, away, in the crisp blue outlines of the sea, stealing over his barricades, walls, and plumage, breeze plucking at his feathers with its salt and threat of rain. He took to the skies anyway, scaling the turrets and corresponding wind, alone on the brink of nothingness – swallowing down the blistering potential thriving in his throat, in his chest, the vexation of some unseen rage beginning to build. Perhaps he merely meandered in the wisps of showers because it wasn’t overburdening or taxing, not a mental volley, not a physical exertion, existing on the whims of clouds. Solace from intended sanctums, erupted family dinners, talks of weapons and doors, munitions against and for; the repose slowly sinking away and becoming more trials and tribulations. Maybe it was through no fault of their own, harpooned into its midst, or maybe they invited it by simply being who they were.
Eventually the skies opened up, and the eagle was forced to land. The beak made him incapable of sneering, but he might’ve likened to it through his blood – gracefully descending in a long, slow circle, before talons raked upon the wooden platform and port. Then he shifted back to his normal, human Colossus form, stare not going over to ships being tucked away or heading out, but towards the elongated paths leading, winding down towards the beach. Deimos wore no hood, not bothered by the slight chill dampening through wild hair, coasting over shoulders, but committed to a dutiful march, pondering if he should be returning to the inn, or tempted into the pull and lull of the ocean’s reach again.
He is not the only flighted soul forced to land amidst the rain. Having never experienced a monsoon of any sort before, Nephele is a bit baffled by the sudden intensity of showers that force her from the sky. Nothing at all like the drizzles or even cold autumn rains that can be found in the Greatwood. Even the water against her skin does nothing to chase away the heat of the day. It's baffling, and she loves it, her scientific mind whirling with possibilities and questions even as her wings bring her down to earth once more. Flicking off the excess with a sharp snap of her wings, she glances around herself, seeing only one large figure striding heavy and purposeful across the sand.
From a distance the man is a mystery to her, but their paths seem to converge and so Nephele uses the opportunity to come closer, until at last his features are familiar. Not in the way one is used to calling things familiar, for they've not met on a personal level, but she is at the very least aware of who he is by title if nothing else. "You are the Sword, are you not?" It is easy enough to revert to her commonplace boldness as they approach one another, her wildfire hair beginning to slick down against her skin from the rain as her golden eyes center high upon his face.
His gaze was drawn over the waters, to the sea, the sea, the sea, and its everlasting power. Fond memories of childhood and juvenile tendencies still presided there – even if it wasn’t the same ocean, or even the same world. The waves, the tides, the currents continued to resonate strength, fortitude, and might, and even when he felt like crumbling stone and broken filaments, at least the undulations of this portion of kingdoms remained, resided; a visual keepsake and reminder of persistence.
Another figure roamed nearby, and with the rain steadying, amplifying in its intensity, he presumed they too would be gone, away from docks and ports, back into drier proportions. But it advanced instead, and he’d missed the volley of wings, until they came closer, closer, and there was no denying they were seeking him out. He had half a moment where he thought to continue wandering, persist in avoiding, in taking to shadows, to shifts, to roam and for once be left in some act of repose (ultimately, it never lasted).
But then she was too close for it to be so rudely obvious, and he was snagged in between the surf and shoal. A residual sigh floated along his breath, and before he could grant anything, she’d identified him. His title, his namesake, a blade, a cutlass, an acrimonious weapon; and he twisted his head to address, to study, to scrutinize before answering. She was only familiar in species; clearly Fae by height and wings (and something coiled in the back of his mind; he left it there to drift amongst safekeeping), but he didn’t recognize the hair, or face. “Yes.” Was she seeking him out for something in particular? He remained rigid and taut, spine perfectly straight, while his gaze segmented back to the sea. “Who are you?”
Nephele calmly awaits the scrutiny he delivers, sure of her own anonymity in their interactions, but admittedly curious as to how he will react to her presence alone. What is his level of familiarity with her kind? Furthermore, will he even deign to respond when she has accosted him on this stretch of sand, unexpected and persistent?
It seems he will, though his terse words are evidence enough of her imposition. Not that Nephele necessarily cares. She is far too goal-minded to spare a thought for his level of comfort. He has already awarded her an audience after all. "My name is Nephele. I met your counterpart before LongNight. I have questions for you, regarding the Ascended." She does not utilize Amalia's name, sure he will recognize what she means. Or at least hopeful, when it comes to estimating his level of intelligence. Tilting her head further towards the sea, where the sound of waves will conceal their conversation, she offers the stretch of her arm towards it in invitation to walk with her. "If I may steal a moment of your time?"
