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!
10-03-2020, 11:13 PM (This post was last modified: 10-06-2020, 01:07 AM by Loren.)
like thunder gonna shake the ground
Loren winced at Deimos' words. Looking between the two men, Astra bleated, but stayed next to the Sword. The lion's paws flexed, claws leaving furrows in the ground. For a moment he flashed back to telling this story to Chulane's and for a moment grief coursed through the bond with both the Firebrand's companion and with the other man.
Finally the healer sighed, whole body shaking with the sound. It was an accident. A horrible, terrible, stupid accident. Pure shitty luck. He mewled in the back of his throat and started pacing in front of the other man.
We got to the Climb a little bruised, but mostly fine, Wessex, Hotaru, Kiada, and I. That's when Amalia showed up, somehow. Pausing, he shook his head. We found Tanau, in pain and bound or something, and Wessex and Amalia advised us to attack. Which we did. Kiada was in the sky and managed to spot something lodged inside the spirit, or the crows she compelled did. Unfortunately, the birds were damaged or scared in the attempt.
Hesitating, he came to a stop. We decided I had the best chance of surviving trying to remove the object, which is what we were supposed to do in the first place, though neither the Eirachi or Vi came right out and just told us. So I stuck my hands in. It hurt. A lot. He growled and Deimos might be able to notice the scars on his front paws and the right side of his face, visible even under the fur.
I had my back to the group, so I don't know exactly what happened. Kiada went back into the sky to keep an eye out for danger, I believe. But I think...there was a freak lava plume that struck her and damaged her wing. The rest of the group tried to save her but... Loren's thought trailed off as he ducked his head, tail swishing and eyes flicking. Didn't Am...anyone tell you this?
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The grief was paramount and unbidden, and he stood in the onslaught of it, just as he had before, again and again and again, endless patterns of derision, guilt, and rancor. Accidents. Consequences. Misfortune. He’d heard it before from Amalia; before everything else ended too, and something took hold of him – anger? Rage? Bitterness? It was difficult to fathom in the blur of nuances and sentiments, where a cold, hardened fury gripped, where he couldn’t place blame on anyone or anything. And he wanted to, craved a face to bludgeon, a figure to dismember, a space to let the vehemence, the violence, exude, a reeling of vengeance and discord for all the pain and torment Kiada must’ve felt in her passing wake. But he couldn’t have what he desperately yearned for, what he longed to break apart – nothing but an acrid emptiness. He shouldn’t have asked.
“She did. But not like that.” Maybe the Shield had been trying to save him from the onslaught of grief, or maybe there were other nuances and notions spiraling out; facts and figures that didn’t align, didn’t add up. “Attack? Amalia told you to attack?” A very uncharacteristic notion, and his eyes narrowed, pinpointing towards the glimmer ahead. He wasn’t certain if that even mattered really; pondering if it was a lie, a fabrication, a pretense. If naught made sense anymore.
If he was just searching for answers in a void, in a hollowed sanction, that simply didn’t have any left.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Nodding at Deimos' response, Loren stopped his pacing. I'm sorry for your loss. And if there's anything else I can tell you, let me know. When the Sword questioned the narrative, though, the healer opened his mouth, thoughts forming in his mind.
However, he snapped his mouth closed and looked down, whining a bit. Astra trotted over to him and nuzzled him, but he didn't respond to her. No. She didn't. Sorry, it was hectic and my mind is still a bit foggy.
He took a deep breath. She told us that if we had to attack, she needed to strike the last blow, but she wanted to find out more information first. Swiping at a nearby rock, he found himself growling a bit.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The rage didn’t dissipate, lingering in his bones, a stronghold of familiarity he could trace over, remember, recall, what it was like to permit the abhorrence to do something. Within these walls he had nothing but his anger and melancholy, resting in their requiems, their dirges, their laments – naught to tear down but his own spite and vitriol. The cataclysm contorted and coiled around his heart and stayed, a stranglehold he knew he shouldn’t have wandered into, a snare with its nettles and thorns, buried and burrowed against the insides of his ribs. It could rest there, in the quiet, hollowed portions of his chest, and he breathed it out along his lungs, along the panels of stone and the lacquered portions of earth. “She was like a daughter to me.” And he marched on, suddenly indifferent about Loren’s condolences, the cool weight of his abyss pushing down along brawn and shoulders; eventually there’d be nothing left of him but those pinnacles of glacial abhorrence.
Loren took back the implications surrounding the Shield, and he narrowed his eyes, staring straight ahead, nodding. Perhaps it had been hectic. Perhaps his mind had been foggy.
