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!
Gravity had a lot of potential, when harnessed. And Evelyn had harnessed it - she had practiced for hours upon hours, subtly tugging at the invisible strings of forces others could not sense. To her, it was now easy, obvious - second nature.
Sitting in a dark, quiet corner to herself within the Temple, Evelyn watched the many worshippers of the Old Gods come and go. And every now and then, one of them would trip, seemingly over nothing - and would put it down to their own clumsiness.
It didn't happen to every person, of course - that would arouse too much suspicion. But the girl was devious and clever, changing her targets, changing the area she amplified the gravity for every time too. It was almost too easy, yet each time she succeeded she would smile behind the book she held, satisfaction quietly simmering in the corners of her lips.
It might’ve been childish and bratty, but perhaps that was the fun in it.
She watched from the corner with her sister, muffling the slightest of snorts, giggles, or rounds of laughter when Evelyn’s powers distorted, rippled, and cascaded through the void. They weren’t sinister by any means, and not the sort of amusements she could endeavor or strive towards, but beautiful and ridiculous nonetheless.
Which only made her crave more.
Once another had gone, and the pews were empty, and the targets slowed, she launched from the side. “What about this?” And her hands went towards some of the Old God relics, taking some in her hand, a feral grin coiling along her mouth. “Want to lift them?" Toss them, throw them into the void, crack them against the ceiling so they split into broken, jagged, pathetic pieces?
Stirring laughter from her sister's lungs was half the appeal of these antics. The giggles, the ecstasy, the shared joy in their secret delight.
How often had they come here, bowing their heads and kneeling before the altar, praying to the old gods for a blessing, a way to save their family from the ruin of a farm they were all slowly dying on? How long did it take them to turn to the Voice, to actually take action, to live and survive and thrive?
Too long. It had taken too long, and the death of their entire family the result.
So she felt no guilt when her sister made such a crass suggestion, only vindication, as she nodded and grinned a devilish grin. "Throw it," she dared, locking her senses upon the object in readiness to grab it with her ability, to have it first dip as it she'd missed it, then lift it to the ceiling at a rapid pace.
The wealth and gale of her amusement contorted in the antagonistic prose and poise of her smirk; a raw snicker bounding along the sacred plain. What would the poor Old God followers do when they found their useless relics destroyed? What would they hold onto when pieces had been shorn and value had been noted? Noticed? Far, far gone and away? When would they realize only the Voice could grant them absolution – not the dirty, rotten, useless, inept hands of their heralds, of their paragons who ignored them? Who turned a blind eye to deaths of their own?
Who never bothered to care?
Her hands wrapped around a heavy one, and she laughed as she hurled it towards her sister, a massive throw – if it was caught, then she could shoot it to the ceiling. If it wasn’t, then what did it matter, when they smashed into smithereens?
Maybe it was supposed to be comforting, that their family was in Mort's halls now, all together in the spirit realm - or however the story went. Evelyn missed her family, she had grieved, in her own way, but she was done thinking of the Old Gods they once revered as anything but the neglectful, albeit powerful, beings that they were.
The Voice, while not necessarily different when it came to her silence when compared to the original deities, at least took action, and saved lives where the Old Gods would not. It was her defining trait, what pulled the girls who held similar views on life towards her.
The relic came towards her, at speed, as she increased the gravity beneath it, tugging and twisting so that it did not necessarily fall in a straight line to the ground. But then, when it seemed it would clatter upon the ground, it looped before them instead, much to her delight, as she manipulated the force to her whim and sent it to the ceiling.
And when it was there, she hesitated, holding it near the rafters for a moment, with a curious glance given to her sister. "Should we wait until another is walking past, then let it fall?" Conspiratorial whispers uttered beneath her breath, a decision she would leave to her sister to make.
She watched and waited for Evelyn’s gravity to pull the relic along, or for it to crash to the floor, scatter and smash into a million pieces. Either way was satisfying, and there was a deep sense of longing for such a power, for something other than her useless vessel and shell. She couldn’t be envious of her sister, the only individual she had left, but it didn’t make the craving, the insatiable need, any better. Any less.
