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!
Sometimes, despite every press of sagacity, every rush of machinations, every aspiring calculation, he still ended up a massive fool. In between melees of repercussions, of sicknesses, of grief, he stumbled and fumbled, incapable of getting out of his own way. He’d always sunk like a stone, he’d always persevered but was held back by tethers and lines of failures – and by now he should’ve had thousands of anchors snaring him into the earth, or below its surface, where he could dwell and cease to damage the rest of the void.
So it was another call to action, another method of moving forward, of drifting elsewhere, and not in the dark contortions of his mind, not in the broken oaths, not in the way death after death, loss after loss, had shaped and sculpted – a time to re-forge, to press fire back into his wake and remember exactly who he was.
Mighty. Strong. Determined. With or without shields and eclipses, harpies and valkyries; he could live and breathe and rekindle Reaper attributes and stalwart, Sword promises, he could, he could, he could –
Therein he wandered, along the intrigues and levels of Snowcloak, weapons tucked along his hilt, carrying his head high, and not backing into crags, not falling apart or buckling at the seams, the strands, the maligned filaments.
Morgan usually, when training, focused on matters of strength. Combat had been her primary work for years, after all, and she enjoyed the easy display of progress that came from it, the way she could see her muscles grow and power increase over time, her ability with her weapons increasing over the years until she could truly say she had mastered them.
Recently though, she'd thought it might be a good idea to work on her other skills as well. She knew that she was good at durability, could walk for miles up mountains at a steady pace and not falter; the one area where she truly needed improvement was agility. Speed and movement in the moment, instinctual and quick dodging and jumping. It was as much a part of combat as anything else, but had not as of yet been her driving motivation.
Leaving her cloak at the Palace but still dressing warmly (she was hoping to work up a sweat, but this was still Halo), she jogged through the streets, trying to build up an ability to keep up a decent speed before she mixed in more daring moves. On her way down the main street of Snowcloak she saw Deimos; he was recovering from his illness, but Morgan thought he might like to use his body while he had it, given the chance of a relapse once his week was through.
"Deimos!" She called, stopping by him and catching her breath. "Would you...like to run...with me? I'm looping back around to the palace. Might be...might be a good way for you to exercise, after your time incapacitated."
His mind had begun to map out routes, much like he’d done in the Grounds, steps repeating them if necessary to obtain the desired effect of understanding, of knowing where streets branched and avenues twisted, turned, where surroundings mauled together. It was different from the Sanctuary, where the worn cobblestones, the alleyways, had been learned rapidly – especially when there hadn’t been other worlds to venture towards until barriers fell. These were simpler machinations, but necessary, given his choices both when sick and the current, not succumbing to the illness still residing, still waiting, still lingering and lurking under the surface.
The Sword didn’t think he’d hear his name called on the wind, and arched a brow at the familiar voice as it whipped toward him, rapidly churning down the paths, gaze glancing over his shoulder, following her motions until the Warden was at his side.
He managed a snort at her question – already thinking it was an improbable situation; his endurance and fortitude knocked down a few pegs by the sickness, by the weakness snagged at his bones, by the lack of nutrients when he’d refused water or food for so long. He’d taken opportunities frequently to replenish what he’d lost, especially with the notion that he would eventually succumb again.
Except it was tempting, the thought of just racing off. No calculations required. No moments of strategy. No melancholy strangling, gripping, and taking hold. He’d been fairly decent at speed, even with his powerful, massive figure –
Even more enticing, was the tracing of paws in snow.
“Sure.” And then, perhaps because he was comfortable here, perhaps because the mischief lodged within was desperate to do something out of all the convictions immersed in misery – he prospered a challenge. “We can make it more interesting though.” A shrug to his shoulders, gaze sweeping back to the Palace imposing a fair distance away; enough opportunities to gain platitudes and rankle their dual, serious natures. His hand reached out to tap lightly across the top of her head. “Tag!”
Then he instantly shifted into a hellhound – a ripple of might and power, massive paws to launch over streets and stones, a loud bark following, as his towering fortitude leapt into the street.
Pleased to hear him agree Morgan smiled, her expression turning slightly questioning as he mentioned making it 'interesting'. When she was tagged, Deimos' hand coming to tap at her head, she almost couldn't believe it, wondered if he was suffering under the sicknesses' delusions; but a moment later decided it didn't matter. Some fun was what they all needed, and if this would bring them both a little joy, there was no reason not to.
