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!
Nothingness to begin their trek didn’t dissuade the Sword – if anything, it gave him more time to survey the domain, more time to figment and segment his sights on something so eerily, so enigmatically familiar, and not all at once. He blinked rapidly to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating, since it could’ve been a real possibility, the remaining coherence justifying it was a tangible, real thing as he crouched closer to its depths, unfurling a larger vial from his satchel. Nostalgia lingered in his chest, in his mind, suddenly, painstakingly, aching for a world he couldn’t ever have again. Despite all of the god damned antics, all the plotting, all the derision, all the savagery, there’d been bright moments within too – intervals beneath the cool, crisp mountainside, where the stars shone clear, where the hues dazzled the sights, where there was naught to rival supremacy, power, or beauty. There would’ve been Rexanna, and Kiada too.
He dipped the carafe into the contents of the springs, let his calloused fingers trace over the warmth, and remembered, recalled, how many times he’d slithered and crawled into such fathoms after a battle. After blood and loss. After demolition and mayhem, where every muscle screamed and every fiber howled, and where every scar still bled, inwardly, outwardly. The water filled into the jug, flowing, flowing, flowing, furtive, specious reminders of alterations and ailments, when he recalled Chulane was still there. Had spoken.
The chill running down his spine could’ve been the return of the sickness, or the resurgence of ghosts. Deimos stayed there a moment longer, hesitating, permitting the healing remnants to surge over his skin, his hand, until he lifted it out of the springs. “We had one of these in the Aurora Basin.” A nod, a clench to his jaw, as he regained his prior position, maneuvering closer to his satchel, and retrieving another flask. She’d been so close too. So damned close. “She would have.” An agreement, in the parting of souls, in the way the fire-laden youth had lived, breathed, and died.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
10-13-2020, 07:27 AM (This post was last modified: 10-13-2020, 07:30 AM by Chulane.)
CHULANE
God, it hurts to be human
Without you, I'd be losing
He wasn't terribly surprised that they didn't find any other lilies; the beautiful, precious flowers were scarce, a rarity - though the group he and Morgan had come with before had been fortunate enough to find two of them. He'd had concerns that even the single one he'd found that venture could have been the last, could have led to extinction of a species - he sincerely hoped he was wrong. The cure depended on him being wrong.
Sorrow for what could have been simmered below the surface, sobering his otherwise optimistic mood - he felt better when he was taking action, when he was working towards a goal. It gave at least the illusion of progress, and allowed him to keep placing one foot in front of the other, to keep moving forward, and hopefully get through this tricky time as well.
He reflected on conversations of the past, on Kiada speaking of her home, of areas similar to this. And he couldn't help but wonder at how many of those experiences Deimos shared with her - there was no jealousy, simply curiosity, and perhaps some desire to share, to reminisce, to give an opportunity for her to be remembered, spoken about, by those who loved her.
"I came to the Climb, not long after the season turned. I wanted… to find where she fell." Quiet words came as his motions mimicked the General's, bending at the edge of the pools to fill the various containers they had brought. He hadn't told another soul this, unless one counted the semi-disastrous venture across the sea ice and the stranger he'd found himself paired with.
"I couldn't. Didn't."
And someday, we'll face the music
God, it hurts to be human
Quiet again, immersed back into those contemplative silences, where he sank into rivulets of the known, his eyes only fell upon the vials, lulled by the babbling trickle of water. It wasn’t the same, and he had to remind himself over and over again – not the lairs of caves between Basin complexes, not the long, harsh, winding road leading between mountains and summits, not the bristling, harsh winds, not the void that had consumed him for so very long. No concentration was required in his midst of harsh requiems and hushed dirges, the song in his heart a clenching, disastrous tune (it sounded like knives, it sounded like stilettos, it sounded like daggers, piercing and sliding between his ribs, and she was still gone). He dipped another vial into the fathoms, and permitted his magic to press and cajole the water into its wake, smoothly captured, the topper placed, following through on pattern after pattern, so no one would be without again, and they wouldn’t have to suffer, wouldn’t have to be locked back in their endless abyss –
Chulane uttered something, and he froze. His body became an unyielding sort of thing, much like a honed weapon, ready to strike, ready to sizzle, ready to unleash; except this one was a mask, a pretense, so that he didn’t shatter. So that he didn’t warp. So that he didn’t fall apart at the seams again, between the ghosts and fragments, along the ethers and webs, the vestiges bombarding, haunting, death ricocheting on the tips of syllables and phrases.
Wanted to find where she fell.
Where she’d died. Perished. Gone out of their lives like a burnt out ember.
His jaw clenched, a feathering of muscles, and he looked down at the springs, a breath slowly cast out of him. That Chulane couldn’t spilled over too, and the uncertainty weighed heavily on the Sword now. Would he have done the same? “Where was it?”
