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!
Morgan's eyes narrowed a little as she tried to consider what could contain a soul, other than a living body; it had been her impression that once the body had died, the mind and person within moved along. Was this man then trapped in an urn, a monster? Someone else entirely? "When you have the details, I will assist if you need it." While she genuinely did want to help Deimos complete his quest, there was some curiosity there too.
"How do you intend to take the corpses from the dragon without it's notice, though?" She asked, thinking of the way dragons famously hoarded that which they procured; while bodies were not treasures to humans, she was sure they might be to dragons (and, she did consider, that Deimos' friends may already be food, but she didn't say that). Watching him conjure the paper, briefly distracted by the wonder of his creation magic, she waited to see what he would write.
Taking a drink she nodded, sighing as she took it away again from her mouth and holding it at her lap. "Maybe. Sometimes, I wish the Launceleyns had never found their way to Halo. That said..." Morgan trailed off, whatever she was about to say apparently decided against then eventually replaced with: "...They probably would have caused problems anywhere else."
“I will let you know. Chulane was interested in helping too.” A pause, reflecting through snippets of time, where the grief was paramount and shattering, before there was a notion of catharsis, and the momentum of despair was an outpouring, shuddering emblem of just how much he could break. “Though it may largely depend on the portal. Will it be closed for all of Deepfrost again?” That would mean their only opportunity would be before, leaving Halo adrift without leadership or protection – except from those remaining. An unwise notion, based on prior experiences in any world, his head tilting to survey, to scrutinize, to ponder, gaze circumventing back to the Warden.
A distraction into other designs segmented his attention back onto the paper he’d produced, charcoal beginning to form quick brushstrokes of outlines. “I made an ice shield,” and he depicted it along the entryway of the dragon’s cavern, what had guarded, what had chiseled, what had been adorned out of necessity. “And then using my water magic, melted some portion of the ice here,” and he drew a small rivulet, underneath the tiny image of a fallen dragon – memories of where Adam and Peter still likely stayed, preserved, nearby. “And the companion drifted towards us.” He shrugged thereafter, brows furrowed, slanting his cranium again, as if to approach it from another angle. Would he be able to do the same again with larger bodies? He hadn’t anticipated the notion of the great lizard believing the two fallen to be treasure. If they were amongst the hoard, that would present another problem. “I have made myself an invisibility cloak too. Perhaps I could make more. Or find someone with illusion magic.” Out of sight, out of mind? The charcoal was placed down again, waiting for a response from a neutral party, more in favor of drinking thereafter.
He listened and managed another snort about the Launceleyns’ and their track record for trials and tribulations. Deimos’ had enough experience with Zariah’s ilk to last a damned lifetime, though he hadn’t heard much of Neron as of late. There was a very brief arch to his brow again, however, as Morgan seemed to hesitate and mull over a faction of her words, before pressing onward. Perhaps that was something else to ponder. “Considering Zariah,” who had caused problems within the Hollowed Grounds in a very short amount of time, “it is likely.” Another sip of the liquor, eyes flickering back over parchment, curiosity stoking and honing in. “What happened to the previous Warden?” Letters from Kiada had been sparse in the last winter; enough to detail Neron’s imprisonment, Weaver’s rise, and then difficult to decipher later.
"Mmm..probably this year, yes." Morgan nodded reluctantly, having to accept that it was unlikely they had very much time for plans to come to fruition. "However, I am hoping to construct a road and clear the ice before the portal soon, to make access easier...we must ensure the Citadel's safety during Deepfrost first, though." So many plans, not enough time.
She watched his drawing take form with interest, a finger on her chin as she attentively watched. Deimos certainly had more of a plan than she had expected, and it could well work, but there were many variables that could easily turn it to disaster. "I understand you are wanting to rescue these men's bodies, but..perhaps this is something best left until you can accrue a team that is sure of success. This is very dangerous." Morgan looked up to meet his eyes, hoping that the message would get across.
"Yes, that's true. It's hard to believe she's dead, with all the chaos beforehand that I heard of." While Halo had not seen the brunt of that, Morgan had definitely seen how Zariah's unpredictable nature could lead to unfortunate events. She took a drink, quite happy to leave the reflections there, but then Deimos asked his question; she paused, lowering the mug.
