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!
don't you pray? don't you pray to a cocaine jesus in a black four seater?
It feels like his day has been filled with far too much, and it's still the early afternoon. Nate had spent the day running around, gathering items that should have been gathered weeks earlier, if he weren't in the throes of sickness. As it is, he's found twice as much as what the original deal had been, and he'd grovelled, something he had wanted to avoid. In the end though, he'd been successful, and returned to the Slagveld with a necklace proudly displayed on his chest, a cocky grin on his face.
Melita is not who he expects to find in the ring, but her presence is more than welcome, Nate immediately making a beeline for his niece and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Hey kiddo. It's good to see you." There's a part of him that knows he owes the girl a serious thanks, but he can;t bring himself to broach something so serious so casually.
"What, are you here looking for a fight?" He has to joke first, who would he be if he didn't? Nate's free hand rises, a slow, playful fist heading towards the shoulder closest to him.
got a man, don't need him, but you wait call me when you want, or just call me when you need it
Restlessness after her return from the Climb only led her further into the Slagveld’s reach; where she might be able to pummel things into submission, rather than pacing restlessly. A lily found, a lily placed, and then what? There’d been others there, collected, but not all the slots filled. Should she maneuver back towards the springs, and see if she could more? Were there other things she should’ve been doing to prepare, to repair, the workings of the onslaughts? A greater portion of her mind grew tired from the constant bombardments, but her body didn’t feel the same, churning back and forth, begging, aching, yearning for an outlet amidst frustrations and ineptitude.
Her eyes had gone to the boxing gloves, mostly out of curiosity and not necessity; the youth had battered around without armor, without anything but flesh, bone, and mettle for some time. Any attention on the objects quickly dissipated by the arm suddenly around her shoulders, familiar and warm, and the remark, broadened by an individual that had been rendered healthy. Charmed and delighted out of her sulking haze, the youth turned into Nate, the favored uncle, a broadened smile returning, rekindling, the spirit reignited. “You sound much better!” Her hands went up and up, thinking to settle on his cheeks, but reaching for his ears instead, pinching them out of mischief, out of relief, out of good-natured abyss. The emotion were in a full swing, and she couldn’t quite handle them. Fangorn grumbled from somewhere on the sidelines, and she could feel a very instinctual gourd eyeroll.
The firecracker danced out of the way when his fist made to connect with her shoulder, tongue sticking out, immediately immature. “Aren’t I always?” Here? Looking for a fight? It could have fit both. “Are you going to give me one?” A menacing little grin settled on her mouth; the savagery sticking, inspired, invoked, now that Nate’s health had been restored.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
don't you pray? don't you pray to a cocaine jesus in a black four seater?
”I feel much better.” The words are warm, matching the smile, the sparkle in his mismatched eyes. Her hands reached up, and Nate leans down to meet them, expecting his cheeks pinched, not his ears. Perhaps his less than serious attitude began as a defence, but it quickly becomes real, a silly song and dance only they know the words, the steps to. Gods, he’s missed being well.
A rough laugh leaves Nate as his niece dances away from him, a lightness there that’s been missing for some time now. ”Course I’m gonna, firebug.” Nate warns with a grin, dropping into a boxers stance, his hands raised in front of him for a moment, before he drops them. ”C’mon, take your best shot. Just watch the face.” The wide expanse of his chest is open, nothing but encouragement, and maybe a little bit of a challenge on his face. The ascended fully expects to be struck, watchful eyes taking in Melita’s wind up, her strike, when it comes.
got a man, don't need him, but you wait call me when you want, or just call me when you need it
“I want the full story about the eye later too.” A cheeky grin – light on her feet for the moment, until the interim demanded them to be grounded, the nuances already altered and changed. Fighting, defending, assaulting, onslaught after onslaught, and she’d done it every season, managing to grapple, or tackle, new variations of age-old tactics, new conformations of weaponry, new parallels in which she could improve. This wouldn’t be any different – an opportunity she’d seize with the fire and blood in her veins, in the balance of might, strength, and will.
And relief too. Gods, she was so relieved.
She contorted to a similar pose, taught by Sunjata, grounded by Wessex, and unfurled by Hotaru; instilled in the back of her mind, in the grasp of her tendons, in the rush of her dominion. He was far bigger, far broader, but she’d be lithe and swift in comparison. She tilted her head for a moment, like some sort of vague calculation both of them knew was only a farce (impulse was her inherent inclination, and it’d be difficult to drive her into any sort of machination). Fists placed in front of her, one arm lunged for the right side of his chest, intending for impact close to his arm, wedged in that section of muscle and sinew.
With any luck, she’d be able to dance away from the ensuing defense.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
don't you pray? don't you pray to a cocaine jesus in a black four seater?
”You'll get it, don’t worry.” Nate promises easily, though he has the feeling she’ll be disappointed, the tale not all that exciting for the reward it had brought. Perhaps his new eyes secret would be more exciting, though it could just as easily be a burden, a curse, an unintentional weight placed on the shoulders of someone innocent. No, better to keep it to himself, for a time longer.
