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!
Having dealt with Deimos in the Grounds, Morgan was working with some experience of this new, strange illness. When she had been informed that Neron had fallen victim to it too (which had surprised her: surely one of the advantages of Ascending was your immunity to sickness?) she knew she'd have to go and see him; worry resided at the back of her mind about the man as much as she tried to ignore it, and she had to see for herself that he was not in danger.
Chulane had locked him in the Kraai: possibly a cruel treatment, but Morgan was sure her councilman had found it necessary. She had obtained a key and headed there early one morning right after waking, hoping to visit him then leave to go about with her day. Deciding to leave her usual armour and heavy cloak until then, she wore only a simple shirt rolled up to her elbows and some tight black pants with boots: a daringly simple outfit for the Warden.
The door pushed open with a little resistance (this time Morgan really would just force it open, if she was stuck in again) and she stepped inside, looking about the establishment. "Neron? Are you here?" She called out, taking a few steps in. "I was told you are unwell. I came to see how you are."
Fall upon your knees saying
"This is my body and soul here"
The bottles have all been arranged in size order behind the bar. Colour coordinated, also. It looks sort of beautiful, if you ignore the fact that all the liquor has been poured out. The glasses, too, are piled high in extravagant towers; a balancing act which surely seems impossible. And all the chairs are still upside down. Because Neron is certain, truly, that it will be warmer on the other side of the world. If Halo is cold and Halo is up, then warm will be down.
”That’s very kind of you,” the Hailstorm says softly from his place next to the roaring fire; a lot close than he’d ever usually allow himself. His hair is beyond it’s usually stylish tousle, like he’s raked his fingers through it in frustration, and there’s an opalescent sheen of sweat on his face as he lolls back in his comfortable chair, glancing over to Morgan. With a lopsided smile, he beckons her over.
”Do you know, fortune tellers used to read flames where I’m from?”
Walking past the bar, Morgan did turn her head to look at the odd display of glasses. As bizarre as it was, it did actually give her some hope for Neron's condition; at least he was able to balance things and make patterns, which gave her some faith he might be doing better than the General was, when she'd seen him.
"It is the least I could do." She replied as she came to stand by the fire, frowning as she saw Neron was so close. While she'd never seen it in real life, Morgan had been told that fire and heat didn't end well for the Ascended (and with the sheen of sweat on Neron's face, she wondered that he found it comfortable at all). For the moment though, she didn't say anything of it, instead going to sit in a chair opposite, though she pulled it away a little from the burning heat.
"...I didn't know that." Morgan's own mother told fortunes, though she had never used flame for it. "How do they interpret it into a fortune? Can you read them?" Perhaps that was what he was doing. An odd pastime, but Morgan supposed Neron was likely bored.
Fall upon your knees saying
"This is my body and soul here"
”Why?” Neron wonders, his eyes still on the fire. Why is it the least she could do? Has Neron been particularly heroic lately, to deserve a visit from the Warden herself? He’s been doing a great job trying to turn the world upside down - at least, he thinks so anyway. But he doesn’t know that Morgan would really care about that. Luckily, he’s distracted by her next question, and he shakes his head despite the fact that he can, actually, read these flames.
He shouldn’t be able to, because the Hailstorm hates the idea of Northaven fortune tellers with a passion, but here they are. ”They used to be able to see pictures in the fire,” he tells her. ”They could see images of things that would happen in the future.” Absently he reaches out, like there’s an image in the bright and dancing orange that he wants to wrap his fingers around.
"Why?" Morgan repeated, turning to Neron with a confused frown. She'd thought by now they'd established their (oft unwilling, weird) friendship, that it was a given she'd be there if he was ill. Apparently not. Feeling slightly embarrassed, she pushed a stray strand of hair behind her shoulder and cleared her throat. "When I heard you were unwell, I was concerned. I wanted to visit...to see if I could make you feel better." Now that she said it out loud, it sounded stupid (when had she ever been a comforting presence for anyone?), but it was the truth, and Morgan didn't lie.
