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!
“Thank you,” honor amongst the congratulations, muffled by the nod of his head, by his eyes running over the lanterns again, by the finality of the situation still curling and coiling over his spine. Glas’s words were a distraction from the ultimate semblance and notes of where these guiding lights would be placed, scratching over the surface, fanning over the flames, bolstered against the enamel and lacquer he bore. He couldn’t crack and fray here, not in front of a stranger, Natural, accompanied and encompassed by the mountains long before he’d arrived. Zuriel snorted in his ear and his brows furrowed in her direction, before wiping off the onslaught from the side of his face, sliding it back upon her muzzle.
His gaze lifted off the filaments and fragments of two souls he couldn’t have again, not for a long while yet, and back to the scarred man, to the family capabilities, to the adornments he must’ve, might’ve, seen, in the reaches of the Palace. Was it pride in the other man’s voice, or something lost? “They were well done.” Presuming they wouldn’t have been order or arranged to remain in the icy spires if not up to standard or preferences. “What is your favorite thing to craft?” A nuance, an attempt, of getting to know the people of Halo, of extending out of his own void, of striving to be more than the hollowed, carved out blade.
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
A nod is given to the General, though Glas doesn’t make eye contact as per usual. Instead, his verdant gaze remains lower, anywhere else but toward the man’s face. At least this time his shoulders aren’t hunched, that the work he’s done on his lanterns today imbue some sense of pride within them, even if he doesn’t show it much. It’s in the little things, after all.
He does glance up, briefly, at Zuriel’s snort in the General’s ear, before his gaze drops again to the items on the table before them, while he chews on the inside of his lip. “T-Thank you.” He dips his head a little in the compliment, before the next question takes him by surprise, lips opening and shutting a few times as he actually considers what his favorite things to craft are.
Really, it shouldn’t be a big deal to say it anymore since his parents have died and wouldn’t be around to tell him how stupid of an idea it was, so Glas decides to give the honest truth. “Instruments.” He finally says, another ghosting of a smile, fingers reaching to the notebook to pull out the sketches for the Lute he’d made for Korbin, the instrument he’d made for Chulane as a commissioned gift for someone else, and lastly a few repairs for Hester’s instruments to keep them smooth and running.
And on the next page, a flute of sorts that he’s yet to make, but one that always remains in his book.
His attention waxed and waned, eyes circumventing over the lanterns, on the angles of perfection and what those souls readily deserved, and along the lines of what Glas preferred to craft. Eventually his gaze went towards the living, head tilting to study the notebook sketches. The small depths of a smile crept along his mouth again, pleasantly surprised by the array of instruments, by the figures he’d never be able to name – save for a few they might’ve played within camps evenings before battles, or the ones blared beside war drums. A memory flickered against him, of campfires and friends and love beside the roaring flames, composing ridiculous sonnets and songs, and he let it pierce him briefly, before being placed away, into confinements of things he’d never have again.
His gaze lifted back to the scarred features, to the quiet lad, to the fellow who seemed very hidden, far more concealed than even Deimos could amount nowadays. Where some of his taciturn edges had worn off, either through familiarity, comfort, support, or another figment entirely, this one seemed locked in its threshold. The Sword likely wasn’t going to be the one to strive and reach in, pluck the boy out, but could understand the value of smaller moments, of depths that hadn’t been permitted to range, of an intangible wake struggling, striving, to decipher where they fit. “Do you play?” A brief wondering, and then nothing more.
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
He flips through the pages until he lands on the flute, his pride with the sketches well seen in the are he’d taken to the schematics of it. Mostly a beautiful, rather plain looking thing, but one with smaller etchings into the sides of it, little things here and there that made it so it added a flare of himself to it. Because he wasn’t pristine, with the scar on his face, neither should this flute be.
As for whether or not he plays? There’s a flush along his cheeks as he shakes his head rather quickly, swallowing hard. “N-n-no. I d-don’t.” There’s a bit of sadness in his tones, his fingers rubbing along the edge of the paper where it’s smooth and no sketches sit. He doesn’t know what stops him now from trying, knowing that his parents thought it was a useless hobby. But gods how he loved to hear Hester play, to watch her get lost in the music over and over again.
It was the only thing he thinks he can do without stuttering or failing over and over again.
An intermingling of confusion contorted around his furrowed brows as the evidence of Glas’s interests didn’t seem to finagle through his own life. Why else orchestrate, sketch, and design the instruments, if he didn’t intend to wield them? Perhaps there were other circumstances around the notions and semblances, too much he wouldn’t be able to fathom or understand, this monolith who contorted and created based on needs, defenses, and sieges. And then he shrugged, the uncertainty weighing, and the lanterns remaining, sturdy and stalwart along the table. “Never too late to try.” If those were the semblances holding the crafter back.
Then he rose from the table, hands moving to grasp the shards of his heart, the daggers at his throat, the way he was constantly reminded not to live for ghosts, but the ache never quite dulling. “Thank you for the company.” An honest, quiet, acceptance and truth, eyes wandering away from their adornments, and back to the younger individual. “It kept my mind… mostly off of things.” Because they’d always be there, in some measure. But he’d try to maneuver them closer to his heart, instead of bleeding into his brain, languishing and anguishing there. “Is there anything you require?” Otherwise, they could both be on their ways.
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
There was acceptance in Deimos’ words, that perhaps his parents hadn’t quite thought the best things for him. That perhaps having an outlet might give him something else to do other than work and wallow in his own misery day after day, the only joy found in spending time with Hester. But Deimos’ words also didn’t force him into doing anything, a reminder of Loren’s attempts to try and heal his face of the scar that spanned it, something that he wasn’t sure he wanted.
He was fine in his isolated lifestyle, he preferred it rather than having to answer questions. He glances up with a fleeting look back to Deimos as he’s thanked, nodding his head quietly as he goes to gather his things and stuff his tools into the bag he’d brought with him, collecting up the lanterns. “Y-you’re welcome.” Glas begins, carrying both lanterns in his arms, gaze focused on the table and nowhere near Deimos’ face. “N-n-no. T-thank you though.” He says a bit quieter, dipping his head in a quiet goodbye, before departing ways back toward his workshop.
