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!
Actions waylaid, promises forgotten, notions of thoughts upon thoughts rendered into a lackluster haze of lunacy and delirium, had at last come to a cease and desist. The Sword could breathe without the hint of affliction rampaging down through his lungs, across his flesh, tarnished and torn, feverish and deranged. He could move and maneuver without the thought, the notion, of carrying healing water to ensure he remained mobile and upright. He was alive, and slowly, ever so slowly, striving to become whole once more. A slow, unwinding, unfurling process, where some of the pieces were jagged and didn’t fit quite as well as before – but steadily gaining the platitude to become more than a wandering, burdened fool.
Even if this particular errand only gave him pause, a chiseling, sculpting, carving reminder in his bones that he’d been the cause of all of this. If, in the back of his mind, the weight of Rexanna’s words, spoken in a dream, held any merit., any ties, any considerations (he did – he thought about them daily, along and alone on the tundras, imagining worlds where the Penumbra and the Sword could coexist again, reapers and thieves alike).
A time to honor and uphold then – and a note had been sent Bastien’s way, that he’d be there to fulfill the role of memorial making, of casting Rexanna’s memories to better light. He wasn’t certain if Bastien was ready any more than he was, but Leafchange was Ludo’s jurisdiction, where lanterns were hung, where traces of those lost came to pass once more.
Eventually, he peeled his way through the Grounds, parsing through familiar paths, branching and bridging along avenues and routes, touching and embarking over shadows, until he came to the notable building. Zuriel followed, a tilt to her head, apparently not used to leaving him out of her sight (for fear of yet another sickening trial; and he really couldn’t blame her) – and upon the approach to the door, the heathen raised his fist and knocked.
Normally, when a project was set for the day and he had plans to work upon it, Bastien would wake excited and ready to begin, eager to pull out his materials and create. Today that was not the case. While what they were making together was important and no doubt would be beautiful, he knew it would be taxing on his soul. More than anything else, even more than the portraits or her hairbrush on the bedroom table or her dresses in the wardrobe, this would fill the house with Rexanna's sprit, a surefire way nowadays to crush his own.
Still, he had promised Deimos he would do this, and it was the right thing to do. The knock on the door signalled that time had begun and he stepped away from where he had been laying out supplies to answer it, a smile on his face nonetheless. "Deimos! It is good to see you. Do come in, I was just getting together the last of what we will need."
On the table there were paints, clay and trinkets; some of them things Rexanna had owned, others things that Bastien had collected that she would have liked. Gold was present throughout all the items and in the centre, in a dull metallic frame, a portrait of Rexanna was ready to be hung. "Have you brought anything to go within the memorial?"
I am the carbon collected. I am the printed upon your stars.
If only they’d never had to this at all; a testament to mistakes and circumstances, an ode to bridges in sanctities, in sanctums, in alleviating hurts but still visiting the melancholies, wandering over the edges, the fringes, the boundaries of self-inflicted torment. Deimos had found himself lodged in very peculiar patterns and cycles: once, the first to die in their Helovian threshold, incapable of knowing if the impact of his perishing led to anything at all. Now, he’d be amongst and amidst the last, watching as they were pierced one by one by one, and he was left to stand and shoulder the dominion of things he couldn’t have again – to endure the endless onslaughts, to carry the pain and anguish.
Except there were other lives touched and honored too, and he bowed his head in greeting to Bastien, stepping through the Artist’s Sanctuary’s threshold. Each time he entered there was something new – renderings of canvases, of portraits, of sculptings, streaks of vibrant colors, hues blending together in rapid disarray, but his scrutinizing gaze went to the Ascended first, the silent implications always there. He couldn’t ascertain enough apologies for the way things had played out – for the plots and protections gone so horribly awry. “How are you? And Azrael?” Then his gaze swept over the artifacts, the clay, the trinkets, gilded and gold, the portrait of the Penumbra staring back over him, and the shame rankling down his spine.
I don’t blame you echoed in the ridges of his spine, but he wasn’t certain if he could ever cease condemning himself.
Only thereafter did he turn back towards Bastien, a long exhale unfurling through his chest, and he could feel Zuriel stir near the door. “I did,” and he motioned towards the bag over his shoulder, containing some of the items he’d place. “I will make more.” Within the moment, within the instances, the created contortions coming to him when required. “Do you need help with anything?”
"We are well enough. Azrael is growing more every day, and soon will be too old to listen to their father, I am sure." Already, they were old enough to go out themselves, discover and consider the world, develop who they were. It was odd, having a child that grew quite so quickly. On the one hand it was exciting, the process so swift that the pride never stopped coming...on the other he barely got used to his child before they were again different. "I told them to entertain themselves, for now. They are surrounded by enough mourning for a mother they never knew as it is."
It was sad, but true: Azrael had never known Rexanna, not really, and constantly forcing them to grieve was fruitless.
