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!
'Cause she's just like the weather Can't hold her together Born from dark water
Daughter of the r a i n and s n o w
She nods slowly in response to his reasoning, because it makes some sense. "I think I understand." Unconsciously Amalia runs a hand through her hair, briefly exposing the shrapnel scars that littler the left side of her brow like stars. Some scars and wounds make people who they are; she'd said the same to Loren, once, when he wiped her history away.
Scooting onto the edge of the hotspring, Amalia lets her fingers dangle into the water, relishing the warmth. "Is that like a... a medic?" the Shield wonders of Falke, head tilted curiously. "My mother was a medic... though she didn't heal minds. I don't think there are many with that ability." The idea of a therapist is so woefully far from her lexicon as to be nonexistent. And yes, she does wonder if he couldn't heal his own hip, but she does not press the issue more than she already has.
The question he puts has her blushing again, an awkward chuckle leaving her as she frowns in bemused thought. "I don't... I'm a baker. Have been most of my life." Her hands have returned to her lap, now, and she stares at the flower she holds. "Though... I guess I don't really do that anymore." Absently she bites on her lip, eyes still fixed on the flower, though her expression grows steadily softer, warm. "I suppose I, I'm doing what I always wanted, now. Serving the Old Gods as best I can. Trying to help preserve the balance- to walk the line of life."
A halo of marigolds has sprung up in her hair by the time Amalia finishes, her voice hot with passion and pride at the thing she has become. Terrifying as it may be, the Shield has always yearned for this; inadequate as she often feels, her appreciation remains undimmed. Turning vibrant black eyes upon him, the girl smiles, tilting her head. "What about you? If you could be anything, what would you be?"
“Mmmmm, yes. A medic and then some.” Humming in agreement, Falke has to remind himself that the Ground had been isolated for three hundred years and was seriously underperforming when it came to the residents’ knowledge. “I’m the head of a team, so we have our separate duties. I tend to focus on people’s minds while the other focuses on their bodies.” It’s really a very efficient system that he and Doctor Hart have. They work well together, they know each other’s body language and non-verbal signals, their tendencies.
That probably makes Doctor Hart family. A random smile surfaces at the thought, probably somewhere between Amalia talking about how few have his capabilities and being a baker. “An underrated profession,” he quietly declares, thinking of assortment of baked goods he would shovel into his mouth if given half the chance. Scones, cakes, muffins, cookies, hot loaves of bread and gods, pies. “Bakers are some of my favorite people. I’m a sucker for pretty much anything made with flour, eggs, and sugar.”
Watching Amalia transform as she answers the question, Falke smiles also, feeling better than he’s felt in what seems like years. “The line of life. What an interesting phrase.” And yet, quite apt, he supposes. It can’t be easy, and Falke is not jealous. Even if the flowers are a cool party trick.
“Oh, I’m actually pretty happy doing what I do. I suppose I might want my own practice one day instead of working for my boss, but I like helping others and learning about people. So… a librarian maybe? Of a giant public library, where all the knowledge in the world could be found and it could be open to all people.”
Ah, all the right people, that is. The ones who would use it for good. He shrugs. “I’m quite content, though. Aside from my boss.”
'Cause she's just like the weather Can't hold her together Born from dark water
Daughter of the r a i n and s n o w
"It's the- it's something Vi refers to," Amalia explains, hesitating to admit that it is something he said to her. "That walking the line between life and death is a difficult thing to do." She remembers it keenly: her deep despair, the failure she thought she would never recover from, and then the warmth of seeing him. And then to be chosen by him again - it is everything she has ever wanted, and she practically glows at the thought of it.
It takes her a moment to refocus on Falke, her dark eyes warm as a smile crosses her face. "That does sound incredible," Amalia agrees, imagining such a library, such access. "You should- there's a library in the Grounds, though it's rather old. But you might like to visit it." Perhaps he has, but something tells Amalia that's unlikely.
Dipping her fingers into the water, Amalia hums a musing note. "What's wrong with your boss?" she wonders, having never found herself in a position of being under a direct supervisor before.
Musing to himself as he stands in the steaming water to test his hip and other various no-longer-aching parts, Falke glances at her with raised brows. “That’s a lot to place on someone.” And what he knows of Vi lends the Fixer to think he’s a stoic, from-afar kind of God. Not like the ever-welcoming Mort, though they are soulbound. “An honor and a burden.”
It would be terribly forward to ask within minutes of meeting her how she toes that line, so he shelves that question for now.
He’s happy to switch back to Cian. Shrugging his shoulders, the Fixer means to throw the comment away. “Nothing wrong, exactly. He is a hard man with an immensely difficult job and the actual weight of the world on his shoulders.” Hell, it would probably take a month of massages in the Silk Houses for the Eye to begin to relax all the knots in his shoulders.
“I’m sometimes torn between what I have to do and what I actually think will help people.” But that’s just the nature of being an adult and living in the real world. And in the end, it’s better to having to answer to a God. Another shrug. It is what it is.
'Cause she's just like the weather Can't hold her together Born from dark water
Daughter of the r a i n and s n o w
"It isn't always easy," Amalia agrees, a distant smile on her face as she turns to look across the cave, 'But it's the path I always wanted, and I wouldn't trade it for anything." As much as she may sometimes wish it, as much as she may doubt herself, Amalia loves the path she is on - and it shows like sunlight on her face.
It's easier to talk about mortals than gods, about workspaces and jobs that are less amorphous. Tilting her head at the description of this mystery man who carries the world, Amalia furrows her brow. "That does sound difficult," the Shield agrees softly, chewing gently on her lip. As to being torn? "You walk your own line," Amalia says, nodding.
It's growing hot, stiflingly so. The Shield stands slowly, stretching like a cat as she uncoils from her seat. "Are you ready to place the flower?" she asks, glancing with a smile back to Falke. "I'm afraid I'm a bit impatient. I've been sick for a long time."
“Of course, just let me put my clothes back on” Falke nods in understanding, testing his newfound range of motion under the water and finding it satisfactory - nay, far better than satisfactory. He feels fucking great and the only reason to linger would be for science - which is not a priority at the moment. Taking the few steps back to the lip of the lip of the pool, the Fixer gingerly maneuvers out of the water, sweat and water mingling as he begins to shake off a bit. Hm. Drying off may be futile.
Regardless, the glistening man feels the need to return to some semblance of proprietary and with a hand on the wall out of habit, forces first one leg through his pants, then the other. A little shimmy and he’s reclothed from the waste down. “Thanks you for the indulgence,” he offers with a crooked smile before heaving the pack back on his shoulders, shirt looped around his neck.
With a sort of expectation in his dark brown eyes, he looks back to the demigoddess. “After you.”
