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!
A little indulgence every now and then was not at all forbidden by Caido's Gods. In fact, it was encouraged, by Frey's more frivolous side and Ludo's playful nature. Gideon was sure Safrin too appreciated the aesthetics of a good party, and as for the more powerful Gods? He doubted they cared all that much in the first place. With all of that in mind, Gideon wasn't quite sure why he felt so guilty about getting a drink.
He'd kept his drinking a secret for years now from the Order, from anyone in Stormbreak except a very select few. It wasn't a huge problem; he was hardly showing up to services drunk or finding himself forgetting nights. It was a shot of something strong in the morning to wake up, a drink to relax with in the evening, maybe a catch-up at lunch. Just enough to keep him alive, jovial, with the occasional binge into actual drunkeness.
The search for somewhere to drink where it was unlikely anyone he knew would find him had brought him to the Hanged Man. The beach was a nice enough place as any and by the time he was on his second, Gideon was watching it with a quiet smile, sat by himself on the only table not occupied by a group of gambling or yelling drunkards. With the only available chair at his table, he suspected he'd soon gain company, but he was amenable to that (as long as they weren't Ascended, obviously, but what would an Ascended be doing at a bar?).
The Hanged Man is fucking packed, which you will take as testament to your find carpentry and decoration and not the fact that the weather's as hairy as Vi's balls. Autumn winds are old news, and nothing compared to the spring, but they make a good excuse to hunker down and have a drink.
And so here you are, half for business and half for pleasure, your eyes and ears keen as you lean against the bar. Mik passes you your usual - straight rum, the good stuff, thanks - and you sip it all languid and nonchalant, pausing to greet people as they come up to you, exchanging pleasantries (and unpleasantries) as the night wears on.
And yeah, you saw the tall bloke who's sitting by himself. You know almost everyone who frequents the 'Man by sight if not by name, so an outsider sticks out like a sore thumb - especially one who's dressed like that. So when you've finished your obligatory greetings and discussions you mosey over to the empty chair, plopping down first and asking second. "This seat open, friend?"
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
Gideon did notice the seemingly popular man that wandered into the bar, going from person to person and making his greetings; he made a note of his appearance, thinking it might be good to know who the people of repute were in each area, but had not intended to think on it much more than that. After all, this was his time away from his work, the brief window where he was simply a man and not a protector of tradition and the Gods.
Then, just as his mind had begun to successfully wander off to something else, there was a voice and the chair opposite taken. Gideon was surprised for a moment, then his expression changed to a wry smirk, the drink in him enough to make him amenable to this company without irritation. "Seems you've decided it is, friend, but luckily for you it wasn't until now."
Leaning back to wave to the bartender for another, he spoke distractedly: "Gideon, and you?"
The stranger takes your arrival with a good deal of grace, something that earns him credit in your books. Leaning back with a nod, you raise your glass of rum in a silent cheers. The remaining liquid pours down your throat with a delicious burn, and it isn't until the glass is empty that you clank it back onto the table, looking smug as sin.
"Zeph." You jut your chin at Mik as well, raising your fingers to indicate he should bring over two drinks. Returning your attention to Gideon, you fix him with a an idly curious look, eyebrows slightly raised. "You ain't from Torchline," you state, as casually confident as though you'd been remarking on the color of his shirt. "Enjoyin' yer stay?"
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
As soon as Gideon received his drink, grinning in what he thought was a charming way to the server that brought it over, he raised it towards Zeph in response and drank too, wiping his mouth of foam with the back of his hand. "You can handle your booze." He commented wryly, though the true test of that would be in an hour when Zeph would either be still here or under the table.
"I'm not." He knew it was obvious. Nothing about him screamed 'grew up by the beach'. "It's not really a stay. Only a day here on some business. This is just my hour off." Stretching his arms up and cracking his neck either way, he looked out towards the beach and the sea. He'd seen them before, of course, the Order providing compasses to all who joined and his work requiring him to travel, but Torchline could still impress him with it's beauty on a night like this one. "It is beautiful here though. I don't know how any of you get anything done. I'd just be singing hymns on the beach all day."
"Business, huh? Cheers t'that." Mik's brought fresh drinks, and this time you take a more modest sip before setting the glass on the table. Idly you run a finger over the rim, eliciting a low tone from the vibrating glass that can barely be heard over the chatter in the bar. Your whole demeanor is languid, unperturbed, as comfortable and nonchalant as a lion at home in his pride - and beneath it, just as keen.
You raise an eyebrow at his description of Torchline life, scoffing. "Hymns ain't really th'type'a song we get in these parts." Less love of deities, more lust for debaucheries. "If yer really lookin' for a break you oughta stop by the Halenani. I hear they got an Ascended girl who can change her face."
