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!
Something about the wide open space, the endless snow, the stark, blinding glimpse of ice, settled him. Relaxed, and in repose, a sanctum, a sanctuary, probably few found comfort in – but for a monolith who had once protected, defended, and ruled over a world vastly similar to this one, it was a welcome sight, an open relief. These weren’t his ghosts, these weren’t his wraiths, these weren’t his phantoms, but the cold, and the unrelenting wind blasting through its interims were beatific reminders, glimpses of a time he wasn’t so broken.
The Sword found a spot on the outskirts, not so foolish or dim to place himself in wide-open vulnerability, especially when still afflicted and requiring the aid of the Frey’s Breath water to keep himself out of delirium and sickness. Placing himself along a boulder, and Zuriel tucked nearby, legs curled as she leaned against the rocky expanse, Deimos began to ponder offerings. Bestowals. Gifts for a god he didn’t know, but had to trust in granting and giving them a cure – for he refused to go to the Voice for the latter. Not after the blight. Not after multitudes of other anomalies, destructions, and oaths.
Instead of flames then, he began to coax his creation invocations together, and a metallic, blackened structure started to form between gilded pulses, waves, and summonings.
Loren was on his way back to the Hollowed Ground, pack on his back. However, as he trudged down the road from the Citadel, a familiar figure caught his eye. Hesitating for just a moment, he changed course and head towards Deimos.
"General," the healer called out once he was close enough. Astra trotted past him, on the hunt for Zuriel. When the luxere spotted the unicorn, the Firebrand's companion bleated and dashed forwards to greet the Sword's bondmate.
Smiling, Loren felt it slip away as he returned his attention to Deimos. The healer cleared his throat and ran his hands up and down the straps of his bag. "What're you up to?"
The Sword figured he’d be alone – the broader reach of this world seemed to hold in stronger voids, where a soul could be tucked away for eternities, and most wouldn’t wander out to find them. The space provided relief, the winds some cool familiarity, and the roots of his convictions could spread, instead of being constantly devoured or conquered. The metal in his hands continued its expanding, taking shape, the structure maintaining its illustrious composition in obsidian lacquer, the top of the design sweeping back and forth like flames.
He paused, observing the work, intending to implement the further workings in his mind, the sketches reeling through machinations and depictions he’d set apart, when a voice called over the plain. The beast raised his cranium from the examinations, the studies, perusing the outline, recognizing the healer instantly. “Loren,” he presided in a rumble, an arch to his brow at the pack on the man’s back, but saying nothing in its stead. How many times had he traversed with his munitions and supplies? Perhaps it was a habitual thing here too – expecting danger and treachery at every turn.
Zuriel extended her greetings to the luxere in a light snort and whinny, rising from where she’d been tucked along the boulder. The monolith’s attention, while sitting upon the rock, drifted back to the creation in his hands, lifting up the half-finished lantern. “Offering for Tanau.” A shrug, indicating he wasn’t certain if it was viable, necessary, or just something to pass the time. “And you?”
Watching as the object took shape in Deimos' hands, Loren nodded in response to the General's own greeting. Astra tucked herself against the much larger unicorn's side, nuzzling against Zuriel. However, the luxere was careful to keep her antlers out of the way.
Looking between the gift and the other man, the healer smiled though it slipped away swiftly. "I see." He gestured at the offering that was still taking shape. "It's a good idea. He likes fire and metal, things that he can find in the Climb."
Shrugging, he patted the straps of his bag. "I'm going to spend a few days in the Hollowed Ground. I...needed to clear my head." Looking down, he studied the snow at his feet, not particularly wanting to see the expression on Deimos' face.
Zuriel was content with Astra; though gave half a warning when the antlers became a little too close with a brief snort, before shuffling and lowering herself back down at the boulder’s side, tucked, safe, secure, and out of the billowing wind as it stretched by. The monolith arched a brow at Loren’s insinuations of what Tanau liked; the elemental factions and figures had only been a rough estimate at best – as someone who also preferred flames. Fire and metal. Brimstone and lacquer, and he nodded, a shrug following through.
Then his skull dipped again, restoring the magic gilded in between his palms, conforming over the bottom half of the lantern, granting and giving it tangibility as the molding, the sculpting, began to churn, never losing its luster. But his head tilted, listening all the while, capable of riveting the attention amongst and amidst other keen notes.
Like the ones Loren seemed to hint, insinuate, between blurry lines and meandering of straps. The General paused, lifting his piercing gaze back to the healer, the arch of his brow remaining. Deimos, not privy or drawn into the thick of dramatics, theatrics, and everything else that coincided within the Citadel recently (busy snagging at lilies, or drowning away the angles of afflictions with the springs’ water), had no predilections towards the occurrences, or why Loren would be drawn back into the threshold of the Grounds. “Something wrong?” An assumption towards either some other multitudes of crisis in the Hollowed sanction, or anything else. Given the state of this earth in a constant, never-ending flux of chaos, despair, and every other damned faction in between, it was a likely speculation.