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
God, it hurts to be human
Without you, I'd be losing
After a moment of thought, as he kept working away at filling containers before speaking. "Soulfire Reach, I think it's called." He filled another container. "It's all a bit of a blur. I travelled here without really thinking about… coming back. I just wanted to find the spot and.. I don't know." he admitted with a shrug, not making eye contact. He was ashamed for his actions, and had coped with the implications of them by simply not focussing on them too much.
He sighed.
"It was a long winding tunnel. The walls were like glass and crystal, with lava shining through. I don't know how long I was there for - I barely remember how I got there - before an ascended found me and his landshark led us back out." He summarised the trip in a bit of word vomit, and kept plugging away at filling containers all the while.
And someday, we'll face the music
God, it hurts to be human
10-25-2020, 10:08 AM (This post was last modified: 10-25-2020, 10:25 AM by Deimos.)
DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Another vial filled, another rendering of enchantment to center him, to grant some modicum of normalcy in breadth of his coiling, churning mind. The words Chulane spoke burned against him too, in another way, in another form, because more than once he’d thought about conducting similar motions. When the pain annihilated, lacerated, tore, when the grief was so overbearing, overwhelming, mind-numbing, all-consuming, when there seemed to be no escape from the terror, or from the ghosts lingering in between heart, ribs, and chest – he’d wondered if he could tumble into the abyss. If anyone would care if he sought the void. If the darkness finally washed over his senses again, and there’d be no more despair.
No more agony. No more, no more, no more.
His eyes went away from the water, and back to the other man, jaw clenching again, gaze narrowing, uncertain of how far to press or where to convey his sentiments. That he understood, comprehended, knew those feelings, even when he’d been a beast who endured, persevered, and remained. One bludgeoning motion after another cost him his strength: Rexanna, Kiada, Amalia, Hotaru. The list could’ve started even far earlier, but those names were enough for now. That somehow his limbs had taken his rattled, addled mind and tossed the rest of him into the snow, that he would’ve willingly stayed there for eternities, frozen and buried, bones unknown, indifferent.
Except that he’d been found, by phantoms in his mind, and by friends who refused to leave him behind.
So he wouldn’t let them stagger in those perils either.
“If it ever gets that bad again, let me know.” The implications there – the way the fathoms twisted and turned, mauled and crushed – and he could reach in, if the world let him, to grab and snag the brutality away for an instant, for a moment. “I will strive to do the same.” To not let the hollowed renderings catch him, swallow, devour, so that he could learn and live, even when it hurt, even when it threatened to crush.
But then there were descriptions of where he’d been, and the Sword recognized the components; he’d been amongst and amidst the same walls, the same glittering, bewildering caverns. “Loren and I went there too. I was looking for clues.” Before lilies, before they knew how many to snag and where to place them. “Grabbed a gem, but nothing happened.” A tilt of his head indicated more pondering, memories reeling over and over. “Amun found you then.” Landsharks, Ascended; it’d be that character - and perhaps Deimos was grateful to the latter even now; for he'd ensured Chulane had a distraction from the torrential claws of self-torment.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
God, it hurts to be human
Without you, I'd be losing
The silence stretched on, as they worked and silently chewed on the words, mulling over the implications. When Deimos did speak, did seek out his attention, and make his statement, the Chief was moved - a dampness that could be blamed on the humidity softened his eyes, as he nodded solemnly in response. "Thank you." For everything, was the silent addition, the words left unsaid out loud but heavily implied as he held the General's gaze.
Then they were bending over and working again, swallowing down the heaviness of the previous moment, to let conversation flow onto other things. "Yeah, Amun," he confirmed with a nod. "He tried to get a gem out, but couldn't make any of them budge." Before the cure, the lilies, before they knew just how much all of Caido were going to have to work together to get through this. Chuy shrugged at the memory.
"I went to the Mountain's Roar to put my lily in the archway. It was pretty incredible." He paused, as he considered it. "Though I suppose all this water has to come from somewhere. Have you seen a waterfall before?"
--
ooc: and here is where we do some gentle timebending >_>
And someday, we'll face the music
God, it hurts to be human
There would’ve been a time, a life, or any number of instances where Deimos would’ve tried to overcome the munitions, the demolition, and the despair all on his own. It wouldn’t have been successful either, not in his reasoning, not in his binding, not in his abilities. The emotions always seemed to drown without an outlet, stifled and left to rot in the pinnacles of his chest, in the arches of his soul, blackening, decaying, and multiplying until he was withering from the inside out too. It’d taken him a long time to realize he wasn’t alone here, and didn’t need to be – the walls could come down on occasion, his heart could see the light, his mind could be eased, and others could be permitted the same. He’d eternally offered his support in countless other manifestations – protection, shielding, action upon action, repose after repose. But there wasn’t any other way to mold over broken pieces and those left behind; save for being present. Not hiding in his shadows. Not tucking himself away in those thickets and copses of darkness, not falling into those enticing, tempting pitfalls, where it was comfortable and familiar, not pushing everyone and anyone away. Chulane didn’t deserve any of the latter anyway.
