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!
It has been almost two years since Vi last approached a mortal. Almost two years and he’s here yet again, calling the same name, summoning the same individual.
Amalia Chandrakant.
Wherever Amalia is, whether she’s sleeping or waking, the rumble of his voice will reach deep into her head, rousing her, stirring her, compelling her to the fields and to Safrin’s shrine.
When she arrives it will be to find the God of Life gazing up at the stairs, the ground around his feet blooming in wild colours; flowers not native to the Grounds grow freely, tickling at the baker’s legs, and the fragrant scent of the blooms fill the air.
Slowly, his dark eyes flick down to fix on her. ”Shield of Safrin,” he rumbles. ”Whose work do you do? Do not lie to me.”
The words, the tug, the compulsion- it is all as keenly felt as her own heartbeat, a reprise of a refrain she has longed to hear her entire life. Amalia would follow that voice anywhere, do anything for it, for it is one she has heard before. A sacred thing, a pure and beautiful thing, the chorus that rises with her breath and swells with the rush of her blood.
Barefoot, the Shield walks through the Outskirts toward the Shrine upon the hill. The shrine she built at his request, for his herald, for him. It is a trail she knows well, a pilgrimage taken as often as possible, and yet never with as much purpose, never like this. It is both familiar and strange, the thing that is happening, the dream of which she dare not speak even as it haunted her with its promises, its hope.
Amalia stops before her God and falls down to her knee, half-buried beneath the burst of flowers that has grown around the shrine. She carries her staff and her shield, and even Jyoti is silently reverent, awed. Looking up through onyx eyes, the Shield - his Shield - smiles.
The fields seems to brighten around him, even though it is night: the moonlight is stronger, the grass and flowers more vibrant, the breeze sweeter. And the Shield of Safrin kneels before him, even as - nearly a lifetime away, one might think - the ground roars and splits and belches fire. She answers, affirmative, and unlike last time there’s not a whisper of hesitation. He has watched her grow even in the last season, weathered by time and by tragedy.
”Then stand, Amalia. If you would preserve and protect - if you would walk that finest of lines - then it is time you embraced it. If you are truly ready, take my hand. The world will not wait much longer.” He reaches out for her, palm outstretched, the cosmos around him growing deep and infinitely dark.
No hesitation, no moment's pause. In a world of uncertainty Amalia knows one thing, clings to one piece of confidence like a satellite to a star:
She is his, she does his work, and that will never change.
Even as the world darkens she finds within him light. There is no hesitation in her eyes as she looks upon him, nothing but wonder and abiding faith, adoration and love. Awestruck and trusting as a child the girl slips her fingers into his, her small hand eclipsed by his large one, her eyes never leaving his face. With all the weight of the world on her shoulders she is light as air as she rises up, straightening to stand before him, more buoyant and free than she has felt in months.
All her suffering, all her tragedy, all her darkest moments- they have led to this. This radiance, this incredible, unspeakable, undeserved thing. This becoming of something crafted in His image.
Their hands touch and it happens in a moment of blinding warmth, like lightning that passes through the god and into Amalia. It sears through her veins, but there is no pain; radiance pours though her instead, stripping away the old, shaping her anew. Around them the fields fall away - they stand on nothing, the god and his chosen one, tiptoeing through starlight and abyss, through the beginning before all beginnings.
”You will be changed,” he says. It is an acknowledgement, not a warning. ”And your path will be exceedingly difficult. But that has always been the way. You will not disappoint me.” Is it an assurance, or a threat?
Amalia will feel it, as his words take effect - something quietly new is birthed within her, some awakening of power, even as other parts of who she was wither like so many flowers.
The world begins to take shape again, slowly... slowly. Vi leans in, that their faces are mere inches apart. ”Amalia...”