She might have argued that his shift was cheating, but Morgan wasn't one for whining. Immediately she began to run again, feet pounding hard against cobbles as she dived through crowds and between buildings, down alleyways she knew to be shortcuts, to catch up with Deimos: It was likely an odd site, for many of Halo's citizens, the Warden running down the street, smile on her face, chasing a large dog.
Cutting through a tunnel between two buildings to catch Deimos' unaware, she managed to close up a lot of the gap between them that had built from his speed. While not entirely by his side yet, Morgan was making ground, almost able to reach out and touch the Hellhound.
He’d have no qualms causing minor squabbles, stampedes, or mischief when amusements had been sparse and gone for months, seasons, days upon days upon days with no relief in sight except some darker, more abysmal thresholds. The beast gave no further thought into the enveloping, shrouding, bombarding, haunting gestures – how he would’ve done this with Kiada without a plan, just action and joy, chasing and rampaging – striving for concentration.
Morgan already had the natural advantage in knowing her way around this world – Deimos had to stick to the routes visible, paws inclining along slopes and streets, a howl extended from his lungs when too many people were gathered in a section he intended to course through. He’d lost the Warden quickly, only for her to reappear along a side-street, and while dodging around several onlookers, he’d already lost the ample momentum he’d built up. A growl hastened, and he plowed onward and around, limbs striving to reach, to scrape along stones, to outpace once more.
Morgan did catch Deimos unawares as she had intended to, her intimate knowledge of her home for the moment enough of an advantage to beat out Deimos' better strength and speed in his Hellhound form. In the moment of surprise she had gained, where his momentum was lost and his paws slowed on the cobbles, she surged forwards, using the opportunity given to reach and touch his back, her fingers barely reaching fur; they did, though, so she called: "Tag!"
Was this unprofessional in front of her citizens? Maybe so, but it was fun, and she so rarely had that.
Now he would chase her and she was confident he could catch up, in a straight forward battle of ability. Morgan would need to be creative; she turned on her heel and ran to the side, to a small alley consisting mostly of steep steps, leading up to a higher street; hopefully the steps might give Deimos more issues than her; at the top there was a small gate, which she vaulted over easily, trying not to stop at all before heading down the new route.
Slowed down significantly by the people (who simultaneously scattered as he loomed and swerved), it was only a matter of moments left and spared before her hand reached fur. He emitted the most minute of growls, a snort, a shake of his canine head, before eyes had to narrow in speculation as she hastened off in another direction.
A challenge; portions of temperamental amusements he thrived upon. Not to be taken lightly or underestimated, the beast coiled thereafter, rapacious, ravenous strides chipping away at the steps – launching, leaping, ample amounts of training, of experience in this particular form leant him the knowledge of what he was capable of. The stairs were nothing, and neither was the gate – though he’d give her praise for the clever notations of trying to slow him down. His hind bunched and coiled in one fluid movement and motion, paws and limbs landing nimbly on the other side, racing, racing, racing down infernal lines.
His long muzzle reached out for an elbow, a sharpened bark hastening forth – an announcement of his prowess and bemusements.
Before ducking to the left, hastening upwards, muscles bound and elongated, strides sweeping…
And a little fire emitted from his footfalls, just for fun – certain the Warden could handle the magic suddenly unfurling along the street.
The stairs and gate had been a gamble, and it seemed not one that turned out as well as Morgan had hoped; Deimos leaped over the obstacle in one smooth motion, the sound of his paws hitting the floor audible not long after Morgan had cleared the gate herself. Still, the only way for her to win this challenge was to use her mind, rather than her legs; he was still far more powerful.
As expected he got her back; letting out a good-natured yell of defeat, she spun on her heels to watch him run away, fire magic spreading from his feet and through the road; luckily, not enough to hurt anybody, and certainly something she could manage. Chasing after him, Morgan used her water to put out individual fires as she went, the focus required admittedly making her a little slower than she would want to be.
Ahead of them was an empty street, one coincidentally devoid of footfall for the moment. Using this opportunity, she focused to draw her water magic up before Deimos in a mighty wave, several feet high, to make him pause so she could catch up.
The Sword expected the water; a slight rise to his hackles, a wrinkle to his nares, as it swept along – turning his head to watch as the flames were put out one by one, and then, shifting quickly, abruptly, he met the wave head-on.
A note of surprise yelped through him, a light bark, because he should’ve been prepared, should’ve predicted that contortion too as the showers ranged over his fur, wet and sodden. Games and amusements prevailed though, whisking away the ease of frustration that seasons and years before would’ve worn over his flesh, wondered why he wasn’t better, stronger, faster, and far more capable.