"He lives in the palace and he asked for work, so..." She pointed to the bar, where presumably Neron would be somewhere behind it. "Followed by guards at all times, but I am beginning to think it unnecessary. I must confess.." Morgan leaned in to speak quietly. "I do not find him poor company. Of all the Launceleyns, even though I replaced him as Warden, I respect Neron the most."
The speculation of the portal not being open halted the formation of his plans, diminishing the catalyst to a low rumble in his chest, some disappointing figment bursting in there. Would he have to wait another year, before Ru’in’s soul could be with Kiada? And what of the Ascended, if they intended to fight the onslaught of monsters and demons? A silent sensation of desperation clung to him, and he hated it, loathed it, the stubborn tenacity hiding the quiet depictions of an oath doomed and damned to go unfulfilled again. “We have another season.” He paused, clenching his jaw once more, the feathering distinct as he glanced down at his papers, signs and emblems of so many other machinations yet to be determined – yearning for something tangible, solid, instead of these never-ending bumps and turns. “I can assist in whatever means necessary, and I have no intention of leaving the Citadel without defensive measures in place.” Even if she’d just told him to take it easy, the lilies hopefully would have them healed by then, and he could dive headfirst into his duties, and take on whatever was required. “What else would need to be done?”
He’d eternally been a man of action, plans, and calculations – quiet endeavors, silent stokings, a channel, an unfurling, of Machiavellian pursuits. Sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn’t, and he had to rely on further machinations, but very rarely did he react on impulse. Control, precision, and might had served him well, through life after life, and he nodded in understanding. “I will not undertake this mission soon. More preparation is required.” And he needed to be stronger. Better. The plans had been thoughts, molded together and conformed to merely one design. And he didn't know many fools who would go with him.
Deimos folded the parchment away, tucked deep into one of his coat pockets, an air of resignation and regret pulsing over his shoulders and brawn, brows furrowed deeply as he stared into his drink. He didn’t grasp at the comment about Zariah, hiding the potential snarl at her title, dismayed in a sense that none of them had ever been permitted to exact their revenge upon the Merciless.
The figments about Neron, however, were interesting – causing the slightest tilt of his head again, gaze veering away from his glass, corner of his eyes taking in the bartender. From Warden to keeper and dispeller of liquor was a fall, and even more bizarre was Morgan’s reactions towards it. “Rexanna spoke well of him,” a murmur, to prolong something underneath, glance shrewdly narrowing, as if he were trying to pick apart unseen, specious factions. “What has he done to earn your respect?”
"We do." Morgan agreed, though she wasn't sure that a season was enough. The tasks they had for Frey were extensive and had to be completed before a road was taken on; that project would be huge, require a lot of planning...she had barely even begun. "Well, before we put any resources to the road, we must do what Frey has asked. We need to search for Mageglass, leave more offerings and construct an altar. Helping with these tasks would get us closer to beginning the road." While Deimos was likely not familiar enough with the Fangs to look for Mageglass, he could help with the other two tasks.
She was glad to hear that Deimos understood he needed to make extensive preparation before heading to the Dragon's lair. Morgan nodded and said no more, not wanting to crush the dream entirely for him.
Already Morgan was beginning to regret saying anything in particular about Neron, though she was sure if Deimos ever suspected something happened between them he would not be the kind to gossip about it. "Let me be clear; he made a poor Warden. Too concerned with his own success, image and opportunities and not the Citadels. However, as a citizen? He is intelligent and a good conversation partner. I find him amusing." She shrugged. "Sometimes even I just want a chat. ...Like now."
Too much, too soon, and the notion that he’d have to put personal quests and catalysts on the backburner again stung. It had been a goal on the horizon, keeping him tethered, anchored, to the ground, instead of falling and spiraling into the angles of anguish, the depths of despair. Something he could to ease the pain for everyone involved – and his opportunity was crushing, dissolving, disappearing under the weight of too many other figments. The list labored on, and Deimos wondered just how far he could stretch himself to accomplish all of it, and still hone in on the wake of what he strived to accomplish. His fingers slowly flexed into a balled fist, tightly clenched, and then back out again, breath composed in a very noticeable, distinct control, fighting to find something to settle himself within. “I can try to do whatever is necessary.” And once again, ignore the potential of his limitations.
