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!
Wise she could take, beautiful she still wanted to argue; Morgan decided the best course of action was to be silent and keep following: she almost hoped there was something in his back room, so that Neron could be distracted away from his 'clever' jokes for a moment.
The bracing wave of air that hit her face as she entered the room was a surprise; Morgan immediately looked suspiciously to the open door, entered the room and turned a few times with a warrior's precision on careful feet, watching every dark corner for any potential assailants. "You should keep it locked. Would be very easy to get in and steal your stock." She warned, walking backwards towards the door to help Neron with it.
Finally turning she leaned over Neron to grasp the door and push it strongly, not having much patience for the task when there was the possibility of an intruder.
”It’s funny you should mention that, because I was about to lock everything up when you walked in,” Neron says in cheerful reminder, but there’s no malice in his tone. Everything looks accounted for, and once they’ve shut the outer door he can lock up and be done with it. Still, he’s glad for Morgan being there (and not just because she can punch out any intruder) - closing the damned thin turns out to be a two man job.
Gritting his teeth, he eventually shoves it with his shoulder - it scrapes across the stone floor and slams shut; the gust of wind it takes with it also happens to shut the entrance to the store room behind them, the draught sucking out all the air. There’s a metallic clunk sound, of a latch falling, and Neron almost winces at it
”So I’m quite certain that the door behind us just locked itself,” he mutters. ”Come on, let’s pull this one back open.” If they can.
"It's funny you can own a pub at all, when you should be behind bars." Morgan quipped back immediately, using Neron's words without much thought. Was there a smile there, a fond tone in her voice? That was up to Neron to decide.
As the door finally gave way and slammed shut, Morgan stood back and dusted off her hands, surprised that it had been quite such a feat with the two of them working at it. She was about to say so, make a comment about Neron really having to keep up the maintenance of the place, when the slam behind them actually made her flinch, something she immediately pretended didn't happen as she looked behind her.
With a sigh, she fixed Neron with a glare as if this were all his fault (and somehow, it probably was). "I will not be happy if I am doomed to spend my night in here with you." She declared, going to impatiently try to yank the inner door open.
”Ow, my feelings,” Neron drawls, smirking back at Morgan. A shame, really, that their relative good humour won’t keep up, given the sudden predicament they find themselves in. ”Because obviously I’d be thrilled if that were the case,” he says with a raise of his eyebrows, returning with her to the inner door and wrinkling his nose at the rattle of the latch as Morgan pulls against it. ”It’s locked,” he says helpfully, crossing back to the outer door to give it a firm pull.
”And this one is stuck.” Neron folds his arms across his chest, stepping back to look the door up and down, like he might be able to open it by force of will. ”...Short of blowing it off its hinges, we might be better off calling for help. Or forcing the inner door. What’s your preference, Warden?”
Ignoring Neron's comments to the best of her ability, Morgan tried to force the door, push past the lock and escape back into the safety of the bar, where she wouldn't be close contact with her not-really-rival-one-time-sexual-partner. Talking to Neron was alright in short bursts, perhaps even fun; but a whole night? Her mind recoiled away from the idea.
"I could try and use my telekinesis, but it would likely rip the door from the frame; I have not yet practised precise movements." With the ability being relatively new and Morgan somehow not having prepared for this situation, she'd only be able to push the door entirely out. As much as she wanted to pretend she didn't care about Neron's newfound life as a pub owner, Morgan didn't want to ruin his building. "Do you think if we shout for help, anyone would hear? You would have to do it. It would be bad for my reputation as Warden."
”And you don’t think this would be an excuse for some well-earned practice?” Neron asks, folding his arms across his chest as he watches her from across the store room - and yes, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t watching the curve of her body and the way her expression shifts and changes, rather than what she might be doing to help them out of a locked room. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug at her suggestion.
“It’s late,” he says, nibbling at the inside of his lip. ”And what do you mean, bad for your reputation? I’m supposed to be running this place, and you want me to tell the Citadel that I locked myself in my own store room? And I was Warden too, once. That doubles the shame. It should be you.”
"I meant that I was under the impression you wouldn't want a door flying through your bar, potentially ruining quite a lot of the furniture, glasses and wall...but by all means, if you're alright with that." Morgan was not usually one for longer sarcastic moments, but Neron brought it out in her. While she was sure she could manage to not have the movement be that violent, it was likely that something in the bar would be destroyed by her blasting the door off it's hinges.
At his argument that he was somehow at more risk of a reputation than she was in a town he had literally doomed to an attack from crazy cultists, all Morgan could do was stare. When she finally managed to get her voice back, she crossed her arms and gave him a challenging look as she said: "Fine, then. In the morning I assume you have some kind of supply delivery that can come through this door? We'll just have to wait."
Not how she wanted to spend the night, but she wasn't losing the 'who should yell for the sake of their reputation' argument.
