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!
11-21-2020, 08:38 PM (This post was last modified: 12-02-2020, 11:10 AM by Deimos.)
DEIMOS
It was tiring, year after year after year, to make lanterns for the dead.
Not in the laborious aspect, but in the heart-wrenching, exhausting modicums, when he was forced to remember, to recall, the echoes of final breaths, the chilling, bone-crushing weight of an abyss he’d yet to follow them into. Seasons before had been fringes and vestiges of kinship and camaraderie, and this one threatened to split him apart. A hallmark of his failures, of loss, loss, loss, where he hadn’t been able to prevent any of it, again and again. Why he thought he’d have a hand in shielding, in guarding, was a mystery, when all he’d ever been capable of was unleashing spans of demolition, watching the world crack, fizzle, at his feet.
He could mourn for eternities, if permitted. Sometimes it felt like he had anyway.
The Sword stared over the long table at his disposal outside of the barracks, where he would’ve planned, sketched, diagrammed, or contorted some new weaponry. Instead, his eyes were filled with the figments of two lanterns; the bases constructed, the rest of the materials in place, ready for him to construct, to further render it reality. They couldn’t come back. He couldn’t meet them yet. They’d gone before him, much as he’d done to them in a prior life; placed his bones in the sides of mountains and then could do naught else as the realms careened, crashed, and splintered away.
Zuriel glanced at him from her place nearby, under an awning, and he could feel the eyes upon him, watching, waiting, for him to fracture again. Instead, he bent his head and got to work, to maneuver the pieces, to move onward, to establish some semblance of existing without them – for now.
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
Deimos may be making two lanterns, but he isn’t the only one. No, in fact Glas has spent the last season throwing himself into work, becoming that hermit everyone had seemed to know and avoid. It made things easier to no longer have to explain anything that was going on with him. It made it easier now to not have to explain with the subject of his parents and last Deepfrost’s demise, when the cultists had attacked and his home had been wrecked, his parents living within it.
It was heartbreaking, over and over and over again, but there wasn’t anything else for the young man to do aside from continue on. So he’s returning down the paths of the Citadel, items in hand to make the lanterns in the comfort of his own home, when he passes by the barracks and spies Deimos beside a table. And he’s alone, aside from the unicorn, some amount of surprise found with it. He plans on walking past, but he doesn’t. Instead, his steps slow, his attention not meeting Deimos’ face but instead looking away from the man’s eyes, somewhere around his chest or his shoulders, teeth worrying at the edge of a scarred lip that spans halfway along his jaw from the cannibal that had left its mark so many years ago.
“A-are you m-making lanterns?” He asks, internally chiding himself for the stutter that hasn’t gone away yet. So he doesn’t speak again, instead shuffling his own materials in front of him as if to explain that was his plan too. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to be alone.
A heavy breath and he began, the steady outlines of the first beginning to come together, gilded palms flanking over the outset, and he hated everything in that moment. That he had to do this at all. That he couldn’t sink into the ground and become part of its soil. That he was forced to stare into the multitudes and facets of them never returning, never coming back, never having them on this mortal plain again; a sickening drum in the back of his mind, a disastrous wake etching over his spine. But he could do nothing more than forge onwards, incapable of chasing their remnants.
So he’d let the lanterns be their stories – their triumphs, their victories, their etchings and symbols, and his love. He’d pour it into the factions until they could feel it from the other side, from realms he couldn’t touch, couldn’t press, couldn’t see, and the golden edges began to ignite below his hands, rounding into corners, into curls and coils of daggers and suns, where they’d shone the brightest across mountainous landscapes, where they’d towered over a hollowed portion of endless grounds, where they couldn’t be tarnished, couldn’t be trampled –
A voice pierced through the cluster of thoughts, and he nearly jumped. Too absorbed in his task, in his personal hells, he hadn’t noticed the stranger walking near – the sound of others approaching or crossing roads, cobblestones, had become a backdrop of white noise. He stilled momentarily, honed in on some ancient, primordial warrior prowess, instinct that told him to annihilate – until the Sword glanced upwards, breaking apart the chains and tethers. He didn’t recognize this figure, though it was understandable, given his newness to the region, to the citizens, to the inhabitants.