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
Gideon responded to Zeph's cheers willingly enough, though he suspected that they were not in the same kind of business. It was not a secret that Torchline, especially the coast, was home to plenty of underhanded types, trading stolen goods and operating shady gangs that lurked beneath the city's surface; not anything Gideon cared too much about, but he couldn't help but be curious about Zeph's involvement. "And what business is it you're in?"
It was true that he'd stand out singing hymns, but Gideon didn't know many other songs. "Then I suppose I'd have to learn some of the local tunes. I imagine they feature a lot of booze, sailing and sex?" He asked, raising an eyebrow towards Zeph in question.
The jovial, chatty tone in his voice stopped dead the second Zeph suggested he go to alleviate his stress with an Ascended, though. Gideon stiffened, let out a huff of air from his mouth and shook his head. "Afraid I can't imagine anything worse than that. If I'm going to be with anyone, it's not going to be one of those damned machines."
"Workin' th'docks. Tradin'." Your tone is deceptively mild, as though your work was as simple as all that and had nothing to do with seedy underbellies and vaguely illicit activity. "How 'bout you?" you ask in reply, also conversational and mild. "What kinda work brings a fella like you to our little haven?"
You snort at his assessment of local music, but don't do anything to disabuse him of his not really that off-base notion. "Stick around, you'll pick some up." There's always someone whistling (or shouting) a shanty somewhere- heck, even the Hanged Man is known to break out into song as the nights wear on.
His reaction to your proposal of the Halenani is surprising to say the least. You raise your brows quizzically, never having heard so visceral a reaction to the idea of fucking an Ascended. "C'mon- th'blood shit ain't for everyone, but it ain't that bad," you counter, eyeing him with amusement crinkling your eyes. "Educated fella like you oughta have an open mind. Y'know. For science."
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
"What do you trade in?" Gideon asked, eyes shrewd, not letting Zeph get away with his vague answer. He probably wouldn't push more after that question, but he knew when he was being pushed away, and it was innate for him to want to dig deeper instead.
"I'm a priest." The answer came proudly, Gideon's chin tilting up as he said it and his eyes meeting Zephs. "I travel to spread the word of the Gods and to run tasks for them and their goals." His gaze almost dared Zeph to sneer at his work or defy the Gods before him, Gideon having an endless supply of sermons in his head. It was clear, from the impression his ring gave him, that Zeph was not a pious man; still, Gideon hoped he might know well enough to be respectful.
Picking up the local music was far preferable to picking up the local Ascended, Gideon's mind reeling at the idea of finding one attractive. Did Zeph not know that beneath their skin was contraptions and programs, not real flesh and blood? That the Voice changed them from the inside? It was hard to keep the anger from his voice; he knew it would ruin the casual mood of their conversation, but his fists were already clenching on his lap. "Having open minds is what infected us with them in the first place. I would like to never see an Ascended, such an affront to everything, again. Sleeping with one is just..." He looked off to the side and shook his head, the disgust clear.
12-16-2020, 04:18 PM (This post was last modified: 12-16-2020, 04:19 PM by Zephyr.)
Zeph
"Things people need. Or want." Again you shrug, not really feeling assed enough to give more of an answer. What you trade in hardly seems like his business- unless, of course, he's buying. "Why, lookin' t'pick up somethin' special?"
Whatever sparkle the prospect of doing business may have lit in your eyes is swiftly extinguished, replaced with a guarded sort of shrewd regard as the fucker declares himself to be some sort of priest. Your respect - or lack thereof - for the gods is well documented, and we don't need to rehash it here.
So yeah, it gets your guard up, and his following intolerance seals the deal. The amusement fades from your face, hardening into something stony and unyielding. You think of Sam, made to feel less than by gods and men along, and damn if it doesn't make your blood boil and your teeth sit on edge to wonder what this smug motherfucker would do to your friend.
You're still draped in your chair with the comfort of a cat, but there's an edge to your voice that bodes no argument. "I think yer business in Torchline is done, friend." Reaching out, you try to casually grab his glass, intending to pour the drink onto the floor. A hush falls over the loud bar, eyes turning to see what's got your goat. There are murmurs beneath it, and a large woman seems to materialize behind you, arms crossed over her chest. "If ya need help findin' th'stick that's up yer ass, I'm sure Maile'd be happy t'help. Otherwise..."
You're leaning forward, your voice low, eyes glittering dangerously beneath your scar. "I'd hurry home if I was you."
