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 man has paid rather handsomely to have a simple note delivered to Finn's room at the Inn. So when the woman knocks on the door to give the Spyglass the folded up piece of paper, she does so with a reverence not normally seen in Torchline. Indeed, some of the respect she now has for the blue-eyed man who'd given her this note seems to rub off on Finn, and she offers him a weak curtsy as she places the paper in his hand and departs.
The note, written in an impeccable script, simply reads:
Meet me for a drink. 7 p.m. The Hanged Man.
There's no signature, but the Eye, as with almost everything, has a handwriting style entirely unique and recognizable.
When Finn arrives, as if he could do anything else, it will be to see Cian seated at a table at the edge of the bar. One of the tables which borders the sand, protected by the magical barrier that the Hanged Man boasts so that its occupants can feel as though they are dining outdoors without worrying about the changes in weather. Dressed in a simple white button-up shirt and tan pants, Cian looks almost unrecognizable, given how casually he is dressed.
The invitation is not phrased as such, and so Finn knows that it is not a suggestion so much as it is a demand. He is not long returned from the Climb, and he accepts the slip of paper with a quick glance and a nod to the woman who delivers it. When he arrives at the Hanged Man at 7pm on the dot (no earlier, no later), he is similarly dressed in a casual sense - though compared to the Eye, that is always true. Which is why tonight is such an odd exception.
In the palms overlooking their table, an owl is perched, and Finn is learning to pay her no mind. So he walks to where Cian is sitting and settles into the chair opposite, a surge of adrenaline steadying his hands, even as old, cold doubt feathers his jaw. "I had almost expected to be tackled to the ground by this point," he says, almost under his breath.
Finn arrives, though the man might as well be no more than a ghost given how little attention he is initially paid. Cian's eyes are held by the sea, the stormy blue a vibrant contrast to the pale dusty stare of the Eye's gaze. Reaching into his pocket, Cian pulls out a silver case, within which are a handful of expertly wrapped cigarettes, no doubt containing tobacco the likes of which a dingy place like the Hanged Man has never seen. Only now does Cian turn his gaze toward Finn, drinking him in, in an instant.
"Cigarette, Finn?" He asks, holding out the case. With his fingers poised as they are, it almost looks as though he'll snap it shut upon the Spyglass's fingers should he reach for one.
Pulling in a deep breath, and lighting his cigarette—and Finn's, has the Spyglass taken one—Cian takes a long drag as he leans back against his chair. With one arm raised and hooked over the back of it so that he's slightly turned toward Finn, it might almost look as though the two men are nothing more than work-mates, meeting for a drink after a long week. Whatever tension there is, comes only from Finn. Cian, as always, looked relaxed and completely in control. "Never thought you and I would be meetin' for a drink here." The Eye notes, placing the cigarette between his lips again, inhaling deeply such that the end glows a brilliant orange.
Calm and controlled as Cian may be, Finn has worked with the Eye for long enough that he knows that the more still and the more casual he appears, the more trouble is brewing. He holds up a hand to decline the offer of a cigarette, knowing better than to try and attempt to smoke in the presence of the other man. Finn will choke on a good day, let alone now. (Take that however you please).
They both watch everything other than each other, and something like a smile lifts one side of Finn's mouth as the Eye's words hit him. "Well, neither of us are drinking currently. There is still time," he remarks. Eventually he gathers himself to look across at Cian, honest confusion clouding his features. "I didn't expect you to come all the way to Torchline."
11-06-2020, 07:00 PM (This post was last modified: 11-06-2020, 07:01 PM by Cian.)
CIAN
As if on cue one of Raza's staff appears to take Finn's order. Without needing to ask she subsequently adds more whiskey to the empty glass of Cian's on the table. Pleased by this serendipitous timing, the Eye raises his eyebrows slightly as he takes another puff on his cigarette, letting the smoke billow and curl up the side of his face, momentarily obscuring the cool blue stare from one of his eyes.
Softly shrugging, the Eye's lips purse in a brief-expression of it's nothing. "It takes less time to get here than it does to get to the Collegeium, if you think about it." With a click of the compass, the Eye was simply in Torchline. Distance didn't matter. But of course that wasn't what Finn was saying. Not really. "Besides, I thought perhaps it easier this way." He pauses, stare piercing before he smiles. "What with how you were held up last time."