Astra tucked herself away as well, snuggling against Zuriel. However, the luxere took the unicorn's warning to heart. The Firebrand's companion was sure to keep her antlers to herself.
Watching as the gift took further shape in Deimos' skillful hands, Loren found himself smiling. "It's beautiful." He nodded at the metal.
When the General asked whether something was wrong, however, the healer's smile faltered. Looking down, he ran a hand through his hair. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, he sighed. "What...how much do you know about the situation surrounding the cure the Voice made?" He hated how timid the response sounded, but was careful to keep the emotions roiling within him from the Attuned bond.
Zuriel, for all her pride, arrogance, and distinctive, tempestuous moods, enjoyed Astra’s presence, and proffered a space for the luxere while the men discussed subjects that didn’t matter to the unicorn. Selfish one moment, and selfless in the next, her capricious composition might’ve been an overbearing, enigmatic thing, but she permitted a place for fellow animals, those bonded to fools, those caught in the grip of loyalty and connections.
The Sword, despite action upon action, trial after trial, tribulation amongst tribulations, still never quite understood how to take a compliment, and never expected them when they rendered over the air. A breath loosened from his chest, and the smallest of smiles beckoned on a tilt of his head, as he studied and surveyed the rendered artifact. “Thank you.” Maybe it was relaxing, a relief, for once to not be delving into an item for someone he cherished (someone gone); lacking in the beatific symbolism. Merely there; untarnished by every other misfortune come to rest on cataclysms and bedlam.
A brief study, a perusal, of Loren’s features meant the inquiry had touched, segmented, a nerve. The inquisition to follow his own brandished a weight of ignorance, and perhaps that was beneficial in some way, to not have been caught in the crossfires, in the smoke, haze, and plumes of particular disasters. Quiet, unassuming, fighting the onslaught along his own reaches and potency; drifting into caves to search and snag for lilies with those who were willing to assist. “Just that you had the metal. And the Voice found a cure.” That he didn’t trust, and therefore, didn’t receive, remaining unaware that they’d even been remotely connected.
Astra gladly took the spot Zuriel offered. Glancing over at the companions, Loren smiled. He looked back at Deimos, simply nodding at the General's thanks. The healer continued to examine the Sword's creation, the Firebrand's eyes taking in every aspect of it.
When the conversation swung around to the cure, though, he grimaced. Rubbing the back of his head, he took a deep breath. "I had the metal, yes. Sunjata and Nate came to tell me the Voice could use the metal for a cure. I told them I'd rather see if the other cure I discovered first would work before handing anything over to the Voice, knowing full well I would be prolonging the suffering of the Ascended by doing so." He bit his lip, not looking at Deimos, not wanting to see what the other man thought of that decision.
"Soon after, Amalia, Ronin, Remi, and Morgan came to see me. They demanded I turn over the metal, the latter three so they could take it to the Voice." Jaw feathering with tension, Loren concluded, "I escaped and brought it to the Voice myself, as per their judgment."
With the companions settled comfortably, content, the beast continued in his manifestations: the work bristling in finishing accords, warping, sculpting, molding in its metallic precision. Until finally it seemed rendered complete – a shiny obsidian lacquer to polish it with a vicious sheen. He held it aloft in his fingers, spinning from the handle to inspect each side, and when the details seemed adequate and defined, he set it down along the snow, where it stood out in the stark oblivion. Not to be left idle, he then snagged for his bag, grabbing hold of lengthy cloak, and then placing it along the boulder in front of him.
All the while, his attention meandered and riveted to Loren’s tale, piercing gaze riveting back to the Firebrand as detail upon detail came to light. The metal had been wanted by the Voice – the Flood and Nate intermingling, sharing the details. The healer hanging onto it, uncertain perhaps, intending for the lily mending to be sanctified first. Had everyone been in disarray when they discovered the Ascended couldn’t drink the water? Had they been suspicious the other method, rendered seemingly by Old Gods, wouldn’t suffice? A healthy presumption, given the previous results, and so he sighed, elbow leaning upon his thigh, chin in his hand, staring at the man. What was there to say in such a platitude of drama? “So you will be taking a break.” From the theatrics, from the noise, noise, noise – understandable, yearning, wanting to escape.
But how far, how long, could one run from their own errors, faults, failures, and mistakes? From flaws? From those who demanded?
Loren would receive no judgment from him. It sounded as though he’d had quite enough already – and Deimos wasn’t in a position to counter, uncertain where he’d fall if left in the same regard. Instead, an inquiry, merely another form of curiosity, the tones, the features, habitually neutral, stoic, and impassive, a reticence building behind his stare. “Did you bring it because they cornered you?” Forced his hand? Or because it seemed just and fair?
