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!
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Portals and walks, preparations and nuances, information and a press of the unknown down the edges, the columns, of his spine, led him into the thicket of the Fae woods. A thousand speculations hovered along the back of his mind, piercing and unwinding, until he could fathom no more, and they ran into deeper subsets – pondering over the nature of Ascended souls, and the freedom, the liberation, of their quandaries. In all transparency, only Rexanna’s concerned him, but if they could get one, they should’ve been able to snag all, and so perhaps most of them could come by happenstance. The how, the where, the when, and other questions were unadorned figments, rampaging along a Machiavellian skull that had no answers into their formulations. Much like everything else nowadays.
He navigated the eerie, enigmatic timber as he so often did; with caution, with vigilance, with predilection, not wanting to be caught unawares in its sanction. Tricky, labyrinthine, and laden with spirits, with orbs, with ghosts, he could feel the vestiges of spirits rising as he walked, as he tred further, as Zuriel’s footfalls traced behind his, as dimensions and denizens gave no heed to a common man. The sound of rain might’ve ricocheted against his ear drums, and he ignored it as best he could; choosing to not be haunted at this hour. Not when there were too many other things to do. “I am looking for Delphia,” he spoke to the forest, to the leaves, to the eaves, to the world that always seemed to be listening; to the webs and traces of otherworldly factions he’d never quite understand.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
They are whispers, wind-song only she can hear. The forest indeed listened and watched, and the request carried where it might be best heard. Delphia sighed, hand continuing to stroke the back of the cat sith at her feet. Another guest in the woods. Another mournful soul looking for answers about her father's divine purpose. Another conversation she had had a million times, never fully accepted.
But she rose, heeded the call and her duty, as unfulfilling to her soul as it might be. Death's daughter stepped through the veil into the world of the dead, allowing their whispers to guide her to her destination, not really knowing or caring how long it took her to arrive.
"You have called, and I am here. How might I help?" she said, pleasantly enough. Her haunted gaze settled on the much larger man, who seemed equally out of place amongst the wood as he did in place walking atop the graves of souls long since gone to rest.
Tishy greeted him too with small meow, the shadoes of her form wrapping about Delphia's throat like a scarf.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword held no expectations for what materialized from Death itself. In other worlds, he’d hastened individuals off to meet their makers, to clamber around in the unknown, for being a threat to any of his own, for fighting the same battle as himself, but on an opposing side. Here, the realms were altered, claiming souls merely to rest, to gather and wait for loved ones to join; and he still didn’t know what to make of it. Not when he hadn’t beheld repose, in either life or death, in so long.
And then another stepped from the woods, and he only arched a brow, not granting, not giving, the eldritch insinuations, the enigmatic, eerie quandaries a second thought. The puncturing weight of his gaze flickered over her, and the cat (to which Zuriel gave a soft snort in reply), measuring and comprehending, scrutinizing in between leaves and silence. Where and how to best proceed was another bizarre conjecture, and so he proceeded as he’d been taught, as he normally would, embedded into his skull since he was a boy. “I am Deimos,” and he extended a calloused hand, where blades, knives, bows, and daggers had found their own nuances, cut their own lines into scars and brutality. “Thank you for seeing me.” A pause, segmenting, collecting, before proceeding. “I spoke to Ludo about my interest in assisting with freeing Ascended souls. It said you had information.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Delphia grasped his extended hand, delicate fingers in sharp contrast to his larger hand, though similarly calloused from her various rituals. Even the prettiest of plants and stones could harden the body given enough time. "It is my duty and honor to assist, my purpose as given by my father." She said simply. Thanks were not needed. Answering the call of the living and dead to guide them in the ways of Mort was the reason she lived.
But his query surprised her, and it showed in the brief way her eyes widened. It did not take long for the expression to be replaced with melancholy. "Indeed, I do have information. I have sought them for quite some time now. Why do you seek them?" she asked, her head tilting slightly. What purpose did he have for them? The Ascended were becoming a rapidly heated topic and she would not so freely give what information she knew.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
There was half a moment where he wondered if demigods merely existed to serve those gods, by the way she answered, by the way it seemed to flicker and flow, a repeated rendition, a refrain. If that was all there was to them – and though he knew it wasn’t true, based on Amalia, Remi, and Ronin, he could only ponder if there were leashes, ties, and tethers to their efforts, if there were choices, but very few. Or if it mattered little, because that was what they craved, yearned, and wanted to do, to be.
He left the speculations behind, arching his brow only slightly at the surprise in her face. Perhaps not many cared. Perhaps not many had voiced the same concerns. Understandable, given the nature of the world – too many other things laboring their way through hell and back.
But his was finite and sentimental, motivated as always, by those he cherished. “My friend, an Ascended, perished. She will not be able to see her family again.” Until they passed along too – Kiada with Mort, Rexanna somewhere else – but if they freed them all, wouldn’t Bastien or Azrael have a place within those thresholds? Something pulsed in the back of his mind, and he sought the nuances this time, voice steady, compelled, strong, a rumble in the grove. “Do you believe they achieve the same contentment within the Voice’s hold, as they would with Mort?” Was he implementing something, or striving for a purpose, some wouldn’t want for themselves? And if so – who were they to decide for them? A matter of concern, within the orchestrations of free will, for those not wishing, not craving, similar sentiments.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
A friend to reconnect to other loved ones. Such a purpose was so intimately connected to her own that she could not deny it. For a moment the demigoddess merely stared at him, considering his words. "I have been told by a revived Ascended that it is simply nothingness." She said softly, haunted gaze rising to the sky, obscured by the overgrown treetops. "No suffering or pain, but no joy or peace either."
