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!
The moose shifted his monumental weight, watching and admiring - and keeping an eye on those who were still very ill. The demonstration of power that Deimos was giving was nothing short of incredible, and that he might ever feel inclined to turn such power against another was not lost on Chulane. He silently hoped to never be on the negative side of Deimos' ire, to never earn such treatment (that time in the Grounds had also been more than enough for him come to this conclusion many weeks ago).
The Voice had been an Abandoned, and the Abandoned were so named before they gods did not like to share that particular strain of magic with mortals. Idly, he wondered if Abandoned were called such before the Voice emerged as the entity she is now.
A low grunting snort was given to the lion, a flare of annoyance shot his way over the bond. 'Safrin. We're here to honour Safrin, Loren.' Perhaps it was the shifting flames, the way they changed from something peaceful and beautiful to something terrifying and magnificent.
Pawns or no, they were certainly a strange bunch out on the snow this evening. 'Are our mortal concerns any different to their concerns with how we live our mortal lives?' Perhaps it was the atheist in him, the years of questioning religion on his home world, that made him question the very real gods of this world. And yet, he also found himself filled with an overwhelming resignation towards them - a sort of begrudging acceptance, for these gods had at least proved themselves to be real, it was more the why they existed that the Chief was questioning now.
Raised to be knights; taken off of boards, and the cosmic imbalance shifted the beasts’ parameters – the fire didn’t seem so stark or dark thereafter, whittling along in flames of chess pieces, and a mocking chord when a man on a horse was beaten back by the abrupt conflagration. As if he were being swallowed, consumed, and devoured by the weight of the world – no names given or dragged, a gruff tone of amusement flickering through him.
Then attention dissipated and wandered, and so too did the embers, curling and coiling back in upon themselves as more philosophical inquiries fed into the light. Distracted and deterred, he could recall all sorts of living, breathing gods that had melded and molded into his lifetimes: some of Isilme, with their wars and hatred, some of Helovia, with their indifferences and cracked shrines, and here, with those they cherished and those who bled at their altars and those who craved for absolution. “Do they have concerns about us?” Did they care? Did it matter? “Maybe for their favorites.” Maybe for those who mattered to them.
He’d done his share of falling to his knees, of begging and pleading for lives to be saved, of striving to become something for others.
Maybe it was time he became something for himself.
Looking at Chulane, Loren bobbed his head up and down. Yeah that's what I said. Star lady. He chuffed out some air as his tail flicked.
Arching his back he yawned, though the fire continued to draw his attention. When it shifted into a knight that was subsumed by fire, the healer snarled. I came through the fire and found that I was different. The Brand.
He turned then and regarded the shrine. We're beneath them. Which means that they don't care about us unless we bring ourselves to their attention. Like ants are to us. Lifting up a paw, he brought it down and smooshed some snow beneath it. He continued to press down and wiggle the paw, only stopping when Astra bleated at him.
Beneath them. He heard the words with a small echo of disquiet, a trickle of concern. His view of the gods of this world had always been difficult for him to wrap his head around, because in his homeworld, the gods were made up by other men to specifically put other humans beneath them. It rubbed the Chief the wrong way, and he snorted a low breath, unable to think of what to say in response. He would need to seek the gods out himself, to experience their favour or their fury for himself.
'Their favourites?' he asked, before another thought, another memory, a recollection of something Jigano said, stumbled across his mind. 'Demi-gods?' Mortal beings lifted far above their mortal stations, gifted with powers beyond that an Attuned, Abandoned or Ascended normally might.
'Well, I hope Safrin likes fire,' he murmured softly through the bond, as he watched the swirling amalgamation of fire before them, hoping it carried the moss he flung to a sufficient level that it might appease the Herald in her chosen season.
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So sorry for being slow guys!! Happy to wrap this one up/have it fade to a chill night by the fire if you want lol <3
The fire spectacle ate away at the moss Chulane flung, devouring and consuming in one fell swoop, the smoke continuing to curl and coil its way towards the sky. The Sword had fallen silent in the expanse of thoughts on gods, on the whirl of a mind too far gone by sickness to do or say much of anything now – not favored, not worth the time or energy to cosmic beings. It’d always been that way, from land to land, from sea to sea, from world to world. Which was why he’d made his own way, carved his paths on blades and knives, on destruction and mayhem. Maybe he didn’t need them. Maybe he didn’t want them. Maybe he never really knew what was going on, and merely fended for himself, and for those he cared for (the list was growing shorter and shorter these days), as best he could.
Maybe they were just little specks of dust, never quite a part of the same whole.
Maybe it didn’t matter, because he’d carry on, forging, and beholden to naught but the things that mattered to a monolith.
He dimmed the flames, permitted them to recede, until they were little specks of embers, and the horizon beyond was ignited by stars, offerings partaken into the unknown.