He glanced to Deimos' bag and gestured to the table where things could be laid out. "Please, show me. I'm interested to see." As for what he needed help with, Bastien looked to a corner he had cleared out in the room, one facing the window so that it might catch light on the rare occasions the curtains were open. "All of it, truthfully. I know that you are gifted with your magic, but I thought we might make this with only our hands; the work itself is a show of respect, don't you think?"
I am the carbon collected. I am the printed upon your stars.
A child who would never know their mother clawed at his insides, and he instinctively flinched, withdrew, held himself precariously, dangling over an edge. He didn’t quite understand the level of growth Bastien seemed to hint at, recalling the youth only as a newborn, as someone who’d needed toys only seasons before, so he could only arch a brow, the consideration, the questions, dying on his tongue. The beast’s head lowered, stilling and stealing breaths, suddenly uncertain if he was ready for any of this.
Then his wares were up for inspection, so he swallowed down the bile, nodding, wondering if they would even be up a particular standard. He dropped his satchel to the floor, opening up the bag of holding, and tracing over each filament, before lifting them, and placing them along the nearest table. The first was a gilded dagger, brandished and serrated in gold, highlighting a world long since passed but heavy in his heart nonetheless, one of the few to remain. Embedded along the sides was an obvious firework, the hilt rendered into a beatific burst. The second was a tiny mountain sculpture, with streaks of blue, lavender, and pink; colors to represent auroras, horizons once so clearly displayed amongst summit heavens. And then there was a figure of an eclipse, and though not blinding, it was meant to depict so much more –
He stepped back and away, for Bastien to survey, scan, eyes glancing over to the corner. Apprehension instilled once more at the artist’s suggestion; that his magic would have no place here, that it could only be instilled by hand, by craftmanship. He comprehended the implications, the reasons, the notions behind it all, but could only wonder if his efforts would be enough. If it would honor Rexanna. If it would do her any justice at all. “I understand. I will do my best.”
Deimos brought forth his various items and Bastien inspected each in turn very carefully, holding them softly in his hands and turning them around, nodding and smiling as he put them down. They were personal, beautiful, spoke of so much love for his wife that they almost made him cry when he thought of it; but there was time for that later. "You are a good friend, Deimos. These are wonderful memories of her." He put his hand on the other man's shoulder and nodded, sure that everything would have a place on the memorial.
He was pleased that Deimos agreed to use his hands for the work; together they would create something with no shortcuts for her, no workarounds. It would be considerably more effort, but the thought of cutting corners on something to honour Rexanna left a poor taste in his mouth.
"Come, then. I was thinking something in the shape of an oval, with a shelf for the various items and a picture, and some spaces for candles. I will add the finer details around the rim...and perhaps you could help make sure the shelf is structurally sound?" While he was asking Deimos to work with his hands, he knew that the man was not confident in his artistic abilities and did not want to overface him. "The first thing we have to do is build up the clay on the wall; you see I have made a space here and applied a first layer, mixed with some glue? We must place it on this." Pulling a large bag of clay near, Bastien knelt and began to take out handfuls, smoothing them out onto the wall.
I am the carbon collected. I am the printed upon your stars.
Battle hadn’t instilled fear – not the drumming of war hollow and vibrant in his ears, not the onslaught of impending torment racing to greet him, not the ominous declaration of a war already lost. The unknown hadn’t caused trepidation, because he was iron-forged and could machinate, plot, muse, and ruse his way out of most tribulations, embracing it with a full-fledged yearning, acquisition of knowledge, and the intricacies of curiosity. But the Ascended’s quiet inspection of Deimos’ craftmanship left him apprehensive at best, the same-old refrain beating against his skull: you are not enough.
And then there were the accepting smiles, the pat upon his shoulder, and the words reflecting back upon him. Something strangled its way down his throat, and he nodded, fighting off the self-torment; spine not as unyielding, stark expanse not so unreachable. “Thank you.” He’d already passed some muster, and perhaps he wouldn’t be such an abject failure here.
He followed at Bastien’s directions, Zuriel left at the entryway to sniff her way around other artifacts. The Sword nodded at the plans, the implications, striving to form a picture in his mind of the future frame, a memorial meant to come to life. Watching, listening, his gaze narrowed at the clay, studying the way the artist worked, for the soldier had never implemented with the element (unless it was for some timely decision with the earth; shifting rapidly to make a shield, a shelter, so no one perished). He bent along, intending to follow through as Bastien had directed, taking handfuls of the clay, and placing them along the wall; ensuring some measure of fortification.
In order to make the construction of the altar secure, this part would take quite a while; they needed to build up a good base, make sure it was smooth and fitted well to the wall before moving on. The work was however quite monotonous and easy, so Bastien turned to speak as he did it, practiced fingers still moving over the surface of the clay.