Mind full of machinations and calculations, recording one notion after another. Nephele. Met with Amalia before LongNight. Perhaps she’d been the one to deliver news about their perished leader, perhaps the Shield and her team had delivered Safrin’s books to her. Regardless, he saved the information to parse through and ponder over later, and focused his attention on the following statement.
Questions for you, regarding the Ascended.
Here he immediately wanted to balk and steer clear, lift back into the skies, evade anything and everything orienting around those feral, fatal mistakes he’d made. His jaw clenched and feathered, the beast stifling a long sigh through his chest, weighing out the probabilities of this interaction going smoothly. A span of moments tempted him to take flight, forgo and forget – but the press of other nuances, of evidence of boxes and body parts, of this Nate character being wounded by a Fae, of too many other things taking shape, scraped harder. Maybe he’d be able to receive sagacity in return.
The Sword accepted the invitation with a nod, lengthy strides once more taking shape along the sands, the piercing slate of his gaze riveting back to hers. “What questions do you have?”
Once more she awaits his decision. Will he take the chance? Is his curiosity the greater drive, or is it dedication to his job? Honor, guilt? He is an unknown entity to her, and much like the first experiment upon a new plant or chemical mixture, she is eager to plan her initial tests. When he follows, mountainous in so many ways compared to her petite figure, it is already the first answer to a series of questions that only she would care to have answered.
His voice is gritty as he asks. Not quite defeated, but resigned to the conversation ahead. Nephele will not waste the opportunity regardless of his reluctance. "I'll not betray the confidence of your counterpart, but we have spoken on the topic. My people are in need of allies, or at least the assurance that we are not alone and unheard in our suffering." She amends herself smoothly, because Nephele is not so stupid as to think she'd make an actual ally in this man. Just as Amalia is content to turn a blind eye but not to get her hands dirty, Nephele assumes Deimos is just as restrained by his ridiculous morals. Why else would the two be married?
"Your titles alone assure your prominence. Your words and actions hold more weight than your fellows so it is to you I make our case." All others are less important, meaningless, useless to the cause. "I will not speak of morals regarding the humanity or inherent worth of the Ascended. But I must know if you have any sense of brotherhood in my cause, to diminish the hold The Voice has on this land, and to receive retribution or reparations for what the Ascended have wrought in my homeland."
Eternally forbearing, the Sword stared out at the sea, wondering if there’d be an opportunity for it to swallow him whole. Not betraying the confidence of Amalia was an intriguing indication of something else going on – but if it was concerning the Ascended, he wasn’t surprised. The Shield had always made her feelings known on the topic, while he remained carefully dignified and neutral, before LongNight rendered his mistakes in judgement poorly. He didn’t run on impulse, but strategy, calculations, Machiavellian exploits from days, months, and years spent on battlefields, in catacombs, and the unfortunate realm of politics.
Allies? Hadn’t the Fae always endeavored to work alone? To piece and pierce together? Perhaps without Delah’s leadership they’d formed some other coalition, asking and presiding outsiders to assist in their pursuits. He nearly snorted at the next statement – titles of prominence, actions, words – he knew they had weight, but he wouldn’t delude himself into thinking beyond that.
And then the finality of it all came in a final sentence.
The General’s features betrayed none of the inner conflict consuming, contorting, through his frame. The Ascended opened worlds, allowed for opportunities. They’d also instigated the Blight (with mere apologies for the reckoning and distorting of lives), and killed some of the Fae’s guards during the Mathair incident. Wessex had lost her crown for the latter; but that wouldn’t have been enough for the creatures of the forest.
Understandable, really – he could comprehend it: the need, the yearning, the craving for revenge, bloodshed, and ruin. The way worlds cast their blades upon lands and kingdoms, the drive and insurgency for repercussions. It’d been in his blood long before Caido.
It wouldn’t hurt to listen. “It depends.” Non-committal until he heard more, refusing to give affirmations without other revelations. Something else distorted in the back of his mind, and while he didn’t yield to it, remaining an unbending, ruinous thing, it stayed and brewed. “What do you have in mind?”