With no more mention of the other task he’d chosen, far into the future based on an entire mess of trivialties and likely distractions, deterrents, along the way, his concentration could hone in on the bizarre nature of the shifted topic. Neron the poor Warden, but grand conversationalist. An arch lingered on the edges of his brow again, specious and contemplative, half-entertained by a distinct feeling of evasion. Mostly because he frequented the same tactic, and the Sword suspected Morgan was maneuvering around something else altogether. “Amusing,” he recited, and he glanced back at the supposed bartender again, as if the monolith couldn’t quite fathom the idea – but then again, probably similar aspects could be said for him. Deimos contorted another semblance of a diversion, another drink and swallow from his glass, before placing it back down, eyes intending to catch hers. “Has he altered your opinion of the Ascended?”
Morgan could see that Deimos was frustrated; it wasn't hard to grasp, given that she felt much that way herself, when she thought of all there was to be done before Halo could be what she knew it's potential was. This was the way of it, though, if one did it properly: slow, steady progress gave long lasting and worthwhile rewards. "Thank you, though I was already sure of your assistance. You give the impression of somebody very reliable." She gave him a small smile, though she was sure he'd try to argue somehow.
And so, onto the far more uncertain territory of Neron. "My opinion of the Ascended has altered, and I suppose in some respects thanks to Neron, but I would not say so overall. I simply found more information and considered it. My opinion as of this moment is that I, and therefore Halo, should be as neutral in the conflict between New and Old Gods as possible. After all, I do not serve either." Morgan shrugged.
"If I feel one side is particularly in the wrong on a matter, I will oppose them, but I don't intend to declare any of the enemies. ...I was eager to act, and made a mistake." She nodded and quietly took a sip, looking at the fire.
Her remark earned another arch to his brow, a muffled snort, and the slightest inclination of a smile. The Reaper had been a devoted beast in the highlands, intent on conquering, devastating, and unleashing hell on anything threatening the lives of his people, of his kingdom. Tall, monolithic, broad, and unrelenting – a savage heathen brought forth into ice and glaciers. The Sword had become a steadfast constant in the way of trial and tribulation, and perhaps they’d melded and molded together into some figment of reliability, trusted, dedicated to withholding exactly as he’d said. But he’d always wanted his words to hold meaning, however little was offered or proclaimed, for his actions to bear weight, for the eloquence in his motions to be significant. “We will see,” he prospered in return, if the world would trickle down and batter him again, if his efforts would be in vain, if in the end, it didn’t really matter what he did. Perhaps his accomplishments were insignificant, trivial at best, and he was merely swimming against currents far too wide and far too vast.
But he wouldn’t give in without a fight.
His features returned to their residual, habitual stoicism as Morgan described her alterations on the Ascended. He could recall a Captain intent on destruction, on mayhem, on distortion amongst and amidst those foreign to her soil, and now, a Warden altered. Neutrality, standing on both sides instead of either, and he wouldn’t begrudge her for it. His own experiences had inclined his stances – his best friend had become amongst the Voice’s brethren because she’d found a way to make herself into something of her own making – and he’d never faulted Rexanna for it. The Voice herself was not a being to be trusted, and had made that perfectly clear on a multitude of occasions. The Sword wouldn’t make any declaration to persuade her though; Morgan’s decision and declaration was her own.
So he wouldn’t persist or pursue the Neron angle; not now. Perhaps it’d been nothing, and he’d thought more specious depths were there.
Instead, he granted a nod, comprehending, understanding, then tilting his head in thought, of recent intervals in the same bar. “What of the Fae then? I spoke with one, Juniper, who seemed inclined to discuss Ascended matters with you.”
"We will." She agreed, draining the last of her mug and setting it down on the table before her. Morgan did briefly wonder if a warning of sorts was needed, something to make sure Deimos knew he wasn't to go gallivanting off on his own to try and solve their issues...but she held back, trusting him to use his common sense. It could all wait, and patience was always the best way.