"It is nice sometimes to feel what we do and to not rely on the magics and gadgets we receive here, don't you think?" While he did not have the mighty powers Deimos possessed, Bastien did sometimes make himself walk somewhere and purposefully did not use his hoverboard, to simply feel the joy of using his feet. Perhaps Deimos didn't feel the same way, but there was something satisfying and pure about the way the clay squished between his fingers.
Pressing in some little divots to create texture for new clay to stick to, he thought of some polite conversation to pass the time. Deimos was not the most talkative of people but Bastien very much was, and there was no way he would spend this time in silence. "So, how is Amalia? I cannot say I have seen the both of you since your wedding."
I am the carbon collected. I am the printed upon your stars.
Deimos worked, silent, quiet, hushed, concentrating on his efforts, clinging to the trepidation that he’d somehow fail at the task – even something as simple as placing clay down. That Bastien would want to talk didn’t surprise him, both clearly at opposite ends of the value of discourse, and as his hands molded the elements, he wondered if it was an insult flung at him, or just general conversation.
Did he depend too heavily on his enchantments? More often than not, they were utilized for others; to protect, to defend, to construct, to craft. Power, precision, and might had been instilled in his blood, in his bones, since his birth – unfurling, unraveling, when he required and needed, when he sought to shield and guard. Was it a reliance then, or something so inherent as breathing, that he’d never thought to not utilize the efforts? Maybe it’d been the efficiency – the quick ease of demolition, of earth shifting, of fire flaring, that had stoked the abilities, that had finessed them into strength and accord. Maybe it’d been habitual, to not waste anyone’s time, to evade, to escape, to carve his way back into the shadows. So he shifted his gaze away from the structure, onto the floor, and returned again. “I suppose.” Perhaps like when he lifted his blade and shoved it into another’s chest – no magic, only pure violence and vehemence – satisfaction on battlefields.
Zuriel snorted from the front parlor, and he stifled himself from voicing those impressions.
His glance focused on Bastien’s efforts while he worked, shifting ever so slightly to examine the motions, and then sinking back in to replicate the design. He hadn’t expected the inquiry, and it lanced, painfully, down the roots of his spine. He did flinch this time, outwardly, as if he’d been stabbed, swallowing the bile threatening to plague against his lungs, his senses, suddenly, desperately, craving to be set loose, out of the grounds, out of the sanctuary. “She is probably fine.” Probably because he didn’t know, and wouldn’t anymore. His head hung and something stung, dug, another admittance to another individual. “She left me.”
It sounded like he wasn't going to convince Deimos entirely on the benefits of using ones hands for work, but as long as the man was happy to do it for Rexanna's memorial, he didn't mind. With the base panel complete, Bastien held out a hand sideways towards the wall, trying to gauge where the shelf should be. "Do you think you could begin to build it out here? Remember you will need to build out supports as well." While Deimos worked on that he would begin to make strips of clay to place around the edge in swirls and curving lines.
Glancing over at the use of the word 'probably', Bastien fought not to cringe as Deimos explained what had happened to him and Amalia; it seemed awfully soon, but even Bastien knew better than to say that. After a moment's quiet, nodding, he reached over and clapped a hand on Deimos' shoulder. "Well. Perhaps for the best; sometimes we need to hurt before we succeed. With a face and muscles like yours, I am sure there will be another love in your future." What else was there to say?
I am the carbon collected. I am the printed upon your stars.
Some portions complete, despite the lack of magic use, and new directions corresponded his way. A firm nod indicated he could, never been an individual not willing to put forth an effort and try, especially for those he cherished, and Rexanna had been amongst those paragons and pedestals. He strove to adhere to Bastien’s request, eyeing, sizing, the matters and materials, continuing in the same manner they’d readily applied earlier, layering and lacquering the clay to strength and precision, manifesting supports where they’d need to be rendered. And though he would’ve been done in a matter of moments if allowed to glide his gilded palms over the surface, perhaps this way was more satisfying, presiding effects and precision for the Penumbra. “I dreamed of her, recently,” he noted – as if to make conversation, as if to impart her spirit back into the confines, that some souls, though not with Mort, presided and remained far longer, loomed far larger, than they could ever think to convey. “Said she would always be in here.” And he pointed to his chest, where his withered, decayed heart still beat – then nodded once more in the Ascended’s direction, indicating she’d be in Bastien’s too.
Uncertain whether Bastien was attempting to lift his spirits, mollify the sudden situation, or simply move quickly over the rupture, the ravine, the Sword snorted. He’d never gone actively seeking or searching out love in any of its forms; they’d just happened, occurred, and usually by surprise. And he’d hurt enough for two lifetimes – enduring loss after loss after loss. He’d appease the artist in some measure of joke, striving to pinpoint a way out of this damned mess – dry, self-deprecating humor beckoning instead of sinking further. “Not my charming personality?” A grin to hone in that there were no hard feelings on his end – just that he was endlessly tired of wandering back into the same murk, the same tethers, the same lines, consistently haunting him.