Better to focus on the instruction hes given his niece, her stance dropping to match his own, though Nate can see traces of others influences, can see something similar to Sunjata in it, with modifications here and there, corrections made by others, he’s sure. Sharp eyes watch her, flicking from the thoughtful face to the static limbs, wondering what her plan was, if this was a farce, if she knew he’d think it was a farce and was planning something far more cunning.
When the attack comes though, it’s obvious, telegraphed from a mile away. Nate leans into her fist, not worrying at all about the possible damage (why should he when he can’t feel it?) and stepping forward, meaning to walk Melita back as he moves. ”Step as you punch.” The words come alongside a demonstration, Nate pulling the punch thrown towards his niece so it simply presses against her. ”It makes your attacks less obvious.”
got a man, don't need him, but you wait call me when you want, or just call me when you need it
At his remark, a brow twitched upwards, then fell back down as quickly as it’d lifted. She bit down on her tongue, forgoing the multitudes of other things and fragments she wanted to ignite; though none of those notions were his fault. He wasn’t to blame. The youth merely remained blissfully unaware of the world revolving around them – try as she might to settle in amongst the rivulets and subsequent storms. Always on the outskirts, looking in – trying to tear, claw, her way along the fold.
Best to layer the ire and frustrations into the melee, into instruction, for now.
He caught her easily though, and she frowned; not particularly surprised, but yearning for that frenetic pulse of achievement and success. It wouldn’t come easily or naturally, never had, and she shouldn’t have expected it then. So instead of tucking her head down, gnashing her teeth, or growling at her efforts, the honeybee breathed, listened, and walked back to where they’d begun.
“Step as I punch,” she repeated, reciting, intending for the words to sink into actions. Her eyes caught his demonstration, and then she maneuvered off to the side, hoping to enact the same motions. Another movement, another outreach, hastened from her, towards his ribs, initiating the steps, the pace, the stride, within the stretch of her swinging fist. “Like that?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
don't you pray? don't you pray to a cocaine jesus in a black four seater?
Calm is not what he expects from Melita, if Nate is honest with himself. He knows the energy that brims just beneath the surface, a ferocity that she can tap into without warning. The real struggle is controlling it well enough to use it, instead of giving into it. The smile stretched over his face is proud though as thye reset, as she prepares to try again.
A rough rumble of laughter leaves Nate at his niece's schoolyard recitations. This is a gentler way than what he'd learned, his house a ring before it had ever been a home, his father coach and enemy in varying measures. "Just like that." Nate confirms as her fist finds it's mark in his side, Nate shifting with the impact, twisting to help hide the motion of his retaliation, his fist arcing out wide, obvious only if Melita's looking for it. "If you're always moving, your opponent can't tell what is or isn't a strike." There's an irritating airiness in his voice, utterly unaffected from the exercise.
got a man, don't need him, but you wait call me when you want, or just call me when you need it
Just like that nearly earned a smile, but she had to curve and curb away from the impact hastening towards her side; ribs instantly smarting as he responded – a dull ache a vivid reminder that she had to do more than offensive procedures, even though the notion of defense always seemed like a novel concept to her. Go all in, with zero calculations, had settled within her from a very young, tender age, and had yet to fully scrape away from her maneuvers, or from her impulsive gambits. “How do I tell when they’re going to retaliate though?” Where to look? Where to glance? It couldn’t be mere fortune all the time (and in her case, it rarely was).
Another breath and she stepped into motions again, a frenetic little pulse in the back of her mind yearning to be set alight. But now wasn’t the time for ignition, kindling, or stoking the vicious fire – these were instances for guidance and reflection, as much as she detested keeping herself in check. Instead, the youth leaned into another shuffle of her limbs, modest control, constantly, consistently in motion, before attempting a punch towards his right shoulder, deliberately careening with a rush of zealousness. The honeybee craved to be one of those unpredictable, vicious little vipers, bludgeoning before they could ever touch her, or one of her cherished brethren – the world afraid to even dare.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
don't you pray? don't you pray to a cocaine jesus in a black four seater?
”Theres no one thing you can look at.” Nate admits after a moment of quiet thought, leaning back and out of the follow through for his strike. ”If you’re fighting someone with training, their feet will usually give them away.” Another punch is feinted, Nate’s feet moving in an exaggerated example, showing off how to stance changes as he moves, his his weight is shifted. ”People who aren’t trained will usually throw their whole body into the attacks though.”
There’s no example for the second fact, not as Nate goes on the defensive, leaning the wrong way and suffering the full brunt of Melita’s attack. More laughter bubbles from him, no small measure of joy in the sound, though it’s gruff and hard. ”When you connect, you open up more advantage for yourself. Follow through with it, but don’t try to get greedy. It’s always better to be safe and pull back that it is to get that last punch in.” Nate doesn’t move, leaves himself open for his niece to try it out. Lack of pain makes him an effective punching bag, and he’d gotten beaten up for worse reasons in the past.
got a man, don't need him, but you wait call me when you want, or just call me when you need it
Her brows furrowed again, a similar disposition to thinking, to mulling over. Not frustration, not irritation, though both emotions were familiar, distinct, and habitual – instead it was the compelling of thought, of notions and observations to make. She couldn’t simply run in haphazardly all the time, despite the temptation. She couldn’t persist in reckless, unrelenting abandon, despite the enticement. There were orchestrations and choreography to the movements, and she only knew about half the steps – the action, the pulse, the restless energy coiled, seared, and inhabiting her form. The chaos could be contorted and controlled in a more useful manner, and that was what she was hear for; to listen to someone who knew far more about it. “Okay,” she breathed, rolling her shoulders, releasing whatever tension had bound its way into her muscles.