“You are welcome,” he resounded. He meant it. “She would not want us like this.” Brittle, chipping away, frayed at the ends, thorned, nettled, in constant, unwinding pain, because they couldn’t stand a life where she wasn’t there. He paused, gaze falling back to the water, to the ripples in the springs, to the container in his hands. “Would you like to hear a story about her?” A way to keep her alive, alive, alive.
The Sword didn’t have much to add in the wake of Amun; he liked the man well enough, tolerated him, gave him a guild when he knew he wouldn’t be returning to the Grounds. The Mountain’s Roar held a more interesting preamble, and he stood from his crouch, placing a stopper in the vial. “I have not journeyed there yet.” Hopefully soon, with lilies in tow. At the inquiry, a very boyish, juvenile sort of snicker fell over his mouth. “In Helovia, when we were invading another land.” The Hidden Falls; though he hadn’t looked into much of it – been preoccupied and busy obliterating Midas’ reign. “There is one in the Greatwood as well – the Crimson Cataract.” Exactly as it sounded, vibrant red pools and all.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
God, it hurts to be human
Without you, I'd be losing
No, she wouldn’t, he silently agreed, nodding to the sentiment. Kiada would want her friends to live, to stride forth into life as she did, bold and strong and determined. But Chulane had never claimed to be as strong as she was, he needed time to try and get back to who he was before, and even then, he wasn't sure he could endure that time…
But he would. For Deimos. For Morgan. For her.
"Always," he said, nearly jumping at the opportunity to hear more about her, to share her memories with one who arguably knew her best. "Whenever you want to share things like that… please do. My answer is always, Deimos." He offered a small, barely-there shadow of a smile, one that welcomed talk of her. Kiada would not become a taboo subject, would not be avoided to be discussed just because death made me uncomfortable. No, they would keep her memory alive, and thus keep her alive in their hearts, by sharing, always.
He nodded idly at his explanation of the waterfall he'd seen - though his homeland was vast and rich with diverse landscapes, he'd never ventured to a natural waterfall any bigger than a dip over small rocks in the local creek that ran through the family farm. When Deimos spoke, he was transported to other worlds, to where invasions were a thing and even to another realm here. "Ah, the Greatwood - I went to Fiat Lux there this year." She was meant to come with me.
"Water was a scarce resource on my homeworld - not too many waterfalls around." He commented, as he filled up yet another canister.
And someday, we'll face the music
God, it hurts to be human
The Sword had been uncertain in the wake of the offer; if it would be too much in the vestiges of suffering, if it would hollow out any attempts they’d already made towards healing, or if it would land somewhere in between, and be not enough at all. Hushed footfalls managed along the cavern floor, and he placed the vial within his bag, reaching for another to fill, repeating the process carefully, sitting down on the embankment, watching as his water magic contorted and coiled again towards the glass. “When I ruled over the Basin, we would occasionally have to recruit others to join the land.” A shrug; as if it were common place for a kingdom’s numbers to suffer and dwindle, for people to come and go, for wreckage, ruin, and then prosperity. Sometimes it’d been cyclical, sometimes it’d been after wars, sometimes it’d been within peace. “So we held a contest. Thought it might motivate.” Half a smile emerged along the corners of his mouth, and his eyes cast upon the pool again, lost a little, in the memories of times where no one had yet perished or departed.
“She was still quite young, but far more bolder and determined than the rest of them.” A glimpse, a picture, contorted through his mind, of little Kiada, adorned in her fire and embers, of how he remembered her defiant chin, her audacious steps – sharing it with Chulane across the Attuned bond. “Day after day, she worked tirelessly to coax people to come to the mountains.” Better and brighter than her brother would ever be – and the Reaper had been curious, then amused, by Rexanna’s daughter. “When the time came, her efforts had been far superior to everyone else’s. And she won.” A triumph, likely the first of many – before the Lord of the Basin breathed his last, and wound up here. The trials and circumstances aplenty. He arched a brow at Chulane, waiting for a comment, before proceeding into the other subjects.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t balk, didn’t shudder at the mention of Fiat Lux – because he’d had wonderful, grand memories there, and then disastrous ones too. They hadn’t even attended the last one. He took in a deep breath, permitting the exhale to last far longer than the inhale, until it flickered and beat against his lungs, and then the plumes and pockets of air. “The celebration was better in prior years,” a smirk resting there, an offhand comment to days when they hadn’t been so bent, broken, and bleeding from the inside out. “Kiada and I once shot flower crowns at the crowd, using the catapult.” A picture he’d let Chulane imagine for himself.
The third vial followed after the others, until he only had two left, resuming the pattern, except dangling his limbs over the edge this time, permitting the heat to smolder around the fringes and boundaries. At the other man’s statement, he found he didn’t know much of the man’s history; some adornments from family dinners, where he’d had no idea that last words had been uttered towards him, where the last sparks of sedition infused with laughter would no longer ring against his ears. “Where did you come from?” Outlanders – swept away from the midst of all they’d known.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