But there were scars there too, on this figure’s face, and they’d all been brutalized so heavily that he wouldn’t growl, wouldn’t shirk, wouldn’t hiss the younger individual away. Instead, he sighed, trying to find a way to dampen the emotions, to keep them from flooding over the instilling of despair, to reach down into himself so he didn’t fall apart in front of this individual. “I am,” was a quiet murmur, hanging his head, glancing over the fragments he’d already started. “You can join.” There were a few other chairs available; and the Sword felt Zuriel’s gaze on him, on the fellow lantern-maker, on his flesh and bone.
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
Perhaps if Glas was smarter, he’d have decided against encroaching on a stranger during this time of year when emotions ended up being so raw. But he isn’t, and so he dives in fully, giving his all into getting Deimos’ attention, even as he stutters and murmurs, as he chews on the inside of his ruined cheek. He doesn’t even shy away when Deimos’ attention lands on him and it’s everything he shied away from. It’s why he doesn’t meet the man’s eyes, a fleeting glance given to ensure that the Sword is speaking to him and not someone else, before his gaze drops away.
The offer is quiet, but it’s an offer nonetheless. And Glas steps forward with his lantern materials in hand, moving to set them on the desk away from where Deimos carefully crafted his lanterns. “T-t-thanks.” He says softly in return, moving to pull a chair over and sit in it, to pull out the book he keeps in a pocket that he might sketch within, the lanterns carefully planned weeks ago.
He feels the eyes of the unicorn on him, but he shies away from Zuriel as well, head ducked down as he flips through the pages of his schematics. “I’m G-Glas.” He says quietly, stealing one more quick glance to the Sword before staring at his book and separating the materials he’s brought.
Apprehension and trepidation assailed and loomed in waves, and the Sword did his best to ignore it, to stifle his own down into the rooted armaments, to guard and steel and forge. But his piercing gaze watched, waited, and loomed, a scrutinizing survey that would never quite give way, no matter what sentiments or emotions rankled, before bowing his head once more. A nod was granted towards the soft thanks, and then the corner of his eyes caught the movement and motion of books, of plans, of materials meant to craft. A question spun its way across his tongue, but he only fed it to the granules of silence, attention deviating back to his own task, his own mission, his own internal anguish.
Rexanna’s tale came first; the first side ignited in specks of gold and fire, tiny embers, flickers of flame, and the honing of stilettos, the shuffle of whispers. There were crowns unfolded and cloaks laced, lanced, breaths of stillness and then the breadth of the mountains and its skies. The following began to sketch, began to depict, a score of children, some easily recognizable, discernable, like the twins, though with his favoritism towards Kiada, she loomed larger, brighter than life on a page, on a tapestry, on a reflection of light and wonder.
At some point, Zuriel had come over, rising from beneath the extended awning, silent and stealthy in her own wits and measures, her muzzle on his shoulder, and he nearly lost it all together again – steadying inhales and exhales to cease the rush of onslaughts again. The other man’s voice sauntered along the eaves too, and he barely caught a name. The quiet rumble followed, but he wasn’t certain if he had anything left to give or grant. “Deimos.”
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
He introduces himself and quiets immediately following the introduction, instead focusing entirely on the book in his hands, the lanterns that begin to take shape. One of them is larger than the other, hues of black and silver of metal edged with wood filigree. He soon brings a chisel out, to poke away at a bit of the wood to give it a rough hewn look, running over it with a hard stone to smooth it out. And when he starts to work on the other lantern, this one is smaller and thinner, made entirely of wood and delicate appearing.
He only looks up when the unicorn approaches, fingers twitching along the lanterns he makes as he watches it, trying to keep a bit of distance from it – remembering Loren’s comment of how a unicorn could heal his scarring. But Deimos seems a bit into his own world, and Glas only offers a quiet nod in response to the larger man, keeping to himself and not offering more to him unless he wanted it. For now, however, Glas focuses entirely on his lantern, doing what he’s best at – crafting and pretending he’s not there.
It was as if neither one of them were there – vestiges, ethers, traces and naught much else. Perhaps it was easier that way, company only for the sake of lost souls, while he maintained some semblance of being more than a frayed, fettered individual. While Zuriel stared down the young man, for reasons Deimos couldn’t fathom, he continued the composition of Rexanna’s lantern – flickering and blazing through the third interval, of a wedding, the one she’d wanted and picked for herself. A sheen of brightness, an illustration of pride, a dominion of her grace and poise, Bastien placed at her side.
