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 water had managed to restore Loren, at least somewhat. He was still weakened from the illness in both his body and mind, but at least he was thinking relatively clearly. And one of his first thoughts, once he'd recovered at least a semblance of his wits, was that he really needed to find where the metal he'd taken from Tanau had come from had originated and return it.
So the healer had reached out to Deimos, who was in Halo for reasons the Firebrand didn't know and chose not to find out. The Sword had agreed, thankfully, so after enough time for them to recover, they'd set out. Loren led the way across the Sea of Glass, Astra by his side, through the tunnels beneath and above it, and finally through to the Climb.
They emerged into the fire blackened and ashy landscape, and he made his way towards the tunnels to the Burrows. As he did, he glanced back at Deimos. How're you holding up? The healer had shifted for this trip, trusting in his fur and his claws and the Sword's own skills and magics to keep him safe. There was a small pack wrapped around the Firebrand's throat, which was mostly hidden by the mane.
Descending into the Burrows, he hesitated as the tunnels split. Eventually he took one at random. They moved like that for a while, until emerging into a glittering cavern. He halted, examining it, pulling in air through his mouth as he scented the cave.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
A return to reality beyond plagues and torments merely seemed to mean the latter haunted in different forms. While the delirium and aches had faded, the scrape, the bite, the torrent of everything else returned in full force – a grind to his skull, to the emotions searing against his soul, to the embedded figments of veracity stringing him up like a noose. Perhaps the sickness had been a balm in some way, because within its grasp he hadn’t sunk into complete and utter despair (from what he could recall – though those moments laying out along the tundra, and waiting to fade into nothing was a new low). In its hold he hadn’t fallen apart. In its clenching, gnawing vices, he could escape.
And now they marched across the Sea of Glass, where seasons prior he’d flown with family and friends and loved ones and explored. The Sword wondered if every new step was going to be defined by an old one, poignantly traipsing over those good, awe-inspiring seconds with the finality of what would come after. Death. Abandonment. And then nothing. Could he run? Could he hide? Would it matter, at all, in the end? If everything he’d ever accomplished, ever wanted, ever craved, had been broken apart and torn asunder? Or had he simply lived too many lives, too many miseries, and was tired of facing them head on?
Loren led, and he followed, head sometimes hanging low and weary, Zuriel tucked against his side. His movements weren’t labored, but certainly didn’t carry the primordial, savage ministrations, the quiet, steady confidence normally exuded and bound within his strides. The sickness had torn against senses and beleaguered his strong, mighty form, and while he’d always have enough to protect himself, the notions it had crept upon him, gnashed its teeth, tore into his frame, were evident.
Fire might’ve been a comfort then, an element he cherished; had it not been another speculation of Kiada, of everything coming together in loss. His eyes lifted to stare, to inspect, to scrutinize, to memorize in case another sojourn was required – only pinpointing back to the lion as the question was poised. A lie scorched its way behind his teeth: I am fine, but it wouldn’t have benefitted anyone. They both would’ve known, would’ve understood, the depths and fathoms of the fabrication. “Not well,” came across instead, a low rumble through his chest, and he strived to breathe in a deep inhalation, as if it would save him from a threat, from the grief, overwhelming, overbearing his fortitude. “You?”
Then they came upon a cave, and he could permit a distraction – walls glittering, a sheen of sharpened hues, and he tread closer, but touched nothing. “Is this where you all ended up?” He wasn’t certain; thoughts blistering towards Kiada, about lava flows and ill-fated flights, but didn’t see any of the magma that had taken her.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Loren's steps slowed for just a moment at Deimos' response. Although the lion started moving at the faster pace almost immediately, he glanced over at the Sword. I've been better. But I'm muddling through alright.
Hesitating, the healer added, If you need anything, anything at all, even just to talk, or...whatever, let me know. With that, he fell silent. Astra, however, bleated. Looking between the two men, she trotted over to Deimos' side and attempted to nuzzle against his hand.