The suggestion made had her eyes rounding briefly, before narrowing into a specious, dangerous gaze. The smirk wrapped around her lips grew tighter, then broader, claiming her features for the wickedness eternally lurking underneath. “Brilliant. Let me get you a couple more.” No hesitation for what they were about to do – to inflict pain on followers of fools. Fuck the Old Gods. Fuck their hapless peons and pawns who flocked to their heralds and figures, who begged and pleaded and were discarded like flies. Like nothing.
Her family hadn’t been nothing.
The youth grabbed ahold of a few more, some small, some medium, and tossed them in the same way she’d done before. Then she scurried back to her pew, to her row, to watch and wait again.
Brilliant, it was declared, and so it continued on. More items came at her, and she was ready for each one, catching it in an upward stream of gravity, pushing them upwards, clinking them together playfully, before setting them carefully upon a rafter. This way she could relax, until the time came to nudge, to push, to tug at the forces of gravity that the Voice had granted her, and stir chaos and mayhem besides.
It was satisfying, in a conniving, childish way. Was it petty, immature? Certainly. Were they going to do it anyway, as if their actions alone could change the way people thought and saw the Old Gods, even though they knew such things were futile? Absolutely.
They had worth. They had promise.
But they were also still children, after all.
A young couple wandered through, while the twins sat hushed and quiet in the back pews of the Temple. And just as the couple approached the rafter, Evelyn did nudge, sending the biggest piece crashing down before them. And as the couple and exclaimed, she sent the rest - the smaller and medium relics, all of them at once. A cloud of dust and shattered ceramic appeared, and the girl was breathless with contained laughter as the couple turned and left - successfully deterred from their venture to the Shrine of the Old Gods.
"That was too easy," her voice laughed out as the room became clear enough for them to give in to the amusement once more. "What next?" She lay the challenge to her sister, a brow quirked in curiosity as she posed the question.
More than just the entanglements of justice, the barest notions of satisfaction.
Because she wasn’t content, not by a longshot. She yearned for them to suffer, to feel the onslaught of pain and torment, the rush of depravity sinking into their bones, watching their fellows die because no one was going to save them. No one was going to cherish them. No one gave a single shit about them, no matter how many offerings they left behind, no matter how many gifts, prayers, bows, and proceedings. It was all built upon lies, lies, lies.
Her anger had gotten the best of her. She could feel it pulsing in her chest, but she didn’t care. “Let’s do it again.” Her voice had taken on an eerie, enigmatic tone, wolves with teeth and knives and rancor, waiting until others were gone. She shoved the remnants aside with her feet, then grabbed a few more, intending to hurtle them towards Evelyn again. “Drop them on their heads.”
Again her sister wished, and so Evelyn would grant.
It was crossing the line between playful, if spiteful, acts, to those of wanton destruction and intention, to cruelty. And Evelyn found herself uncaring for this fact, uncaring if they should be found out - what would their queen, Evie, do if she discovered that it was they who stirred such drama and destruction at the Temple this day?
Catching the objects with her ability, she floated them on high, before turning to her sister with a knowing smile.
Oh, if their family could see them now - would they recognise the devilish creatures the siblings had become? Would they commend them, or condemn them?
Did the twins even care which?
Time passed, feeling much more than it actually was due to the anticipation curling in her stomach, her focus never wavering. And when the unsuspecting man wandered through, she gave the remnants of the relics a very sharp nudge, and then pulled them downwards besides to ensure their path was true, and--
Thunk! Thump!
And the man was unconscious in the aisle of the Temple.
No denial. No rejection. No one telling them to cease and desist from the pews, from the wings, from the cobblestones. No one bothering to say, to stop, to offer warnings. Which was all the more delightful – free rein in hellion interludes, and they watched and waited in their feigned innocence, in their rapt duplicity, in their specious designs and accords –
Until the man came.
And Mabel couldn’t hide her eerie, enigmatic smirk as the relic fell, fell, fell, tumbling down upon the stranger. That it had worked. That someone from those damned Old Gods was in pain, in torture, and then she slid over towards him, creeping and crouching. “What should we do with him?” Was her next response – not out of panic or fear that they’d be caught for their actions.