And then the last section, of a Queen, with her laden crown and her dignity, her smile, her supremacy, tucking Azrael along her lap, as if she’d always been there for her child, and hadn’t been lost, hadn’t been discarded, hadn’t been cast away. The sketches came to life as best he could render them, and no matter how many times someone had commented on artistic abilities, he wasn’t certain if they could, would, be enough, to herald or embody her likeness.
He stopped entirely for a moment, studying it, surveying it, before his eyes lifted back to Glas’s actions. Chisels and wood, delicacy and control, wondering if he should bother the other man at all. A simple inquiry ambled through, on his quiet rumbles, and then striving to return his attention back to his own project, parallels, and precision. “Do you craft?” Deimos had seen similar actions within the Basin – the engineers taking shape of their tools, of their devices, of their machines and work, instead of how he organized his incantations to do the contortions for him.
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
Silence overtakes them and Glas spends most of his time ignoring Zuriel’s penetrating gaze, as if giving the unicorn the appearance that he’s paying attention to her that she might strike at him. So he involves himself in his work, until the lanterns are nearly created, aside from finishing touches that would take ages for anyone else provided they didn’t have the magic that he did. Perhaps it was the only blessing he had from being Abandoned, all things considered. A gift he had found after his parents had passed.
Perhaps it was a right of passage.
He looks up, fleetingly, when Deimos asks if he crafts. There’s a moment of an awkward pause before he’s nodding, worrying at his scarred lip again. “Yes.” He says simply at first, before choosing to elaborate. “I’m a… Westfall. M-My family’s been H-H-Halo’s crafters for a l-long time.” He admits, stumbling quite a bit more as he focuses on his family that no longer exists, taking the moment to touch into his magic, to begin the final pieces of intricate work until it’s done and it’s like no time has passed at all – both his lanterns finished and elegantly designed.
I had him use his fancy magic :3
Magic: Crafting-Zone (Mastered) | When Glas has all the components he needs for a project, time slows around him until the item is complete. For any watching him he appears to move in a blur as he works, but for him time moves regularly.
Type: Grey | Rank: Mastered
Either Zuriel was amused or partaking in something far deeper, because her eyes followed, traced, narrowing slightly; imperious and assertive, arrogant and proud, over the flicker of movement in the other man. Deimos didn’t see it, didn’t recognize it, didn’t feel it through the flickers of their bond. Maybe he was too immersed in the reel of demanding, commanding emotions, or perhaps she didn’t want to dwell in that murk either.
Once Rexanna’s was given finishing touches, glimmering marks of gold for the top, for all the connecting pieces, he began to start on Kiada’s. Different in its elegance, in its design, in its shape, it resembled a piece of flame, wider at the bottom, rising to the miniature minaret in jagged edges and pieces, cut and slashed to resemble a calculating inferno. He started on the first enveloping tier, where there were twins, alike and different all at once, coloring and hues blending together into fabrications of parents, ancestors, and how they’d grown and prospered, the mountains behind them. And then the second was a conflagration, ample embers along spines and sinew, from an emboldened child who’d known dedication, determination – and then the outlier of a false god, heralded from somewhere else, shadowed and cloaked.
He only briefly glanced away from his work at Glas’s statement, at the whirl and speed and oblivion of a blur in his motions – arching his brows, widening his eyes, to merely watch and observe for a moment. The monolith’s overbearing sentiments were forgotten for those minute seconds as he strived to decipher what had just occurred – if there was some incantation rambling through the other man’s form, or if he was hallucinating again (if there'd really been no cure, if the affliction was still there, resting and residing, waiting to torture once more). “Do you enjoy it?” At the speed, at the rate, he’d so vitally pursued? “And how did you do it so quickly?”
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
It’s a blur of work to any of those watching him, but for Glas time remains still – it’s Deimos that grows slower as he builds up his lantern – pieces and intricacies added into the lanterns in a means that takes forever in comparison to the magic in his veins. But soon enough he’s done, settled back in his chair with his two complete lanterns, his green gaze lifting momentarily to glance at Deimos when he notices the man is staring at him. He didn’t know what it looked like to others when he used his magic – always spending time alone in his workshop or home whenever he used it.
His gaze tears away to the lanterns, lifting a pale hand to fiddle with the delicately designed wood engravings of his mother’s lantern, trying his best to ignore the eyes of the unicorn as well. “It’s… All t-that I know.” He says quietly. He’d been crafting since he was small, was supposed to one day inherit the workshop from his father, he just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.