Watching the exchange, Loren's attention was soon drawn towards the glassy cavern they'd found. Except, on closer inspection, it wasn't glass at all but crystal. Peering at it, he padded towards the center of the cave. No, we were on the surface.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Muddling through was an apt term, if Deimos could even describe his attempts in the same league. More or less dragging himself through the muck, the mire, the endless, damned abyss, each time, each moment, each loss bringing the surface higher and higher, until he wasn’t sure he could reach anymore. Until he wasn’t sure if he should. The weight strung along his shoulders was overbearing, overwhelming, to begin with, and combined between everything else, the monolith could only stand so much longer. It might’ve been a comfort to break. So the Sword nodded at the Firebrand, as if motioning his understanding, gaze drawn over crystal fragments, over figments that could’ve instigated curiosity, if the foundations of plaguing, reeling vestiges weren’t already battering him.
He didn’t quite know what to do with the kindness extended towards him – never really had; too many lives spent in infamy, disaster, calamity, and ruin – stare riveting back to the lion, a quaking, shuddering breath filling his lungs. It would’ve been far easier to let it go with a shake of his head, to refuse and relent and collapse in on his own time, but Loren would know. Loren would comprehend. Loren had experienced it much the same. “I am tired of losing everyone,” came on a deeper rumble. “And I do not know what to do about it anymore.” Because his protection, his promised salvation, his shelter in the storm, hadn’t helped them. Hadn’t kept them at his side. Zuriel glanced at him, and he swallowed down a multitude of other feelings rising up like bile, gaze flickering to the luxere, scratching at Astra’s head when there was comfort extended.
But then they had to move on, and this wasn’t where Kiada fell, so his heart didn’t hammer quite so loudly, and his machinations weren’t required – save for inspecting the caverns. Calloused fingers brushed against some of the crystals, tilting his head, before relinquishing the motions, and following Loren to the center.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Though Loren caught Deimos' nod, the lion didn't respond. Instead, he continued his careful exploration of the tunnels. However, at the Sword's response, the Firebrand glanced at the other man. Loren slowed to a stop for a few moments before resuming their descent through the caves.
I know the feeling. And I wouldn't wish it on anyone, least of all you. Hesitating for a moment as Astra bleated when Deimos' fingers scratched at her head, the healer added, Want my entirely unsolicited advice? The luxere twisted so the Sword's fingers were touching behind her ears, though she had to be careful with her antlers.
Turning in a circle in the center of the crystal chamber, the Firebrand tilted his head back to stare and the ceiling, then dropped his head to examine the floor. Reaching out with a claw, he tapped it against a protruding crystal. Any idea what kind of crystals these are?
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Wandering and wandering still, casual explorations until the deeper fathoms glowed and glistened in the same hues. It would’ve been far more pleasant had his mind not been riddled with every other nuance of sorrow draining down its sanction, threatening to be consumed, devoured, by the petulant designs of grief. He sought to occupy the favored machinations with something other than despair and anguish, filling it to the brim with the possibilities of the crystals, the caves, and not the haunting fixtures sliding over his skin, threatening to return to the corners of his eyes.
That Loren might have advice caused an arch to his brow, and perhaps desperation, uncertainty, and the inability to see beyond the current status of melancholy made him seek out the wisdom – he had nothing more to snag upon. “Go ahead.” Maybe it would be worthwhile – something he could hold onto instead of immediately reject. His fingers continued to scratch along the luxere’s ears, habitual from days of Kiada and Auni, and then striving to curve away that feeling too.
Because they always ended up returning to ghosts.
The Sword followed the movements and motions of the lion, proceeding to stare up at the ceiling, at the flecks of hues, the potential for something else brewing from within. To the floor too, where they rested and shown, lodged in rocks and surfaces for who knew how long. “No.” He didn’t know; crystals had never been in his realm of expertise. A notion flickered against him, and he presented the offer. “I can try to snag one with my Earth magic?” Whether or not it would work, be effective at all, or even matter would remain to be seen.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Astra stretched up into Deimos' touch, bleating. At the other man's prompting, though, Loren didn't respond right away. When he finally did, the thoughts and words were slow. Look, I can't imagine how much pain you're in. And I know that what I'm about to say is going to sound like a platitude, and wrong, and fake, and unbelievable. The healer shook out his mane, a whine escaping the back of his throat.