Delphia sighed and looked at Deimos once more. "Try as she might to recreate the work of Vi and the mechanisims of Rae, she will never be able to replicate the afterlife Mort provides, for it is his essence that makes it what it is." she said. No, nothingness could not compete with the overwhelming love of Mort, so great and uncompromising that even the most despised of mankind was ever promised his embrace in death.
"The spirits told me they were high in the mountains where the air is thin and cold. But I have searched the Fangs endlessly to no avail." she said, shaking her head.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Nothingness - and a clench of his jaw feathered, coiled, contorted, a measure behind his piercing eyes. To have heard Bastien longingly proclaim his earnestness to join Rexanna, and to hear it was naught, peeled away at him. His gaze fell to the ground for a moment, listening to the echoes of rain pouring against his ears (a ghost well acquainted, well cherished, well received now), to a calming fluctuation, breathing, slowly, carefully, until he could render some composition again.
That’s where he’d sent her. That’s where his actions had pushed her towards. That’s what his protection had meant.
Nothing.
And even if she didn’t blame him, even if she didn’t want that weight to fall back on his shoulders, it tore down the back of his throat, rooted in his lungs, in his spine, fledgling nettles and thorns again. “I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped-,” and he cut himself off, swallowing down the length of bile, carving it away from his ribs, stoking motivation, aspiration, trying to find the stitching, the strands, threatening to unfurl. “She would have some peace.” Maybe it was all the more reason to angle those determinations.
Another inhale was taken, and he could feel Zuriel’s maw on his elbow, some calming tether before he managed to either erupt, erode, or sink. Information nuanced and passed through though, his answer and responses seemingly accepted. But the wisdom and sagacity leaned towards more of the unknown, and his brows furrowed once more, deep in thought. High in the mountains, air thin and cold, but nothing from the Fangs. “There are mountains higher than the Fangs, then?” And what would it take to explore? To survive?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
"She would not be suffering at least." She said, compelled to soothe and console him. But she knew such things were not easily assuaged and the concern remained - she was not at peace. She did not rest. Her conciousness registered nothing and whether it could even be considered consiousness was debatable.
His next question drew a lengthy pause from the demigoddess, the shadows of her companion swirling and shifting over her darkened expression. "Of that I am unsure." she admitted. "Wherever they are is even beyond the view of the gods. Those were the only clues I was able to get from the spirit." she said with a sigh. "What you seek has been lost for centuries. Are you really so determined to see through such a search?" she asked.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The words coiled around him, and he had some argument, some sentiment, some rumination, stored in his jaw. She wouldn’t have been suffering here either; with her friends, with her family, with the child she’d worked so hard to obtain, to love. But that wasn’t how the world ever worked. It tossed them about, tested their fortifications, and he could feel his crumbling again, the steadfast ramparts buckling under the strain of knowledge, of sagacity, of ignorance being shed. Would he have felt better if he’d never come to see this demigod at all, if he’d never asked, if he’d merely left it all alone?
But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, and a thousand apologies sent within dreams and lanterns weren’t going to fix things. And the Sword knew, knew in his heart he couldn’t bring her back, and this might be the only thing left.
Another intake of breath, of lungs collecting and holding fast, of an instinctual pull to render himself into that glacial wake, into that reticent expanse, shifted over his features – turning the pain into figments, into fractions, until later. Later when he could climb back into those darker shrouds and lay waste to something else. The uncertainty thereafter didn’t help, beyond views of gods – as if the whole damned thing was impossible.
And yet, because Deimos had been born into stubbornness, into tenacity, into a seditious blend of obstinance, perseverance, and vehemence, there was no hesitation in his answer. “Yes.” His eyes narrowed, speculation twisting back into him. “Are you?” Measure for measure, blade for blade, ghosts for ghosts. “How would these souls be gathered?” Taken? Snagged again? Or was that chipping more into the unknown, questions for when they were capable?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
A simple, but solid answer to a question he then reflected back to her. "Yes." she mimicked. Such was the contract of her existence. This task was the ultimate performance of Mort's work, a task he truly could not accomplish alone given his inability to go to places the Voice had created. Delphia had no option but to be committed...even if it was perhaps not the highest of priorities at that moment.
"It depends on the mechanisims and wards by which she keeps and protects them. But I have the ability to pull souls from their vessels, so I've no reason to assume this would beyond me." she said.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Simplicity in the midst of circumstances requiring far more than that; and he nodded. But it was the response thereafter, the abilities she held that gave him the slightest pause. Not the intonations of mechanisms and wards, because certainly there would be some amplified power, and he could only predict the onslaught, the ferocity they’d face – but the finality of pulling souls from vessels.
Already the wheels in his head were turning, machinations volleying from one annihilated friend to another, to a quest not feasible because of Jigano and his damned lantern. If Delphia held the same abilities –
“I see.” A pause, pondering how to prompt the notion, the nuance, into reality, into being, into something actually tangible, instead of impossible, improbable. “Have you ever attempted to pull the souls from the LongNight monsters?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