He let it all slide off of him with the instinctual shake of his body, and perhaps the spray would dissuade her for a moment, before he plunged himself onward, racing, racing, racing, attempting to make up for the pause – uncertain if there was much else to be gained. A formidable dash up a nearby side street, which could always prove to be his undoing, insinuated a ducking, a maneuvering, a vicious howl rampaging through the grounds.
Morgan let out a laugh as she saw Deimos be clearly shocked by the wave; while he may have had her beaten on sheer force, it seemed she could still win some battles through strategy. While he was surprised she focused on her speed, trying to close the distance between them as much as she could while he was stopped in the wave. Really, given his form, she should have expected the shake, but she didn't: in the split second before she could force the droplets away with her magic, Morgan was hit with the water and paused just long enough to let Deimos get away.
He ran up a side street; she watched him go, trying to think in her mental map where it went; only to one place, an alley that ran along the back of the houses on the street; an idea formed.
Morgan, in a few swift movements (and a little bit of magical assistance) raised herself up onto the roof of one of the houses, waited for Deimos to come around the corner beneath. Once he was there, in place on the cobbles below she would jump, attempting to pin him down to the street and catch him there.
Perhaps this was why he always hunted familiar routes and roots, built up fortifications around things he knew and understood, why he chased the void from his savage lairs in the Basin, why he ran his tempestuous eaves through the crossfire of accustomed sanctuaries. There were eternal benefits to knowing the layout of one’s land – and he merely hadn’t had the opportunity to adapt.
So while he rampaged with his speed, with his precision, the odds still weren’t stacked in his favor. Which he’d understood plainly already, but still coursed through, still presided, still amused and benefitted from the chase, the reel, the opportunity to unfurl and unleash, without too much pain, or anguish. A different mode and style of training, and he might’ve enjoyed it even further if –
Morgan hadn’t consequently launched from a greater height, and crashed into his hellhound form.
With no time to defend against it, with naught to prepare but swiftness, she caught his hindquarters, and sent him spiraling into the cobblestones. The impact left his breath reeling, one sharpened bark (the pain and shock, from years upon years of battle, settled and scorched inwardly) left his chest, and then sides began to heave, striving for extra air; the wind knocked out of his sails. It’d been a bewildering enterprise to his already recovering frame, but an effective tag. For an instant, he made no motion to move, save for ribs and lungs inhaling, exhaling, at a rapid pace.
Morgan had intended to land and stop Deimos, grab him if possible; she had not meant to hurt him. The sharp bark pierced through the air and made her grit her teeth, the Warden swiftly getting up and heading over to where the Hellhound laid, going to kneel by him and offer out a hand (though she supposed he would have to shift back to take it).
"I apologise. I did not mean to land quite so hard." She explained, looking him over for any sign of serious injury; it seemed he was alright. "Perhaps that's enough running around for today? You are still ill, after all." She thought it unlikely he'd still want to rush around after he had been hit, and while Morgan was never one to be vain, she probably didn't need to let her reputation get muddied by running around slapping dogs too much.
It wouldn’t be the first, nor the last, that games had gone awry. He merely hadn’t anticipated the amount of harm that would come to him so readily after afflictions, after knowing he needed to take it easy; but such had been the way of the land lately, and being incapable of sensing it rendered him foolish once more. The beast granted himself a few more moments of recovery time, where his lungs didn’t ache, but rising from the ground drew a smarting, wincing shake of his frame.
Morgan didn’t really need to apologize; his errors had been his own, and he wouldn’t bear a grudge for the way things had gone. But he didn’t readily shift back into his towering form, preferring the hound for the moment, uncertain if he’d be able to make it all the way back up to the Palace on wounded, bruised bones –
Which was when Zuriel came charging in from the side-streets, ears pinned, senses bombarded with every manner of ill will. His stare went from the Warden to the unicorn, resigned to the lecture bounding through the bonded contortions and adornments, half-listening while she bent her horn towards his fur and started the notion of healing.
Attention deviating and wandering, he could only nod at Morgan’s proclamation – the fun ceasing, gone for the moment. A sharpened bark indicated no hurt feelings, no matters of belligerence or rancor, before a wag of a tail, platitudes of gratitude, and he and Zuriel hastened back towards the Palace, a little more wary, but determined too (more advantages to be gained from these preceding notions).