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
All he could do at the offer of something special was laugh and shake his head, everything Gideon needed already provided by the Order or the Gods. Besides, he could hardly imagine Cian's reaction if he ended up getting caught in some scandal involving Torchline pirates, not to mention his congregation. No, that was a world he was quite content just seeing from a distance.
All the casual smiles and laugh disappeared as a tension came over the table though, Zephyr clearly displeased with what he had said. Gideon felt a sinking in his chest, not from guilt or fear, but from a distraught question: Have they all been so brainwashed by the Voice?
Not someone easily intimidated, he watched with raised eyebrows as his drink was poured away and Zeph gained an edge to his voice. There was a danger in the bar's crowd turning against him, but if worst came to worst he had his compass. His lips turned upwards again, though now with a distinctly more malicious, sarcastic mood; Gideon leaned forward too, shoulders raised and eyes directly looking into Zeph's. "This is a very nice display, but I know it can't be how you really feel. Leave the peace-keeping to the idiots in the Hollowed Grounds. Don't you see the Voice and her 'children' want to destroy everything you've got here? Your drinks, your sun, your carefree life...all gone, to be replaced with a machine for a brain and a limp dick."
He normally wasn't so crude, but, well. He was a few drinks in, and Gideon felt to reach someone like Zeph, maybe he had to be.
Oh so here's Mr. High-and-Mighty Priestlier-than-thou, eh? Your eyebrows lower in contempt as the man leans forward, trying to intimidate you (and honestly, he's bigger and stronger - you should be afraid). But this is your house and you aren't about to back down just because some foreign fuck has decided his principles of prejudice outweigh common decency.
The bar has gone quiet, everyone staring at the table where you and Gideon sit. You could cut the tension with a spoon, and though you'd rather things not come to blows you're sure Raza would be understanding. Gods, he's spewing some high quality garbage - but garbage nonetheless. It's almost sad.
Abruptly you lean back in your seat, spreading your arms over the back of your chair as your body begins to shake. It starts in your belly, rising up to your shoulders and then you can't hold back: the big belly laugh flows out of you, a rumbling thing that cascades through the quiet bar, smashing the tension just as well as a thrown and shattered glass. By the time you catch your breath others are laughing, too, some uncertainly and many drunkenly but enough in true support of you that you feel your confidence swell.
You come back in, slamming your fist down repeatedly on the wooden table as tears prick at your eyes. "Y'know, Father, that's th'best crock'a shit I've heard in a minute," you wheeze at last, rubbing moisture away with rough palms. "'Careful, e'ryone, th' big bad Ascended're gonna steal the sun'" It's hysterical, and the laughter bubbles up again, leaving you speechless and shaking your head as others begin to join in with their own mocking jokes, the crowd now pulling tighter around your table as they jeer at the priest.
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
Gideon was expecting Zeph to give up on his idiotic insistence that the Ascended were anything more than vile machines, or failing that expecting him to make it into a physical fight, or storm off. He was not, admittedly, expecting the laughter, and he watched with a somewhat baffled expression, still frozen in the way he had leaned in closer.
He moved back slowly, his eyes changing from confused to a hard steely anger as Zeph brought in the crowd, mocking and jeering surrounding them. Gideon said nothing, just tilted his head as he sighed out a disappointed breath, like a father whose child had broken a promise. "Fine." Was the only word he said in the end, standing up from his chair (anyone who attempted to stop him would be forcefully pushed through).
"This ignorance is fun now, but you'll regret it when you need my help to get out of the nightmare the Voice will put you in. And by the way-" Unable to resist the petty attack, too drunk to hold back, Gideon leaned over the table until he was close to Zeph, enough to hiss a whisper that only he would hear: "The Gods don't like you either."
Then he was gone, his other hand having gone to grasp the compass in his pocket.
If Gideon hoped to unsettle you with his final little burn, he is in for a world of disappointment. Quite frankly, you couldn't give less of a shit what the gods think of you, and would prefer they not think of you at all. You're preparing to retort as much, in fact, but before you can get the words out the man just up and disappears, leaving you with an empty seat and a throng of half-drunk and angry bar patrons.
Fucking coward.
You blink dumbly for a moment, then sigh and run your fingers through your hair. "Well, then." Glancing about your equally bewildered compatriots, rise up with a soft groan before putting on a grin and raising your glass. "Ain't no room for zealots in Torchline!" you announce to the throng, and after a moment a roar of agreement rises up, glasses raised in turn.
The rest of the evening is spent laughing and drifting from person to person, but under the calm facade you're troubled. You've heard whispers of bad shit to come; you just never thought it would come here.
{fin}
you're not a bad person
for the ways you tried to kill your sadness
