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!
"Oh, I see. Then I'm honoured." Morgan lifted her mug briefly and took a long drink from it, making a point to savour the special first edition of Deimos' drink making. When he asked for a request she paused to think, an amused, distracted smile on her lips; moments later she nodded with an idea and turned around to grab an empty mug from a once-occupied table behind her, set it before them. "When I was a teenager and had just started drinking, they used to make this sweet berry cider...imported from Torchline, they said, though I'm not sure of how true that is. Can you make something like that?"
It was true that they did not know all about the Fae, that she had only caught glimpses of their ways of life and what lay beyond the trees; while Morgan doubted that there would turn out to be any massive military power there (after all, if there was, why not simply enact revenge on the Ascended themselves?), there could well be more than she was expecting. "You sound like you have some experience." She commented, leaving it open for Deimos to explain further if he wished.
As for Sunjata, all she could do was shrug; she knew of his Ascended husband, but perhaps he was a good impartial leader; time would tell.
Her statement earned another snort, and he glanced again at his own drink, inspecting its nuances, fibers; he’d never been particularly picky about his liquor. In days leading up to battle, anything snagged and available had been fine amongst and amidst the barracks, waiting for their throats to be left aflame, some trying to forget what was on the horizon. The Warden’s request caused a brief furrowing of his brows, likely in concentration towards the empty mug she’d acquired – adhering to the testing of his abilities. Like a challenge. Like a provocation. Like a goading, and being overly fond of any semblance of dares, the beast adhered.
He’d never been one for overly sweetened drinks, not his particular style, but that didn’t mean he judged her for preferences. Instead, he brought forth incantations of earth, for the berries, for the cider influences, amongst and amidst the creation enchantments, so when the mug ceased to glow in its gilded proportions, the resin was filled with the supposed liquid. Whether or not it would be any good would likely be a matter of opinion, and the smallest smirk, very juvenile and boyish again, lingered in the corner of his mouth. “Does that suffice?”
The snicker didn’t wane when pressed for his experiences in the Greatwood, though a sigh filtered its way through his lungs. “A few.” It was bizarre, in some intervals, to think about how many damned lands and things he and so many of his loved ones had been through – how many were no longer there in his life, and the feats they’d managed to accomplish along the way. It’d instilled a variety of skills and sagacity, and the monolith was willing to share portions of them, when applicable or necessary. “Some friends went exploring in the Greatwood when the barrier first dropped. The Fae did not take kindly to their curiosity, and took them to the Sidhe Village.” A simplistic response, not conveying the apprehension, the panic, the rage, in realizing, in hearing, that Kiada and Amalia were to be sacrificed. “A couple of us went after them.” A shrug, as if this was naught – just the damned beginning of a series of adventures.
It was pleasant to see Deimos with a smile on his face, attempting something so simple as a drink. Morgan reached for the mug and brought it to her lips, smelling it first; it was not exactly the same, but she could not blame him for that, as he had created it without her memory. Taking a sip, she nodded. "It's very good. You could quit fighting and open a brewery if you wanted to." Wouldn't even have to brew, just fill up his own barrels with whatever he pleased.
"Oh, I see. I was under the impression that Sidhe village could not be found unless the Fae wanted you to find it - is that not the case?" All the stories had implied that without an invitation from the Fae, searching for civilisation within the Greatwood was a pointless task. "And how was it, when you went to rescue them?"
He waited, as he so often did, amidst silence. Curiosity compelled over whether or not the drink was up to standard – inexperience would likely tell him no, but the incantations behind it had hopefully been suitable enough. At the compliment, he nodded, the flash of a smile remaining, instilled in dimples. The statement thereafter caused a following bout of laughter, as if the consideration was entirely absurd. “I think I would be very bored.” The notion of not being in a rank of warrior prowess and distinction had never crossed his mind – the eternal, habitual, residual, inherent blades were in his blood, in his bones, in his ichor, in his very existence. There were always things to fight, to defend, to shield, to protect, to guard – requiring machinations, calculations, and dedication, an adherence to fortitude and perseverance. Sitting amidst a brewery, whiling the day away making other peoples’ drinks, sounded lackluster and stupefying – though no judgment would prevail towards those who sought such occupations. It just wasn’t for him. "I will stick to taking friend's requests."