09-03-2020, 06:37 PM (This post was last modified: 09-06-2020, 10:31 AM by Neron.)
neron
”It would only fly into the kitchen, and I don’t eat anyway,” Neron counters, despite the fact that Morgan is doing her best to consider him. Maybe it’s a stubborn streak showing, or maybe he’s just enjoying the banter between them and wants to see how far he can push it. Either way, he’s grinning as she turns back to him and fixes him with her favourite stare. So it’s a stalemate, then, both of them stood at opposite doors with crossed arms, and Neron has a feeling that he’s not the only one having fun with it either.
Scoffing at her suggestion, he nods and steps back to lean against the outer door. ”I suppose we will,” he agrees. ”I wonder what they will have to say when they realise the Glacier herself has been locked away in a room with little old me all night? What rumours might start to circulate?”
"Your customers do, though. The ones you have this place open for." Morgan argued, giving an exasperated sigh and glare in Neron's direction: he was being purposefully obtuse, she could tell; what was worse was that she was unable to stop herself giving into the temptation of the argument.
Unfolding her arms she looked around with her hands on her hips, as if something in the storeroom might suddenly jump up and offer to help them. When Neron continued to speak, mentioning rumours that might arise, she turned the ever-present glare back to him and marched forwards, getting within a couple of feet, drew herself up to her full height.
"When anyone comes, you need to tell them precisely what happened, no embellishments, no euphemisms. If the people of Halo thought I was fraternising with you, it could ruin my entire position as Warden." Never mind that they had, just the once, fraternised.
Neron runs his tongue thoughtfully along his teeth, considering her point and eventually shrugging his shoulders in the equivalent of a yes, I suppose you’re right. All the more reason to be partially thankful for her not blasting the door off its hinges and into the kitchen. His eyes flash to her face as she suddenly marches forward; even at her full height he still has the pleasure of looking down to her - just - and the lazy smile that creeps across his face at her insults is entirely self-satisfied.
Despite her proximity, the Hailstorm still finds time to unfold his arms and slip out a pocket watch, clicking it open as if to check the time, before closing it again with a snap. ”Ouch,” he says softly. ”Are you sure it’s the people of Halo who have a problem? Or is it you?” he asks. ”They don’t seem to mind me behind the bar.”
There was some joy in knowing Neron couldn't come up with some new pithy comment to argue against her point and it bolstered Morgan's confidence as she stood before him, even with her shorter height (it annoyed her so much that he was taller). The pocket watch did nothing to help matters, Morgan's mouth pressing into an impossibly thin line with frustration.
"Are you really so blind?" She asked, shaking her head. "There are those that refuse to stand on this street because of your new enterprise. There are people asking me every day why I have not sentenced you to death. Sometimes I wonder why I did not." Morgan took in a breath, her gaze intense, then something changed: she softened, sighed. "...But I tell them that I see potential in you. That despite all you and your family have done to our home I believe you are deserving of a second chance. Yet, every conversation we have, you seem determined to erode that line of thinking in my mind."
Taking a step back, she shook her head. "Surely you have to have noticed I don't actually hate you by now, as much as I want to."
Her barrage is something he has been waiting for, in truth; Neron knows more than anyone that he keeps tiptoeing the line of Morgan’s patience, the Hailstorm mildly surprised that she hasn’t clouted him by now. His lips part as if to ask just why she hasn’t sentenced him to death, if that’s the case, when suddenly the Glacier is answering the question herself, and is expression melds into something a little more amicable, a little less frosty.
”It is a bad habit of mine,” he says quietly, ”to ensure that those I respect never catch on to it.” With the faintest of smiles, he shrugs his shoulders. ”Though perhaps I ought to tell my stubbornness to take a back seat for a while, given that it’s putting my neck on the chopping block.” Still, he raises his eyebrows to hear that Morgan doesn’t, in fact, hate his guts. A man has his suspicions, but... well, you never know.
Neron's quiet words reach her but for a moment she doesn't really listen to them, too busy lost in her own head. The fact was, more was happening here than merely 'not hating' Neron, but she wasn't ready to face that: as he continues though, telling her she isn't so bad herself, she can't help the smile and huff of air as she took a step back.
"...Well. If we are stuck here for the night, I suppose we may as well do our best to make it comfortable. Do you have anything back here we may use for bedding? You may not need to sleep or be warm, but I do." She went to inspect some of the boxes placed around the room, hoping one might magically be filled with warm blankets and pillows; it was unlikely, but Neron always seemed to have tricks of some sort up his sleeve.
Neron isn’t so surprised at the tactful change in subject, but he absolutely notices the smile, giving her one back for her trouble. How to make the place comfortable, though? Letting out a low whistle, the Hailstorm joins her with the search. ”Unfortunately this is mostly for the kitchen - sometimes the bar,” he says slowly, finding a great deal of frozen ningo meat and a keg of ale. ”Booze might warm you up,” he jokes, before continuing to hunt around.
”We could flatten some of these boxes and upturn a couple of the crates,” he suggests. ”Better than sitting on the ground.” He’s kneeling now, trying to peer at the bottom shelves of the store room like they might cough up something good. Like a crowbar to get the door open. ”Any luck your side?”