But torturing yourself with guilt and what ifs doesn't help, and it's not what those who loved and love you would want. I know, from personal experience, how hard it is to lose someone you've sworn to protect. Someone you love. Paws flexing, his claws scratched against the ground. You have to try to celebrate the good times you've had with those who are no longer with us, though. And try to remember that if you attempt to protect someone from the world and its dangers, especially the ones that you think that you pose to them, that you're just putting them in a cage of sorts. And caged animals long to be free. Caged people too.
He bowed his head, staring at the ground. Detaching herself from the Sword's side, the luxere trotted over to the Firebrand and pressed herself against him. So sometimes we have to let them go. Make their own mistakes. And pray and hope they come back to us. Letting out a chuffing sound, he closed his eyes for a moment. I learned that the hard way.
Falling silent, he padded through the cave, not looking at Deimos. Instead, Loren inspected the walls of the strange cavern, Astra by his side. Glancing briefly at the other man at his suggestion, the lion nodded. It's worth a try. He turned to watched the experiment.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He listened, in the midst of the dark, spiraling cave, because it was all he had left to do – taking the information in with grains of salt. A habitual need to fight back spurned against his sides and contorted around his ribcage, but then he had to wonder, had to ponder, if he’d caged those he cherished. Kiada had told him not to once – that she hadn’t required his constant aid, that she didn’t want him hovering around, and he’d backed off, only permitted to grant and give her protection through weaponry or armor. He’d committed to her independence, her boldness, her desire to do things on her own – not asked to go into LongNight’s demolition, not mired alongside her as she went with Wessex’s crew into this cursed plain. In the end, she was lost anyway.
Had he done the same to Amalia? To Rexanna? To Hotaru? Was that how he’d begun to lose them all, by simply trying to offer anything he could?
And if no one wanted whatever granules and fragments he had left, then what good was he?
The dream he’d had with the Penumbra, briefly floating through his brain, had told him of some filaments Loren spoke now; to keep the better times in his memories, in his heart, and that she hadn’t wanted him to continue the self-torture. But sometimes it was all he had remaining, chiseled away in bones and ethers. “I will keep it in mind. Thank you.” Except his wouldn’t come back.
His attention drifted back to the cavern itself, and the tunnels lingering off to the sides. Was there more elsewhere? “Let me know if you see one that reminds you of the metal.” Or maybe not at all – but he didn’t want to go picking and plucking at stones haphazardly, uncertain of what the effects would bring. If they went further along, and found more, perhaps it would be clearer.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Deimos didn't say much (well, anything) during Loren's long series of thoughts and advice. As the healer offered what wisdom he could, which was minimal, he felt Astra press close to him. He sent what reassurance he could both to her and to the Sword. However, when the other man finally did respond, the Firebrand didn't know whether his input had been helpful or welcome.
Whining a little in the back of his throat, he responded, You're welcome. And seriously, if you need anything, let me know.
Looking around at their surroundings, he padded towards the nearest tunnel. Nothing yet. Taking in air through his mouth, nothing jumped out to him through either scent or sight. Moving towards the other openings, he glanced towards Deimos. Any preference or idea which tunnel we should take?
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He wasn’t certain what he needed, except a break. A rest. A repose. A chance to fathom what was normal now (nothing), what he’d lost, and what he still had. The remaining vestiges were few and far between from everything he’d had before – and to kindle back to those surfaces was only going to make the moments that much harder; and he tightened his jaw, yearning to explode, to escape, to fall apart into a thousand pieces, and be left alone for eternity. Except not at all; and it was a confusing, muddling sense and set of circumstances, and while Astra left to return to Loren’s side, Zuriel took her place, his fingers weaving out of habit into her mane. “I will consider it,” and there might’ve been a taut smile in the corner of his mouth, acknowledging the Firebrand’s attempts, because Deimos knew he didn’t deserve it.