As for how he did it, though, there’s a ghost of a smile that crosses his scarred face. “M-magic.” He stutters, but beneath the word sits a yawning abyss of opportunity.
The statement was something of a deflection; Deimos had been capable of warranting his own on multiple occasions. A narrowing of his eyes contorted briefly, as if he wasn’t quite believing in some aspect of the response, but then let it go quietly, because it wasn’t his business. Zuriel snorted in between both of them, which settled the nuances surrounding the answer anyway.
Magic being the sole answer to the way the man worked could be easily believed; he’d just never seen anything like it. “It is very quick,” was all he could surmise, that the stranger had become a blur, that his lanterns were done, complete, long before the Sword had started on Kiada’s. But he caught the faintest glimmer of a smile from Glas, and he wasn’t certain what that meant, between the scars, the nuances, and the hushed decibels.
He breathed a long inhale, exhale, before drawing back to the Harpy’s adornments, casting feathers from the tips, arcing and arching so they unfurled and uncoiled, so everyone would know exactly who and what this tale represented. Along the rest of the storyline, the blocking, the painting, the details, he orchestrated a means of monsters and hunters, of ragged ghosts, of burgeoning, blistering actions, of a world she should’ve occupied for so much longer. The last was to be of her and Chulane and Auni, luxere adornments and leopard spots and everything else notched in between.
And then he simply stared at them, pushing the two artifacts before him, studying, examining, scrutinizing, and wondering if they would ever be good enough for the two souls he missed the most.
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
The comment seems to be as much of a compliment to the young crafter as anything else would be. A quick crafter was one that managed to retain a good enough profit, and seeing as it was only himself holding up the Westfall name now, there weren’t extra hands to help him out. Besides that, the young man was too awkward and submissive to even consider asking for help. So he ducks his head, shifting the lantern so he might garner a better look at what they’d look like.
“I f-found out a-about it… After m-m-my parents died.” He stutters again, but he manages to take it slow enough that he wouldn’t stutter on every single word. That was another accomplishment in and of itself. So he looks up to the General again, not in the face but along the lanterns instead. “D-do you?” He asks, gesturing to the finely crafted lanterns. Are you a crafter too?
On second thoughts and intuitions, the Sword affixed more flames, more fires, more conflagrations to the tip of the Harpy’s lantern, so the feathers would glow crimson, so the world would be shaken by her emblems, by her memories, by her existence – just as he’d been. Then he plunged more gilded adornments upon Rexanna’s, so the Penumbra was the sun and the moon and eclipsed. Thereafter, he finally ceased, unfurling one more withheld breath, restoring walls and fortifications where they’d been so tempted to fall, to break, to rattle. Piercing eyes narrowed, glanced again, at their definitions, at their parallels, and his heart sunk.
But then his attention could ponder elsewhere, back to the other man, arching a singular brow as he spoke again, of parents gone, of them never knowing about his abilities. A nod of understanding was established; his own would never realize, comprehend, or see what he’d become (if that was anything of worth at all; some days he was naught and other days he was composed of every element). “I have creation magic,” but he wouldn’t consider himself a crafter; his role was segmented into soldier semblances. Just like it’d always been.
Made to fight. Made to brutalize. Made to defend. Made to assault and siege and tear worlds apart.
“I often make weapons or magical items for friends.” And whatever measures were needed in the midst of a crisis. “But I am the General here.”
Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
Glas watches with interest as the feathers and flames are added to the lantern, as if looking at it had sparked the idea that there weren’t enough. And Glas appreciates every bit of attention to detail on both the lanterns, though he’d never find the words to actually say it. So instead, he focuses on the question and conversation that’s raised, to the idea that the General here has crafting magic, which is both intriguing and curious for the young man.
But he nods as Deimos tells him he’s the General here, having heard about it even in the confines of his workshop. “I h-heard.” He begins, reaching forward to have something to do and grabbing a piece of wood left behind he can run his fingers along, to fiddle with while they speak. “C-c-congratulations.” He tries to tamper down on the stutter but it only grows more, Glas taking a deep sigh and holding off while he considers his next words carefully.
“…That sounds… Nice.” He manages after a moment, chewing on his ruined cheek briefly. “My… Family m-made most of the furniture and… Kitchenware in the P-palace.” And the Kraai, and essentially whatever else needed doing.