But his jaw locked tight and his brows furrowed, leading, leading, leading into the telltale glimmers. A low rumble curled through his mind, would've ricocheted and echoed, if given voice. What happened to Ru? Because he hadn’t seen her since then either – another loss to drift within.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Deimos' anger caused the hackles on Loren's back to rise. Whether it was through the bond or the way the Sword's scent changed, the healer suddenly was reminded that neither of them was fully recovered and that the mind was a fickle thing. Still, he didn't react beyond turning so he could watch the other man in his peripheral vision.
Gods, Deimos. However, the former General was already marching ahead, leaving the Firebrand to pad along behind. Astra trotted up to Deimos and nosed at his palm. Loren stayed in the rear, watching the Sword's posture and demeanor.
The healer peered around the other man when that glitter caught his eye again. However, his attention was drawn back to Deimos at the man's next question. She was despondent and inconsolable. I think Wessex took her home. The Firebrand's tail swished and his ears flicked around.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Gods indeed; and he attempted to have the wounds dissipate, the bloodied, broken contempt claw its way out of his threshold, but it remained hostile and feral. Not to anyone in particular; lodged and locked under the surface of his skin, lurking in and amongst flesh and bone. Maybe it was merely a route of all his grief, tied and tethered, knotted and gnarled, disturbed and distraught that he could do nothing. That after becoming strong enough to defend people and portions, it really hadn’t mattered – they went off into the ether, and never came back. Where the worlds he could break apart now? Where were the souls to blame? Where and when did anything become fair or right, justice dignified? Nowhere seemed to be the answer – and he yearned to render that into pieces too.
Zuriel knew better than to weave her way into his wrath; could feel it pulsing between bonds, and likely the unicorn didn’t know how to alleviate the frustrations, the helplessness, or the rancor either. So it simmered – and he held a breath when Astra reached for him, scratching at ears again, attempting to fuse himself back into something less monstrous.
The fragments of glimmer ahead still didn’t seem to find his mind or machinations, too drawn on his own seditious inquiries, on Hotaru and her whereabouts. Despondent, inconsolable; all understandable. Perhaps she’d gone to Sunjata and Nate. Perhaps she’d vanished. Perhaps she was done with the entire charade. He couldn’t blame her. I have not heard from her at all. Another loss amongst the brewing, brooding whims of many; hit after hit after hit, barrage after barrage after barrage. Maybe it was a wonder he stood upright at all.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
As Deimos scratched at Astra's ears she bleated and closed her eyes. Hesitating for just a brief moment, Loren padded up to the Sword. The healer took up the side opposite from the luxere, pressing against the other man's side. The Firebrand didn't say anything, just tried to project and offer what little comfort he could.
He rumbled deep in his chest at Deimos' comment about Hotaru. Wessex, Amalia, and I all got sick. I'd be shocked if Hotaru was spared. I imagine she's recovering from the illness as we speak, and hasn't been in the right state to get in touch with you. Loren tried to bump his head against the Sword's palm.
The gleaming of light reflected off of something grew stronger in front of them. What do you suppose that is? He strained his eyes, but couldn't quite figure out what they were looking at.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Comfort where he didn’t think he deserved any was bizarre and strange to him, but he breathed sharpened inhales, flickered through long exhales, until the sentiments seemed bridged, could filter away for a second, for a moment. Sorry. For what he wasn’t certain – the maddening rush of the cold fury, that he couldn’t do anything on his own to combat it, or his control seemed to vary widely after the sickness had pummeled him straight into the ground.
He hadn’t mused on the notion that Hotaru might’ve become ill, and his brows furrowed at the evidence of contracting the wasting proportions. Is that how everyone became sick? From something here? And then spread it from there? How did they know they weren’t becoming massive contagions? Why hadn’t the rest of them gotten ill – like those of Chulane, who seemed to be constantly observing, watching, and guarding the invalids?
Should he go look for her? Would he have time, before he became infested again? Would it all be for naught?
He was so tired of this; all of it.
Attention deviated from the morosity at the suggestion of the gleaming light. I have no idea. But he increased his pace and stride, reaching forward, forward, forward until they seemed to arrive at a wide, glittering opus. He ceased in his tracks entirely at the mouth of the cavern, head twisting, turning, gaze shifting in every angle and degree, to even strive to understand the coating of hues, blends, and colors.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
10-05-2020, 03:31 AM (This post was last modified: 10-06-2020, 01:07 AM by Loren.)
like thunder gonna shake the ground
Astra nuzzled against Deimos from one side as Loren did the same from the other. You have nothing to apologize for, he reassured the Sword. The healer stepped to one side, but he remained close to the other man.
Glancing at the former General, the Firebrand made a chuffing sound. Probably? Maybe? Who knows? Meowing a bit, he shook out his mane. All we really know is who is sick and that the water helps us for a bit. The non-Ascended at least. The mewling shifted to a growl.