The youth nodded, her brows no longer so knotted and entangled, watching, how his feet maneuvered, how stances altered and changed, deliberation coming to fruition. Follow through on a connection bristled amidst the clarity, and she hastened patterns of possibilities, the tangibles, the abilities, balling her first back together. The girl lunged, intending to sweep her motions into his ribs, and then do so again with the other, trying to strike from both sides, caging and boxing.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
don't you pray? don't you pray to a cocaine jesus in a black four seater?
Nate can see the determination wind up in her, his lessons being taken to heart, and it brings a surprisingly warmth to the punchable smirk on his face. Her practical demonstrations presses in again, Nate shifting, stepping back as one, two blows glance against his core. ”Not bad at all!” He praises, stepping out of her range entirely to sequence into the next lesson, his personal favourite.
”Now, you put it all together.” Just as before, Nate goes easier on her, not wanting to crush her spirit with an impossible match. No, instead the ascended takes everything his favourite niece doles out, shifting and feinting but for the most part keeping his fists to himself, his movements textbook and easy to read. The only times he strikes back is when she leaves herself open, when she overextended or steps poorly, just to highlight the places she needs to be careful, where she needs to pay attention.
And when the motions come smoother, easier, Nate adds another layer of difficulty, a conversation, frustratingly easy on his part. ”So I wanted to ask you something Mel.”
got a man, don't need him, but you wait call me when you want, or just call me when you need it
The honeybee took the not bad proclamation, but didn’t bother unfurling a smirk or a snicker, no time to puzzle through the war on her features. Instead, it was the lesson itself she adhered to, broad strokes of movement, watching, waiting, snagging at the maelstroms, at the barrage meant to come back to her. Feinting, dashing, striving to demonstrate all that she’d learned and snagged, that she was a proud student, that she could listen when not burrowed into her own stubbornness. Reading his movements was likely too easy, but she’d clench and grasp at that too, in order to fine-tune her skills, in order to be able to parse through the particulars. A jab, a punch, a flail, earning a strike when a motion lacked fluidity or intelligence, eventually snorting and reeling with a sunshine smile when the motions became smoother. There was an ease, a balm, a cast away sentiment in the lack of complete, utter violence, and merely allowed to be, to perform, to attempt, to hone them into her mind and muscles.
She didn’t expect the conversation, and the youth arched her brow, distracted once more. Her brows furrowed for half a second, likely enough time for him to render a notion against her, but she didn’t understand what he’d need, what he’d inquire about. “Go ahead.”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
don't you pray? don't you pray to a cocaine jesus in a black four seater?
”Im starting a uh,” The words pause as he takes advantage of her distraction, getting in a good hit against her ribs and bobbing away again. ”Starting a group. Society, I guess. Emergency responders, and caretakers and such.” And he knows it goes against the girls impulses, the tornado lingering just under her skin, but he wants to offer her other avenues. Wants to encourage the good, the focus, the nurturing side. ”I was wondering if you wanted to help out, when you’re not sailing.”
His offense slows, arms drawing back in a defensive position. Nate wants to give Mel room to chew on it for a moment, room to him and consider and decide, without his overbearing presence a threat dancing in her peripherals. No, instead he was merely a threat blocking in her peripherals, a far less imposing figure.
got a man, don't need him, but you wait call me when you want, or just call me when you need it
A hiss extended through her as his fist came into her ribcage, and then some manner of vitriol passed through in the resounding assault thereafter – punching, fists flying, leveling a matter of speed and concentration through gnarled growls and gnashing teeth. His words didn’t even really ricochet or bound upon her until moments after, as if they’d been desperate to catch up with the rest of her brain (the seething and snarling proportions seemingly an endless bounty, and the rational ones striving to follow). She paused, brows not furrowed or deepening into a scowl, but flaring, flickering, in an art of consideration.
“I’m not much of a caretaker, or a healer.” Those had been her mother and her sister’s roles. Gathering herbs through honeysuckle and wildflower fields while she bristled and tried to understand which leaves and stems and stalks were for what – content to hang them, watch them dry, pluck at the vegetation when her mother wasn’t looking. But it’d never piqued her interest the way action and vengeance had, the way vehemence lingered in her bones, scraped against the enamel, poised aloft in her frenetic brain. Clementine and her mother had been gentle, kind, and compassionate – and sometimes Melita could only be one of those things. Sometimes she couldn’t be any. “What would I need to do?”
Because she longed for so many places too.
She didn’t even attack this time, the balled fists coming to rest at her sides, head tilted, the curiosity building to a enigmatic front.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