More to the Fae preambles and storylines though, and he shifted back in his chair again, the liquor relaxing, losing the unyielding, unbending aspects to his figure, stretching out long limbs beneath the table. “Oh, we tried on our own. We went in circles.” Frustrating, vexing, and ridiculous; considering their other options, had they been given or snagged at more time. Ianto likely still owed him a favor from years ago. “Delah found us. But so did Arduinna, another Fae, who was willing to let us in.” Another one gone and lost – to sacrifice herself later on the altar of Vi’s roses, on the parallels of the blight, on more and more sicknesses. “Our friends had been put into the pit,” and he nearly laughed again at the way he’d first met Adam, at the bottom of the hole, wondering if he should’ve left him there all along. Maintaining his composure, however, in the lighter aspects, he arched his brow and took another drink. “And sacrificed to the Tulmhainar.”
"You know, I would be too. I understand." While Morgan was perhaps slightly more suited to the admin and decision making of leadership than Deimos, she had spent many years a simple soldier, fighting and defending under a command. It was a life that could be as rewarding as it was hard, and those called to it rarely went to anything else afterwards, if they survived.
Putting down the berry cider for the moment and focusing on the first drink (Gods, she was going to be drunk by the end of this), Morgan watched Deimos relax, quite pleased to see it; she had thought he'd never see him lean back in a chair as long as she lived. "Was Arduinna not working with the rest of the Fae, then?" She asked, unawares who this woman was or what her motivations might have been.
It was clear that Morgan was woefully ignorant about the Greatwood, for she also had no idea what the 'Tulmhainar' was. "Is that some kind of beast?" She asked, immediately thinking of dragons and huge pulsing monsters, grotesque and towering.
The Reaper had held his dominion and reign over the Aurora Basin for years, but never enjoyed a moment of it. He wouldn’t relish the notion of sovereignty again; had taken the mantle when necessary, had patrolled and hailed to diplomacy and loathed politics until he thought he might cast himself right off the summits. But in some regard, it’d been about protecting his own too, just not in the way he ultimately desired; craving the devastation, the ruin, of an enemy, rather than the policies of treaties, of extending and sharing merits, talents, and abilities. Armistices had bound him, and adversaries had still lingered – biding their time, their moments, their opportunities, their chances. He could still stand tall, monolithic, a self-made fortress and fortification, for this world and the next. Let others have the crowns, the distinctions, the roles of statecraft – he’d gladly ensnare himself within blades and munitions for an eternity. Inquiry stoked, and it was probably the liquor, loosening, relaxing, permitting him to keen and peel away from reticent regards. “What made you want to become Warden instead?” Rather than remaining in her soldier wares?
But the stories of the past years continued, and his eyes went to the ceiling, pondering over Arduinna’s methods. “I am not certain. The Fae have their own way.” Perhaps she hadn’t cared as much as Delah, permitting strangers within their grounds for a limited time, simply so they’d leave just as quickly. Perhaps she’d done it to get under the warrior’s skin, a challenge set in mercurial exploits. Perhaps they’d never know, and the enigmatic quandaries would settle as mere mysteries of the nymphs within the wood. “She is gone now too.” A subtle memory, piercing through the days of sickness, more afflictions, more parallels drawn over tenuous lines. “Sacrificed herself to help alleviate the blight.” Was her stony figure still carved there? Or had it disappeared too – into the backdrop, carried away by the filaments of her people?
Deimos managed another snort into his drink, a rumble of some vague amusement. “I did not get to see it. Supposedly it is similar to a turtle, though much more massive.” He’d missed the one in the Spire too, before Safrin rescued it from its plight; he’d been far too close to dying, sent out of the Spire to summon the goddess.
The question he asked was a complex one, one that she'd asked herself almost a year ago when the position had become hers; Morgan paused and drank for a moment to think of her answer, wanting to be sure it was as clear and close to the truth as she could manage. "I felt the Citadel needed somebody who really, truly cared for it. Neron, as much as I don't hate him...was not that person. He was not born here, he is not familiar with the City in the same way I am, and he's often concerned with his own ego." While Morgan thought better of him now, she had little positive to say about him as Warden, except: "That is not to say he did nothing right. He did gain some public support and instil some good practices and buildings into the Citadel; but he lost his way."
Then Weaver had been the Warden, however briefly. "I was ready to support Weaver as her Captain, then...well." She glanced over, unsure if Deimos knew what had happened to her. "When the position was open again, I realised that I had enough experience and love for the Citadel that I could consider myself acceptable for the role. I see it as an extension of what I used to do as Captain. Protection of the Citadel and her people, and progression of our technology and lives. I don't wish to be a domineering leader, but someone to help point in the right direction once I have heard what everyone requires."
Of course, she would not always be able to achieve that, but Morgan would try until her dying breath (or until she was superseded, but even then she would never stop supporting her land).