Morgan looked to the fire to see if she could see within any of the images he spoke of, but before she could truly focus on the flames she saw Neron's hand reach out for it. With the speed of a caretaker seeing a child go to touch the stove, she grabbed his wrist and pulled it back, shaking her head. "What are you doing? Fire is harmful to the Ascended. You shouldn't even be sat this close."
Fall upon your knees saying
"This is my body and soul here"
A lopsided smile creeps across Neron’s face, though for once he doesn’t take teasing pleasure in making Morgan uncomfortable. No, the smile is genuine, and he directs it sunnily across at the Warden. ”You always make me feel better, one way or another,” he informs her, but then there are fires to stick his hands in and he is distracted away from their talk. Or at least, he is until Morgan snatches out to grab his wrist.
”But I’m cold,” he complains with all the petulance of a child, until bright steel eyes slip down to the fingers encircling his wrist. Neron tilts his head, following the fingers up the arm, where blood pulses through veins and rushes, sweet and rich, towards the heart. ”And thirsty,” he adds.
In response to Neron's genuine smile and words all she could do was smile, embarrassed, and let out a laughing huff of air, unsure of what to say. Morgan had never had many friends (especially not like Neron) and when it came to affection, was in dire need of practice. Luckily she didn't need to think of what to say, for it seemed Neron's moment of clarity was only temporary.
"Would you rather be burnt?!" She chastised, determinedly holding his hand away from the flames, following his eyes as they moved to her wrist; oh, Chulane had mentioned this. The thirst. Morgan sighed, wondering what the best thing to do was. She didn't mind giving him blood if he needed it, her position on Ascended softened by now and Neron someone she cared for, but the effects of the bite were hardly appropriate right now.
Still, first priority was getting him away from the fire. "If you will come with me to sit over there, by the bar and away from the flames, you can drink." She bargained, carefully letting go of him and standing up, offering him a hand to get up as a thought came to mind. "If I cut my wrist, could you drink without biting me?" No fear in her voice: It would be far from the worst injury she had sustained.
Fall upon your knees saying
"This is my body and soul here"
”I don’t get burnt, I’m an Ascended.” Neron is wrong, and he will certainly sizzle to a swift crisp if he decides to plunge his hand any closer. Luckily, Morgan is there to prevent him from being so utterly stupid, and he’s distracted by the Warden at his side for more than just the blood rushing through her veins. ”...Okay,” he says slowly, a frown creeping across his face as he considers the distance away from the fire towards the bar.
But then he’s gazing after Morgan, reaching up to grasp her hand again and draw himself to his feet; he feels warm and clammy, not at all the way an Ascended ought to feel, and his balance is far from all there. So he’s all but stumbling into her as they wobble their way across to the counter, the stools seeming far too unstable to sit on.
”Yeah I guess, but where’s the fun in that?” He grins at Morgan, his thumb grazing over the scar left by his previous bite on her wrist.
"I've heard Ascended burn worse than anyone else." Morgan insisted. While Neron was an Ascended himself, he was delirious and she'd heard of the Ascended weakness to fire several times; it wasn't something she wanted him to test, anyway. Luckily it seemed her bargaining worked and Neron came away from the fire and towards the bar; mentally Morgan made a note to put out the fire before she left, and remove any tools for re-igniting it.
She did notice how his skin felt. Warm, not at all like it ought to: she had slept by him by now, knew how he felt. The physical reminder of his illness unsettled her, but Morgan fought to not let it show on her face. Holding him steady until he seemed able to sit, she sat herself on one of the barstools, letting him keep hold of her wrist.
The gentle stroke of his thumb over the scar, the grin...were they in any other situation, Morgan knew (and was embarrassed) that she would say yes. That she would let him bite her, take any of the consequences after. However, he was out of his mind, and if she did want this to happen, it would not be like this. "You are unwell. The last thing you need is that kind of overstimulation." She said strictly, going to pull the dagger out of her boot.
"If you really want to drink, you'll take it like this." Holding the dagger up to her wrist, she leaned forward toward Neron. If he seemed agreeable she would make the cut, allowing her blood to flow out from her skin.