Glaciers were not known for their speed, after all.
The change of topic to the Fae took her interest and she looked over to him, recalling the meeting she'd recently had with Juniper. "Yes, I met with her. She wants to organise a trial, for the Ascended that the Fae have grievance with." Morgan frowned and pushed a hand through her hair, obviously not entirely convinced by this idea. "I believe in justice where it can be done, but I'm not sure how she practically intends to run this trial or enforce it's decisions. ...It will be...interesting."
Determination had rarely been an issue in regards to the Sword; embedded, infused, immersed in the sculptings of tenacity. It was when it became bullheaded, stubborn, obstinate, and seditious that there could be an underlying concern and casualty – imparted rarely, but still there, resolute sometimes in the click of his jaw or the currents delving beneath his stoic silence. Perhaps a warning could’ve been unfurled in his direction, but he wasn’t so far-gone into his resolve that he might’ve disobeyed and gone off into the ethers at his own discretion. He didn’t know enough about the land, despite many initial experiences and worlds known in familiarity. They did have some semblance of time; but it felt like it was already stretched thin, pulled tight and taut into too many directions, and the things he craved, he yearned, he longed for, were going to be displaced. Not forgotten – just not important enough to anyone but him.
So he’d forge onward – the tenacity winning out in the end, and maybe, maybe, he’d be able to snag onto his personal endeavors.
The General drained the remains of his mug too – but, upon placing the glass upon the table, narrowed his eyes, and speculated for a moment. Within those quiet, immersed thoughts, he pondered possibilities and tangents, before the resin itself began to glow – and the lightest snicker touched over his mouth. It began to steadily refill – contorted and created alcohol, before filling to the brim again. A hushed inspection took place, a long sip, before shrugging his shoulders – an obvious not bad movement – before arching his brow, indicating her own emptied proportions.
Perhaps it was best to continue drinking, considering the topic they wandered into. A sigh unfurled through him, one long lingering breath through his chest that bounded against the table. “She mentioned consequences, but not what they would be. Or how they would achieve them, if this trial occurred.” Especially given the names likely at stake – even Wessex alone would be an inevitable toil and struggle, and rendering outcomes, repercussions, to be followed if that was ordained and administered. How – considering how easily the Wraith had ignored the demands prior to destruction? The beast didn’t administer a frown, but the reticence remained, calculations he had no part of still winding along behind his eyes. “Accountability will be difficult.” Another drink, another swallow, another sigh, before his gaze went back to hers. “What is Halo’s role in it?”
Morgan was looking about the bar at the other patrons when movement in Deimos' glass caught her eye; she looked down and laughed to see his mug refilling. "I'm not sure Neron would like to know his patrons can make their own drinks." She commented, though when her General looked towards her mug she nodded and pushed it towards him, not one to turn down a drink where it was offered. "Thank you."
Juniper had impressed Morgan with her spirit and collected nature during their meeting, yet she still had to nod along with Deimos: she was not sure the Fae woman actually knew what it was she wanted for the Ascended that had harmed her home. "I have no idea. I can hardly see Queen Wessex being dragged to prison, or whatever they suggest." The simple, uncomfortable fact was that the Fae were weak; so much so that it was almost pointless for them to try to exert force over any other nation.
"She asked if I would help to judge the trial." She shrugged, took a sip of her new drink. "I am not opposed to it, and think that my neutrality in the conflict would be beneficial...but I still somewhat doubt it will happen at all."
Neron’s opinions mattered very little to the Sword; he didn’t know the man, save for what he’d been told of the previous Warden’s efforts, mistakes, and mishaps. Purposefully juvenile with the haphazard smirk embedding itself into his features, the beast silently refilled Morgan’s container, watching and waiting until the brim was met, before ceasing. “You are welcome.” Then he returned to his own, another long swallow, permitting the arch of the burn to sizzle down his throat.