"Oh. And it worked? I know of the Blight, but not how it was cured." It seemed odd that the cure had been the sacrifice of one Fae woman; at least with their own sickness they had given out an antidote, God-provided as it was.
As for a giant turtle, she didn't have much to say to that, only raised eyebrows and a scoff; what a strange sounding creature indeed. "I'm unlikely to come across it, but now I am very curious."
Helovia had been full of power struggles – the temptation of supremacy and authority a reach, a pull, an enticement for many – and then rapid turnovers when individuals found them lacking. Military might, or failure, had been a distinct cataclysm, or some notched and built their towers on the fabrications of peace and repose. Some utilized the distinction of their crowns to enable their dominance, to crush, to wield, to extort. Some merely cherished the land, the home, they’d been within for so long – and perhaps that was what had ultimately happened here. Without Neron in a seat of jurisdiction, and maybe lacking in Zariah’s influence as well, Halo had been permitted to grow – a Naturals’ take, from Weaver to Morgan, striving to endure and carve their way through mountains, through crags, through tundras.
To hear her reasoning though caused the slowest of smiles to drift on his features. Pride and fortitude for the land she reigned upon, instead of using it as a means of control, influence, or superiority. He’d done the same once – but with too much savagery built into the monolithic backdrop; yearning for them to seem unattainable, unreachable; desecration at the very core of his soul, and only worsening with each impending threat. In the end, there probably hadn’t been much left but his brutality, his contempt, and his abhorrence. The beast’s eyes lowered for a moment, considering, before speaking in his formidable rumble. “Sounds like you have been doing well. Do you enjoy it?” An arch to his brow, the slightest inklings of mischief, and then it all disappeared as he drank, thoughts drifting momentarily to Weaver; another friend lost in the midst. “I heard it was a dragon.” Dangerous creatures in their patterns – in the cycles of destruction and demolition.
The blight intonations pierced away semblances of the treacherous fauna instilled within caverns, and he tilted his head a fraction again, feline in nature. “And Vi helped.” But not the Voice – nothing from the cause, the source, of the spread, of the incendiary reason so many had been inflicted.
As for the turtle, he could only shrug, the rogue semblances of a grin again. “Same.” But he might be able to recall, reflect, and illustrate it from Amalia’s descriptions, and so he produced paper and charcoal once more, sketching neat outlines of the massive reptile striving to be brought to life – shelled but with the earth and loam and moss upon its back.
"I do. I have never felt so contented as I do now." The work was harder, more complex and held larger consequences should she fail, but it was also fulfilling when things developed and went correctly, good to feel that she was helping the Citadel. "I never knew it, but I suppose this was what I always wanted to do." The only thought that tugged at her heart, made her less than perfectly happy about the title, was the fact that her father had never seen it; she hoped he could, wherever he was.
She could only nod solemnly about what it was that had killed Weaver. Not a common death in Halo, but as illustrated by Adam and Pet coming up earlier, hardly impossible.
With the Gods she had nothing to say, thinking that it was hard to judge how culpable the Voice was without having been there herself; not wise to say to someone who had suffered from the disease and clearly had a side in the God's war, so Morgan kept it to herself.
"Oh. You know, you are quite talented." She said of his drawing, leaning to see it. "I've never been an artist."
Fitting for Morgan, to have found contentment in leadership, to be comfortable in her reign. “It appears you extend stability and respect as well.” A confidence, an assurance, for the people of Halo. What had the citizens experienced from Neron or Zariah’s influence? Maybe the inquiry didn’t matter now, and he gave it no further voice other than the keen distinction in his mind, saving it for another modicum of Machiavellian design. The Grounds had permeance and steadfast regards in spurts (and he didn’t count the Merciless in any of these perceptions): Wessex, for her initial reign, before the encounter with the Fae, and Rexanna, before her untimely demise at his own methods of protection. The latter impression seared against his bones, and his spine was unyielding again for half a second, before pushing it all down and away.
Except other beliefs suddenly sparked as well, and there was a haunting drone in his skull (I will disappoint you too); over mistakes, over ignorance, over failures potentially stretching wide, swallowing, consuming, until he’d errored all over again.
His jaw locked, and the General took a long swig, a slow, intermingling breath, to fight the claws, the thorns, of his own making; staring down at the picture of the turtle, and snorting. Habitually, instinctually, Deimos thought about refuting and arguing the compliment over; it’d been easier that way, to not believe himself worth much of anything. To live as a weapon, to breathe and die by the blade, rather than insinuate other means, other measures. But then he’d never be any better, never gain, never prosper, and just slowly erode as he’d always done. So instead, he nodded, the inklings of a smile returning. “Thank you.” The half-grin remained, striving to push through all the other nuances shoving him down, leaving the charcoal and paper available, the renderings of the turtle not taking up the full page. “Came from practice in designing weapons and defenses.”