Finn orders wine, and he doesn't even know why - it gives him something for his hands to do and the distraction of the taste, he supposes. For a man so content with silence, there's something screaming between he and Cian that he absolutely cannot abide, and yet he is forced to sit and accept it until such a time that Eye determines is appropriate to speak. And even when he does speak, it isn't... exactly forthcoming.
"Yes, at least this time there are no letters descending slowly into madness," he agrees softly. "Though we haven't yet started to speak about things, so it remains to be seen." Finn sighs, gazing up at the palms above, where Artemide perches. "So how does this end, Cian? Am I going to the Hollowed Grounds, or to the Silk Houses?"
Cian's head tilts back slightly as he chuckles at that, albeit dryly, turning his pale denim stare out back toward the sea. "Ever the optimist, eh Finn?" Their gazes cross over one another, Cian looking straight out and Finn looking up at Artemide (who, unhelpfully, merely sits and watches).
"And here I thought you were going to tell me." Finn's wine arrives, and Cian offers the waitress a humble and appreciative thank-you for her trouble. "To endings." The Eye offers in a toast, raising his glass of whiskey. Regardless of whether or not Finn inclines his glass to be cheersed, the Eye will clink the side of his against Finn's before taking a drink.
Rolling the glass between his palms, Cian presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "So go on then Finn. How does this all end? You've clearly decided that you don't need to follow orders anymore, so let's have it." And gods if he doesn't sound entirely reasonable about. His voice is nearly condescending, but patient; the voice of a parent who has been told by their child that they're planning on running away, and is now helping them pack, asking where they will go, allowing themselves to see the folly of their efforts themselves.
The wine arrives, sweet and red as blood, and it's true that Finn doesn't lift his glass to cheers Cian's, though it rings out a tone of celebration nonetheless. He sips his drink, watches Artemide for a moment more, and lowers his gaze again just after Cian directs his own out to sea. They miss each other at intervals, and he finds himself curiously glad about that fact. "Optimism hasn't had much of a place in my life thus far," he says slowly, swirling the wine in the glass.
The barb delivered is smooth and perfectly aimed, striking true into Finn - undoubtedly as Cian intended. But the Spyglass has grown more armour since his last meeting with the Eye; since blue silk and hospital beds and a body ravaged by sickness and strife. "Forgive me, but I wasn't aware that your orders came above those of Safrin or the other heralds." Finn nods up at the owl sitting above them.
"That is Artemide. She was put under my care by the lady of the stars. And she delivered us to your office in time to find you unconscious - you are very welcome, by the way - and showed me that very subtle tome of yours. I believe it is creatively called tHe pLaN." He finally fixes stormy eyes on Cian. "As soon as you enlighten someone as to your orders or lack thereof, I will be happy to follow or refuse accordingly."
Cian doesn't need to look toward Artemide to know that she's there. Instead, he simply smiles at Finn, the lines around his eyes deepening and making him look almost warm for just a moment. "No, I should think that they don't." He agrees, his smile perfectly placed and his eyes shining with a cold light. "So not directions from Safrin then, but one of her familiars." Cian is careful to clarify. It isn't that the owl is not important in her own right, but of course in matters just as these, the devil is in the details. And if Finn is going to rely on his orders coming from on high, best he get the hierarchy correct.
Raising a brow that he should be appreciative of Finn and October's arrival in his office—just how and why was the Eye unconscious? That never was cleared up, was it?—Cian raises his whiskey to his lips again as Finn outlines what he knows in what is presumably some display of dominance or power. Even the most feeble of creatures will lash out at a formidable predator when cornered.
"As I said..you've now your owl, you've read the book. Why ask me what happens next, when you clearly have it all well in hand?" The Eye doesn't rise to Finn's bait, not bothering to justify his actions (or Finn's accusations that he's done nothing at all). "You've already told Amalia of the machine and the ascended's plans. And since you clearly believe I don't have a handle on it, I'll leave it to you."
Finn is not a stupid man. In fact, his whole deal is about being the opposite, so as his lips part to refute Cian, he pauses to absorb the details. And the devil in them, but quite who that is remains to be seen at present. "Yes," he says slowly, his agreement hesitant but nevertheless there, and suddenly Artemide's shadow cast overhead feels a lot heavier. A lot darker. He stares into his glass of wine, as the sense of smug superiority washes over him and makes him feel suddenly sick.