Picking up his pace, he made his way towards the glittering objects in the distance. Guess we're about to find out. He led them onwards until he could see the source of the strange reflection. It was some sort of glass or crystal or gem, though he couldn't tell exactly what from here.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
There was no argument found in the back of his throat or in the push of his mind. The mettle and grit slowly dissipated, and in its place was a mental fatigue, a worn, drawn blade exhausted by remaining on guard for so long. For trying to find roots when there was no place for his, gathered up in acrimony and festering away along ribcages and walls. There were no other answers either, the beckoning of who knows and information he’d already noted from their meeting transpiring – the Ascended incapable of being healed by the water, and their own time limited.
So what now? What next? There has to be something else. Or they were all damned again.
The cavern itself, perhaps – a transfixing thing when he finally righted his senses, when something other than listlessness or rage could fill it. They had managed to center themselves directly into some formation of glass or gem-designs, and for a second he could only stare – reminded of things from the past, of kaleidoscope fixtures pressed into stone, either gifted from gods or transpiring from those who’d come before. His eyes attempted to take in every measure, every machination, every press of color flickering from the corners of his gaze. Eventually he grabbed hold of his satchel, removing a pad of paper and charcoal, sketching out a rudimentary map of their travels, in case it was necessary for later, or merely to depart. A few arches and maneuvers of the tunnel, and he placed both in a back pocket, raising the lantern light as he advanced around the room. Zuriel wisely stayed put within the center, a unicorn brow arched.
Then Deimos maneuvered closer, along the sides, calloused fingers drawn to sparkle of blueish hues, running over the edges. It does not seem to be glass.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Whining again, Loren felt himself shivering. I don't know. He bared his teeth and snarled a little. But I have to believe there is a permanent cure for everyone as well. Falling silent, he glanced at Deimos.
Then they arrived at a cavern filled with the strange, glittering, and multifaceted material. The healer stared at it wide eyed, standing in the entrance, until Astra bumped his side. Then he shook out his mane and entered into the cave proper.
Heading in the opposite direction from the Sword, the Firebrand reared up and placed his front paws on the wall. No it does not. As the luxere joined Zuriel, Loren tapped the substance with a claw and sniffed it. I don't know. Some sort of weird quartz? He dropped to the ground and continued padding around the area.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
A manifestation of emotions: irritation, exasperation, frustration, brewing over the cauldrons of grief, was enough to earn another clenched jaw, a feral sigh, as he stared at the objects around them. He wasn’t even certain if this area had been worth the sojourn, the exhaustion, or the fatigue, besides the shine, the sheen, the glimmer. What was the purpose? Why was it there? Speculations turned and churned over the rest of the acrimony, and perhaps that was far more, far better, than the other machinations beginning to sear at flesh and blood. “Have you been anywhere else?” Found anything? Maybe it’d be impossible to tell, to know, in delirious wanderings. Gods knew he couldn’t make heads or tails of half the things he’d done or wandered amidst.
He crouched down, further surveying a larger piece – hints of green in its sanction – eyes narrowing, before opting to try something. Earthen incantations unfurled, intending to coax, to hone, to sharpen, to bend, to warp, around the item, until it could be taken out of the wall, plucked from the sanction.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Deimos didn't respond to Loren's statement, at least not directly. The healer tracked the Sword for a moment. However, the Firebrand was soon swept up in his inspection of the cavern. After a visual and olfactory inspection turned up nothing, he tried to claw one of the gems out of the wall. However, his efforts were for naught.
Continuing to make his way around the cavern, Astra by his side, he paused at the other man's question. I have, Loren admitted, resuming his trek. Wessex and I went to a waterfall. I think. He chuffed out some air. I was sick, and she teleported us, so my memory of it is a bit fuzzy.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The gem dropped into his hand, and prospered nothing. No sensations. No movement. No motion. No figments of sagacity suddenly, instantly, rampaging through his mind. Wasted efforts and pursuits, naught to show for their wandering and exploration, save for the object in between calloused digits. He was sorely enticed to punt it off the wall in frustration, to watch it zig and zag between stone and mire and maybe hit something as it bounded and ricocheted. Perhaps it’d be satisfying, but only a for a moment, a second, an instance; which even now, seemed rare and brief. Instead, the Sword marched over to where he’d left his bag, the markings and etchings of the map still on the paper, placing the stone within. “I took one of them,” and he held it out for Loren to see and inspect – but that likely hardly mattered either. Another dead end.
He waited for the Firebrand to complete his sojourn around the room, head hanging low again as another sigh traced its way through his lungs and out into the vestiges. His gaze only flickered back to the lion upon his statement – waterfalls, with Wessex – and then the teleportation, the nuances that it could signify emptiness too. “Did you find anything there?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