"Thank you." Morgan nodded, appreciating the compliment; she was not a vain person, but it was always good to hear you were doing something right, especially when it was as important as leading the Citadel. "I am considering naming a recommendation for the next Warden, if anything were to happen to me, though...I don't want to make it like an heir that has to succeed me. I'm sure the people will want to vote." She just wanted to try and avoid someone with the wrong intentions tricking Halo, but she supposed once she was dead there was little she'd be able to actually do.
While looking at a small drawing a turtle was obviously a far cry from seeing the real beast, Morgan felt like she at least had an idea what the Fae had ready within their Greatwood to fight intruders. "Your weapons are well crafted. That does remind me..."
She took a quick drink and set the mug down, knowing she was likely being presumptuous here, but well, he was her councilman. "I was hoping you might be able to make me some kind of lightweight armour to go underneath my clothing. I cannot wear heavy plates or anything substantial for my day to day work anymore, but I still want to be protected when I need to be."
There was the briefest inclination of his head as she pondered over recommendations. Not quite like heirs, which hadn’t worked well in Helovia either – too many faults and flaws and errors in particular offspring, and the general public often voted their leaders in, unless something had been deity dictated. “Perhaps names to be considered, but I agree, the citizens should be allowed to choose.” He thought of the Merciless and her rise to power, of her stronghold, of her grip and grasp and rules, of the imprisonments, of those fighting for their opinions and dues, only to be laughed, mocked, jeered, or their voices rendered mute. “We do not need Zariah’s reign to be repeated.” Half a smirk extended, because he figured the Warden wouldn’t attempt such a feat with any successor – but the world altered, changed, and morphed in enigmatic shades far too frequently.
Speculation settled in his sights at the mention of his munitions and armaments, hands folding back over the resin of his glass, fingers lightly drumming while she seemed to deliberate something. Thereafter, that he might craft her armor, pulled and tugged at the snicker again, though far more amiable than mischievous. “Most likely. I have made similar things before.” His hand went to the paper and charcoal again, leaving the glass untended for the moment. “What else were you thinking?” His mind whittled away at the implications, at the possibilities, at the tangible means and measures he’d coaxed for others; like Kiada, with its ability to shift into any form she took.
He supposed that was gone now too, along with her.
Deimos ignored the invading thought, proceeding into machinations and scruples. “I can make it rendered into another object for quick access, or embedded with other magic to defend against.”
"You're right. I do like to plan, but perhaps trying to excise control after my eventual death is a bit far." She already had ideas and schedules and blueprints ready for the next ten years, knowing full well that most of them would have to change or be remade entirely by the time they actually got around to doing them. Planning for after that (and hopefully, her death was going to be more than a decade away) was probably entirely a fools errand.
It seemed Deimos was happy enough to make her some armour; Morgan put down another empty mug (she'd sleep well tonight, that was for sure) and leaned forward to again watch him sketch out an idea. "Perhaps something that does not immediately look like armour. Another object, as you said; I already wear enough layers for the cold here. It would be good to not have to have a constant other one beneath." She was, as was obvious to all, not weak, but her outfits were still often heavy on her shoulders.
Methodical and scrupulous as the beast had always been, he’d never pondered over successors in his days amidst the Basin. He wasn’t even sure who’d taken up his mantle after his death, had never asked, had never bothered those who’d existed in similar pathways and timelines (and it was late now). Machinations were reserved for present circumstances or for future unravelings, calculations rendered in meticulous frameworks a foregone conclusion, but demise, he’d learned, never gave an ounce of care towards someone’s schemes. So he snorted, a light shake of his head, as he finished the drink, placing the mug aside. “A little. There is only so much we can control.” He would know; given how much composure, contortions, command, and calm steeled over him like a lacquer.
His attention deviated back to other plans and unfoldings anyway, sketching out armor similar to what he’d made Kiada before – though Morgan and the Harpy didn’t have quite the same build, and he adjusted accordingly; a few notations scribbled over. At the musings of something that couldn’t be regarded as armor, his eyes narrowed a fraction, thoughts mulling over one another. Did she mean for it to be a duplicitous, specious design, or simply not ostentatious, layer upon layer upon layer? “What about a pendant? Or a brooch? A crest?” Something not quite unmistakable, but could be worn underneath other garments, and not doomed to be caught, snagged, or ruined moments after. “Do you have a color preference?”