The Spyglass starts to feel as though the Eye is either a very good poker player, or he has always - as has been the case since Finn has known him - had all the cards he needs in hand. Then he starts to feel ridiculous. "Why wasn't this possible to put into a message?" he asks softly. "It feels as though it didn't need to be a long response, if this is the case."
That was the thing about Cian. Any time the cards had not fallen the way he needed to, his bluff had always been good enough to get him through. Just how many times had he come close to the brink of failure, only to pull out a victory in the end such that no one knew that things hadn't gone according to plan? Impossible to know. The only woman who held those answers was two years in the ground, now.
"Why?" Cian chuckles again, and whatever flicker of kindness had been briefly writ across his face is gone now. If Finn ever had an edge in this conversation, he's thrown it away now. "Because, Finn, when a man decides to take a gamble on his life, to disobey direct orders, that man should have the courage to look me in the eye and stand by his choices." Cian shrugs for a moment, and then adds: "Or else he's just a coward."
Downing his drink and setting it firmly on the table between them, Cian turns to face Finn. His eyes are so light that if you stare at them too long, they seem to lose all colour. "I came here to give you that opportunity, Finn. To say it to my face." It's a gift. A lifeline. A last chance. A way forward. It's whatever Finn wants it to be, but only in this moment. Only in this one moment, does Finn have the chance to choose.
Cian has finished his drink already and Finn's remains barely touched; the Spyglass does lock eyes with the man across the table from him, and he finds himself sitting up in his seat, stiffening. "To say it to your face," he echoes softly. "This, from a man who ties blue silk around a cast, as a reminder of what may or may not happen to someone's future. Maybe. On a whim, wrapped up as a warning. If he feels like it." Finn is acquainted exquisitely with cruelty, and has been from a young age. It comes in a myriad of different flavours and intensities.
And the Eye is very good at it, whether or not he believes it about himself.
"I was given information which led me here, to Torchline, to issue a warning to those most suited to do something about it. If I was mistaken I apologise, but with all due respect, Cian, if this is information you are sitting on... why? One man should not be carrying that much." His eyes narrow.
"It occurred to me that you might have been taking for granted all the luxuries afforded to you." While Finn certainly lived no life of grandeur, his office, the privacy afforded to him in his own apartment and his office, his access to a whole host of ancient books...all of it was far more than he had when working at Molly's. "It has nothing to do with feeling, Finn. Your actions have consequences. It is as simple as that." And really, it was. Whatever righteousness Finn had, or felt he had, would not save him from the reality of his position, firmly beneath Cian.
'You were given information.' Cian agrees, very clearly not extending his agreement to what led him here. Interlacing his fingers in his lap and leaning back, the Eye offers the Spyglass a dusty laugh, pale eyes searching the ceiling for something before raining back down. "You have an owl who does not speak. Orders from Safrin to watch over her. To keep her safe. All of this—" This heroic streak, this need to move the right pieces, it was all in Finn's head. "—was just what you made of it. And now you sit here, having read a few pages of a book you can't possibly have understood, implying that you know better than me."
As for the weight of this all? Cian smirks, reaching for the cigarette left smouldering on a glass ashtray. "You'll have to take my word for it that some of us can carry burdens that others cannot."
Finn doesn't mean to laugh - and he doesn't, really - it's more of a huff of breath, his head shaking gently to Cian. "No," he says quietly, the word still tasting foreign on his tongue. "Your actions have consequences. And the consequences of your actions are a waterfall effect that causes others to act in turn. If members of your Order are defying direct instruction, it is because you are not as effective as you might be."
Because Cian is right and Finn can see it now, the tunnel of his own misdirection, of his need to do something, anything, that wasn't sitting pretty in StormBreak, however soothing it might be for his mind and his soul. Because that isn't the role of the Spyglass, however fulfilling a purpose it would be. And that realisation does nothing for actions that have already taken place, for wheels that are already set in motion.
As for the burden of Cian's tasks? Finn smiles, though it can hardly be called such, and reaches into his pocket. Between them he sets down his glasses, his stormy gaze tumultuous as it locks back on the Eye. "I don't need to take your word for it - I know it to be true. A man like you would break under the burden of what I carry. The difference is, I have no choice about carrying it. You could always share yours."