More movements, more motions, more meanderings, his mind only churning back and forth over what they’d passed, in order to reconnect the depths when they had to return. The resounding options there before them proffered no significant sign or temptation, and he was left to base the decision on fortune and faith (neither had ever truly been in his favor). “We can try right.” If it amounted to naught, then they could always turn around, strive and start again.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Nodding, the motion looking strange considering he was still a lion, Loren glanced at Deimos. That's all I can ask. With that, the healer fell silent, his whole attention on their surroundings. However, he nuzzled against Astra as she moved forward a bit, causing her to bleat and snuggle against him.
Begging to pad through the right tunnel, his tail swished. Better than wrong I suppose. He made a huffing and chuffing sound in the back of his throat. Sorry. Bad joke. Moving forward, his eyes tried to pierce the darkness ahead.
However, it soon became apparent that the reason there was a black mass ahead of them was because the tunnel had caved in. Stopping, he pawed at a stone that had rolled a short distance from the pile. Should we try to clear it or move on to another tunnel?
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Were he not constantly grieving, Deimos might have done something other than portray features of utter stoicism and indifference towards the ridiculous joke – repressing an eyeroll, and merely shaking his head for the statement. It reminded him briefly of Jigano, and the emotions intermingled with that thought weren’t bothered with either.
Based on lantern light, and shifting his eyes into feline proportions, the blackened mass ahead warranted the choice of direction had been a poor one. Nonetheless, the beast wasn’t deterred – he’d dealt with a multitude of caverns, rocks, and their associated cave-ins a hazardous amount in his lifetimes here. “Hang on.” A series of incantations contorted to life – and it felt like ages, like primordial vestiges, to suddenly have them back in his control, rather than unfurled and exposed in his sickness. The earthen wares conspired together to maneuver, to deter, to motion the assemblage of rock, soil, and loam to shift off to the side, restructuring along his mind as he grew closer and closer, intending to bend it to his will.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Letting his tongue loll out at Deimos' eye roll, Loren huffed out some air. Astra nudged him with her hip, and he snapped his mouth closed, nuzzling her head with his own. She bleated and he sent a pulse of appreciation through his bond to her.
Looking between the Sword and the rocks, the healer backed away from the rock pile. To what? he quipped, despite the failure of his earlier equally poor joke. As the other man dealt with the blockage, the lion settled onto the ground. Yawning, he started grooming himself. Astra joined him on the floor and he felt tension drain out of him from the simple contact.
He would've helped, but he was feeling lazy and he'd dealt with more than his fair share of blocked tunnels. So I heard something about you and a few others venturing into those crazy storms around the Hollowed Ground, is that right? He twisted so he could see Deimos' reaction.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The same impassivity and reticence applied to this joke, though he did look over his shoulder, an inscrutable narrowing of his eyes, a furrow to his brow, before shrugging and applying his efforts back to the matter at hand. The magic lured and coaxed the loam easily, sliding the particles off to their side, his eyes piercing along the darkness, rising and ascending to glance at the makeshift ceiling. When nothing seemed worse for wear, and the path now passable, he continued to lead the way, Zuriel offering Loren some imperious look, before drifting behind the Sword.
Words, inquiries ricocheting off his mind caused him to pause momentarily, lifting lantern light to cast along the next winding portion of the chosen tunnel. The Sword didn’t quite understand what Loren was leading up to – or if he was interested in completing the journey himself – or if he was just making conversation, filling in the absent space. “Yes. We did not make it far, and spent a majority of time underground.” Safety, security, within the moments of lightning shards and elemental potential. Despite all the magic riddled and chorded into his blood, he hadn’t been able to conquer those contortions; lacking the ability to hasten electricity away from their expanse. “We brought back some unicorns that had been caught in the thick of it.” But incapable of getting them home – for now – without a hastening of those particular enchantments.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