Bastien was in the middle of forming a tight spiral that would be a vine's end when Deimos told him of his dream; he looked over and smiled, his eyes soft and for a moment, threatening to spill over with sudden tears. He had control over himself and his emotions though and was able to fight them back, nodding. "I had my own dream of her. I took her around Venice; I am not entirely sure they are only dreams. After all, we know her soul is still here somewhere, with the Voice. I speak to her every night, with the thought she may be able to hear me." He was sure it would appear the picture of tragedy, him in bed each night talking to a painting on the side table, but he'd actually begun to look forward to the 'conversations' with Rexanna.
He was surprised but happy to see Deimos making jokes about the situation with Amalia; Bastien of course suspected it was a way to cover up internal pain, but he felt it spoke of some strength and progress around the event. "Well, of course that too, but you know me: Always concerned with the aesthetic first. You see, you draw people in with your handsome face and good manner...then you show the personality, which seals the deal." Bastien winked. "The beginning of everything, as far as I have experienced, is a physical, optical attraction. We look and we see something we like...Rexanna came into my studio with her hair down and her smile, and I was gone."
I am the carbon collected. I am the printed upon your stars.
Dreams and figments, potential portals of reality that he hadn’t thought about – believing the slumber-induced ghosts, labyrinths, and quandaries had merely been a part of his memories, woven back to life when he needed them the most. When he’d required her advice, her sanctity, her compassion, her kindness, her sagacity, when he was so utterly incapable of doing anything but sinking. Did it hurt more then, to know and understand that they weren’t going to ever be tangible again (not until he found a way, of course, not until he’d broken some aspect of control over souls)? Or was it something to cherish too, in hopes that it would occur once more? Was it just as fleeting, just as melancholy, as the rest of the repose diminishing, disappearing, around them?
He fell quiet, because one look at Bastien felt like he’d stumbled into another pitfall; but then there were other mentions of her, of where they’d been and gone and he sighed some hushed nuance. His gaze, motions, and movements continued on their supportive structures, conforming it to muscle memory now while his thoughts immersed in their coiling measures. “Is Venice where you came from?” He’d never heard the word before; much like mostly everyone else likely reacted to all his stories about the world before this one – blending and molding and fixating together. “Perhaps she can travel between them all now. We were back in the Basin.” A soft smile to follow, directed at nothing but the memorial, where his hands could mold and create something for the Penumbra, for the Thief. How like Rexanna it would be – to traverse wherever she wanted, head held high and noble, procuring information and biding her time for those who still needed her the most.
Maybe Bastien’s carefree existence could shatter down the fortifications of anguish, igniting another snort from the Sword, a shake of his head flickering and following. There was no quarrel that the Ascended seemed concerned with aesthetic first and foremost, whether it came down towards art or people. An argument was ready on the monolith’s tongue though, because he didn’t draw others in, and had so often repelled, intimidated, and remained unattainable, usually entirely on purpose. But that had been as the Reaper. He was very different, very altered, very changed now, and had somehow managed to snag at found family, at those he could still cherish and protect. This last iteration and interval had scarred though, cut, altered, and damaged; exactly why he’d hated the notions of vulnerability, and hid. “I will keep it in mind.” He likely wouldn’t; opting to heal well before he ever ventured down into these dimensions again. He swung it back around though, gaze still upon the memorial, the task at hand. “When I first met Rexanna, I thought about her potential. Her talents. Her abilities.” A thief, a dagger, a collector of information; wrapped around smug smiles and benevolence – but then, he’d been King, and a Machiavellian mind always at the forefront. “She never proved me wrong.”
Bastien was surprised to hear that he had somehow made it through as many conversations with Deimos as he had without mentioning Venice; he sometimes thought, even though he usually wasn't all that homesick nowadays, that he spoke of his old home too much. "Yes. A city in a country called Italy, on my world Earth. A beautiful place, but not without it's problems. Perhaps...less obvious than the problems here, though." While he could have called the various monarchies and systems monstrous, they didn't appear with literal claws and teeth in the night.
Had Deimos voiced his thoughts, Bastien would have dedicated quite a bit of time to telling him just how and why he was attractive; perhaps it was better for Deimos' comfort that it didn't come up, because Bastien never backed down when it came to building someone else up.
"Yes, she had those in abundance." He smiled, pressing a delicate curl of clay into the edge of the shelf and pressing water around it to blend it into the structure. "I cannot wait until my time comes to see her again. I will not speed it along, don't worry, but...there is a true peace in my eventual death knowing that that reunion follows after."
I am the carbon collected. I am the printed upon your stars.