Nodding at Deimos' question, Loren reached up to adjust the strap on his bag. "A short one," he confirmed. He had every intention of coming back to serve as Grand Healer once his nerves and the situation had settled down a bit, but right now he was no good to anyone.
Biting his lip, he drummed his fingers against his thigh. "Not just that." The admission that it was partially tasted bad as it left his mouth.
"When they told me that all the leaders wanted it to go to the Voice I offered to take it myself. Alternatively, I would've handed it over if they had just asked. But when I found out Remi and Ronin were prepared to beat it out of me I just..." Voice trailing off, he ran a hand through his hair. "I just needed to prove that I would do the right thing when asked."
Pausing, he added, "And that they couldn't just take what they wanted by force." Bullies had never sat well with him, no matter his relationship to them.
Finding time for any sort of repose was a matter of deciphering when, where, and anything else that couldn’t maintain plausibility; short bursts riddled with something other than tension, before applying themselves again to ongoing chaos and ridiculous assortments. It sounded like Loren had landed himself into a culmination of predicaments, that could’ve been earnestly avoided by several involved parties. Who to hand a piece of metal over to, and the right or wrong timing seemed to stem and root itself into the arguments, for which Deimos could only arch a brow and be grateful he hadn’t been immersed into any of this nonsense.
He said nothing for a moment, biding the appropriate seconds, the machinations behind his stare. Instead of applying readily into pending conversation, he took hold of the cloak before him, and the gilded incantations, reverberations, and enchantments began again, applying from his palms, steadily, a wealth of access and prowess provided. No threats, no warnings, no proceedings of bedlam spilling around him; a calming wave of capability, as the threads began to elongate, widen, and stretch.
In a way, those who’d become before Loren had received what they’d craved, though probably not in their preference. The Sword didn’t mention this, just lifted his eyes back to the Firebrand once more. “Would you do it differently, if there is a next time?” Another instant, scattered beyond the future, when something grave and important was in the healer’s hands?
Deimos' silence was always impossible to gauge, so Loren didn't bother to try. Instead, he just watched the general's movements as he wrapped the gift in his cloak. Shrugging at the Sword's question, the healer rubbed his eyes. "Yes and no." Dropping his hand, he bit his lip.
The words came out slowly and his brow was furrowed as he replied. "I'd probably make sure more people knew what I knew next time. Not that I intended to keep it to myself I just...between the illness and the rush to find the lilies it slipped my mind that I hadn't explicitly told the Warden. And you. For instance." He sighed, shaking his head.
The cloak billowed and extended, unfurled, unleashed, in grander sections. Eventually, it covered the entirety of the boulder, and he surveyed the measurements, standing from where he’d previously sat to exact the calculations. The beast’s intentions had been to ensure two would be able to stand under its threshold, and not be seen, not be noticed, at all – or in some cases, a monolith and a unicorn. Along its outlines, the massive rock underneath seemed to have vanished, as if it had never been there; encouraging the smirk to embed itself along his features, before turning back to Loren.
Yes and no signified some balance of notions, but he listened as Loren proceeded to list off the changes, the alterations he would’ve made. The measures might’ve been there, but the timing between everything else a flux, not enough in between to ensure the right parties were included. “I am not certain how helpful I would have been.” An additional member in the crisis and chaos; prone to watching, examining the situation, making deductions and calculations in silence. Perhaps a method of protection, but not much else, given the way the storm, the fires, had been stoked and built in quick measures. But information was information, and depending on the particulars, on how the message was conveyed, might’ve saved the Firebrand grief. “I take it the Warden was not impressed.” An understandable faction too; it was why Deimos had often employed others to gather intel from within Aurora Basin summits – to go where he could not, to press and snag, take and receive, while he guarded and loomed. Ignorance along these magnitudes could lead to greater rifts.
--
Deimos has upgraded his invisibility cloak!
Type: Grey
Invisibility Cloak | Ornate, detailed cloak, that when worn, renders up to two individuals invisible.
As the boulder vanished, Loren's eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead and his jaw dropped a bit. Chuckling, he inclined his head to Deimos. "Neat trick." There was nothing but admiration in the healer's voice.
Shrugging, he drummed his fingers against his thigh. "Maybe you wouldn't have been helpful, but more heads are usually more useful than fewer when it comes to these sorts of things." Shrugging, he glanced at the General.
Letting out a huff of laughter, the Firebrand shook his head. "No, she was not particularly pleased. Made me promise to be entirely transparent with her moving forward. In return, I made her promise that if she had doubts about me in the future, she would come to me in private so we could talk it over." His jaw feathered with tension.