With the Fae and Ascended efforts, the monolith could only stare at the wall, thoughts contemplating in a series of interwoven cycles and possibilities. The actual image and notion of the Wraith being dragged along to prison nearly made him laugh; an unbelievable sanction of circumstances. “We do not know all of the Fae’s capabilities. When Delah reigned, they appeared to be a formidable force.” He’d seen and been impressed with them firsthand on numerous occasions – but they weren’t aware of their numbers, of how many lay hidden in the forest, or what else the woods, the copses contained. Juniper had spoken of their need for allies though, which made him wonder just how badly things had fallen along the village. “However, I agree. Wessex would not go quietly.” Not when she could just as easily break it all apart, piece by piece. He presumed the Queen of the Grounds wasn’t the same as she’d been before – situations unwound, changed, from those early days amongst and amidst the fold. Would the rest of the Ascended permit such a result anyway? Would it inspire more sedition? More mutiny? More insurrection? More destruction?
Deimos arched a brow at the rest of Morgan’s responses. “Are the other leaders to judge as well?” Or merely her, based on the neutral aspects? It really only left Torchline for now; unless other beacons and pawns fell in the meantime. The doubt of the moments happening at all gave him pause; because how many other times had plans gone so completely awry? “It could lead to a whole series of circumstances.” A portion of his soul – the curious, insightful, inquisitive nature of his bearings (and subsequent calculating, Machiavellian aspect) – would yearn to be a fly on the wall just to watch it all transpire.
"Out of interest - can you make whatever drink you like?" Morgan asked, looking down into the mug after she had taken a drink. "Or only ones with certain ingredients?" Still not possessing creation magic, the finer points of it were lost on her; at the moment it seemed like Deimos could outsell Neron by opening his own bar in less than five minutes; maybe it was best not to suggest the idea.
She was surprised to hear that Deimos actually considered the Fae to be a threat of sorts; what had he seen that she had not? "What makes you say that?" At least it seemed that she was right in saying they could not take Wessex, who she understood was very powerful indeed; the Queen did not scare her, for Morgan did not allow herself to be scared, but she was certainly someone she was cautious around.
"I've been told that Sunjata, Governor of Torchline, will be involved. Obviously, Wessex will not be." As far as she knew, no one ruled the wastelands of the Climb and as for Stormbreak, no one had the details on the location, never mind who was in charge. "I agree. I still doubt it will actually ever happen."
11-09-2020, 11:41 AM (This post was last modified: 11-09-2020, 09:43 PM by Deimos.)
remember that you can't save everyone
remember that you have to try
At the inquiry, Deimos glanced down at his own drink, perplexed by the uncertainty, but no less curious at the potential efforts either. “I am not sure. This would be the first time I tried.” He’d long since passed the time of drinking to excess, to drown out the guilt, the anguish, the despair; when everything haunted, tormented, and wounded. Perhaps the sickness had been beneficial in some manner, so that he hadn’t had the notion, nor the ability, to scatter his broken edges into the alcohol. He tilted his head, studied and perused, much like a cat when set upon something to irk, annoy, or trap. “Do you have any requests?” He could always attempt – and if the trials failed at least it’d be something out of amusement, rather than danger, destruction, or annihilation.
It was a little disappointing to think the Fae had diminished over time. They’d all been stubborn, mystified Outlanders on the outskirts of the forest when the barrier had first come down, uncertain, ignorant, and foolhardy, immediately casting themselves into inquiring gestures. The warriors within the forest hadn’t been impressed with the antics, and it felt like lifetimes ago, when he’d growled at Jigano, when they’d wandered into the midst, when they’d tried to find their friends. “A part of their power lies in their secrecy. We do not know how many live there.” A pause, while he perused the complexities of the copses and groves, while he remembered and recalled. “I have seen them shift and use earth magic.” Hybrid conjectures, much like himself. “Getting to their Village requires a guide, as the forest acts like a maze.” Then, smirking into his drink as he raised it to his lips, a final statement on what he’d understood. “They also enjoy making sacrifices.” Which, in the end, had been of memories – but he’d let their enigmas stay alive for now. “I have learned not to underestimate anyone here.”
Sunjata being involved was intriguing too, considering Nate. “I am not certain how neutral he will be.” Given circumstances surrounding the Fae, the dismembering of an Ascended, and Sunjata’s own life, the parties involved, if it ever came to fruition, would be a damned sight.