Fall upon your knees saying
"This is my body and soul here"
”Nooo, no. No, that’s a myth.” It absolutely is not a myth. Neron’s denial of his own weaknesses is likely yet another reason why he ought to be locked away in the Kraai; who knew if he would simply linger out in the everlasting sun until it burned him to a crisp.
Still, he seems quite content to hold her hand, scoffing out his denial at her remark. Overstimulation sounds wonderful right now, in fact, and he’s about to say so when suddenly Morgan is in his field of vision, the tip of a knife appearing against her wrist, the scent of blood filling the air.
The Hailstorm overbalances in his eagerness, and the result is his falling off the barstool and onto his knees before the Warden. He barely notices, however, his hands still clasping her wrist, drawing it up and to his mouth so he can press his lips against the cut.
Morgan raised a skeptical eyebrow to Neron's claim of his weaknesses being a myth, not trusting anything he was saying at the moment. Thankfully he seemed to know to shut up when the knife came out and sank to his knees before her, mouth pressed to her wrist: as much as it was inappropriate in the moment, she had to admit she liked seeing him there.
Without the rush of feeling the bite usually gave, she was able to stay more rational during the process, watching Neron drink with a mix of emotions. A little disgust, but more pity; that he had to do this, that he had been forced into this life. Any pain in her wrist was easy enough to deal with, Morgan knowing that the cut would heal, but Neron would need blood and be lacking in his senses forever.
When he had taken enough she felt satisfied he was quenched (even if he wasn't ), she took her wrist back, not wanting to lose too much blood. Pulling bandages out from her bag she began to wrap her wound, resting her hand against the bar. "Once, I would not have imagined letting anyone do that. You are an influence on me. I've yet to decide good or bad."
Fall upon your knees saying
"This is my body and soul here"
Whatever Morgan feels about him, Neron is lost in the warmth of her blood and the way all his muscles seem to relax as it flows into him. The rush of ecstasy might be missing, but he still feels it scratch at an itch he can never quite get to, and it’s with a grumble of reluctance that he allows her to move him back. She speaks and Neron is still looking at the ground, his cheeks flushed further from the blood, red staining his lips.
”Once, I could never imagine doing this to anyone,” he says slowly. ”Then DeepFrost came, and I realised I would be dead without it.” If his words are clear, it’s likely the blood to thank; give it time, and delusions would undoubtedly return. ”Thank you,” Neron murmurs. ”For doing what you did. And for coming to check on me.”
The red on Neron's lips still looked slightly unsettling to Morgan, even with her acceptance of the Ascended's needs. She averted her eyes until he had cleaned it, though she couldn't help but look back as he began to speak, instead trying to fix her gaze on his (she had never been afraid of eye contact). "It's alright. I...would have worried if I had not come to see you myself." And truthfully, she would still worry after she left.
To try and avoid that as much as possible, she had to make sure Neron was as well looked after as she could manage. Once her wrist was bandaged and secured, the blood staining the cream fabric into a dark maroon, she stood and gestured for him to get up, offered a hand to help if he needed it. "Do you have...is there anywhere better for you to sleep here, other than where we did in the back room? I would want to leave you comfortable." She asked, looking about in the bar for some kind of rest area.
Fall upon your knees saying
"This is my body and soul here"
Neron wipes away the blood on the back of his hand, sitting back on his knees to watch as she bandages her wrist, as the red blossoms through it almost instantly. ”How sweet,” he says, and though the words are his usual sass, his tone is warmer than his title of Hailstorm has any right to make it. ”Well, I hope that seeing me has alleviated your worries,” he murmurs; at least for a little while. Give him ten minutes and he’ll likely be loopy again.
He accepts her hand as she offers it, drawing himself up to his feet and seeming a little unsteady, but he’s as careful as he can be in the circumstances. ”The Kraai is an inn as well as a bar,” he explains, nodding to the staircase next to the fire. ”Rooms are up there. I... think I was locked in one.” He shrugs; if that’s the case, he’s obviously been able to break out before.
