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!
Live was in the press of his bones, in the wake of his muscles, in the narrowed focus of his eyes. Not for his ghosts, because he couldn’t do that anymore, no matter how many times their phantom forms tethered along the corners of his eyes. No matter how many times he’d heard them speak his name, in dreams, in nightmares, in reality.
Because strength had to come from somewhere not burrowed, not buried, not harpooned and destroyed. And if he kept permitting the wounds to erode from within, he’d sooner perish all over again – down in the depths of self-loathing, of rampant, avid destruction, and with naught else to demolish, it’d only be himself time and time again.
The barracks weren’t quiet today – filled with the sounds of steel meeting steel, grating edges and sharpened knives; lively, in the acts of restoration, in revitalizing and reviving. He’d do the same, in every opportunity he could snag. Instead of rendering to more rounds though, he watched, he listened, and then struck at his own target today – the blade in his hand the vibrant tenacity he craved for the moment – an extension of his will, his might, and his unsung vehemence. It swung into the mobile dummy with brutal, menacing force, and he watched the effigy (he gave no name to the target, but the designated features clearly marked it as Jigano), volley and rattle back and forth. A strike into the chest corded and cut, slashed and tore, and then he caught it once more as it rallied towards him. But it lacked the satisfaction of true distinction; a damned shame in these hallowed halls of mercilessness.
Straightening up from his hunched over position, Loren grimaced as the muscles of his back protested. He'd been cooped up in the infirmary all day and his body was not happy with the lack of movement and exercise. Standing up, he threw on a cloak, shaking his head at Astra when she began to rise from her bed in the corner. She bleated and settled down again, closing her eyes to doze.
He pushed through the ever present snow, stretching as he went. Emerging into the new training grounds, he blinked at the crowd that had gathered. Spotting a familiar form towering over the rest, the healer smiled.
Making his way towards Deimos, the Firebrand jerked his chin at the poor abused training dummy, which bore a striking resemblance to...someone, though he couldn't put his finger on who. "What'd the poor dummy do to you?" He reached out and patted it on the shoulder, causing some of the stuffing to puff out. "He didn't mean it."
Another slash of his weapon seized over the punctures, the wounds, on the effigy’s form, tearing along lacerations from the bottom, then to the top, as if grating over an enemy, an adversary, from battlefields long ago. Ordinarily he’d be content with the destruction, but not today, not when the irritation, vexation, rattled against his mind, and he had nowhere else to place it but upon that damned figure. Crushing blows and ignited vehemence could only go so far, and he stepped back, away for a moment, to allow the fortitude of his endurance to recover, utilizing more and more each day, remembering what he was before the sickness, before everything had gone so horrendously bad –
He raised his head at the sound of another coming, distinct against the clamor of the other blades, snorting at Loren’s appearance and commentary. His gaze slid back to the nearly-obliterated dummy; shrugging at the instigated nuances, at the way the stuffing hastened out like war wounds. “I cannot destroy the real person. This will have to make do.” Jigano and his selfish, pretentious ilk, his utterly useless, inept, existence…the Sword could have gone on, but ceased with an arched brow. “What brings you here?” Deimos presumed some method of training, remaining uncertain in what regions or realms Loren required practice, skirmishes, or experiences; unless it had been merely to find him, and something else was going on.
Loren let out a huff of laughter at Deimos' explanation. Looking over the dummy, the healer shook his head. "Have you ever considered talking about your feelings instead of taking them out on defenseless straw men?" He grinned at the General, since they both knew full well how taciturn the other man was.
Shrugging, the healer stepped away from the dummy. "Was feeling cooped up and figured I'd get a little work out in." He raised his eyebrows at the other man. "You up for helping me out? I've heard hitting real people is much more cathartic. And that I have a really punchable face." Pointing at it, the Firebrand waggled his eyebrows.
At the mention of any consideration over feelings, emotions he tried very hard to cut away, apart when they overwhelmed and gnarled (which had been frequent, and agonizing), the beast grimaced. The thought alone, of continually sharing vulnerabilities, frustrations, and extended vitriol, tightened and honed the fortification he’d built up around himself. Instead of glorifying why the dummy had been mutilated, and later repaired, he wound away into dry humor, a rumble in his throat as he glanced back over at the nearly decapitated effigy. “It is more amusing this way.” And who would deprive the Sword of his entertainment?
He left half-dead Jigano to remain barely upright as his attention turned towards Loren, sheathing the blade back along his belt. The monolith didn’t deny the nuances of cathartic actions, though the Firebrand hadn’t irked or annoyed him lately. He also failed to cast aside or contradict the punchable face aspects – only pondering if that was where the healer intended to meander. If they’d be pushing themselves to limitations again, after not having long to recover. If he was continually ignoring everyone’s advice to take it easy, to be gentle on his own soul. A distinct half-grin formed on his features. “Weapons or fists?”
"Sure, sure." Loren nodded at Deimos' explanation. Glancing at the mutilated dummy, the healer sighed. "More entertaining. But maybe not more effective." He carefully did not look at the other man.
At the Sword's question, though, the Firebrand grinned right back. Snorting, he waved a hand in the air. "Eh, I'm pretty shit with either. Why don't we start with fists and if that's not enough we can grab big sticks and rocks and whack each other over the head with them." Stepping towards the center of the training grounds, he shrugged out of his cloak. Tossing that aside, he rolled his neck and stretched his arms and legs, waiting for Deimos to be ready.
The General would argue the point that the dummy’s near-demise had been effective enough; but it seemed a moot gesture. If Loren was attempting to entice him into sharing the cause or concern surrounding the effigy’s eminent demolition, it wasn’t working. That was another tale he had no intention of unfurling, save for Chulane, most likely the only other individual who’d want to know about the circumstances surrounding Ludo, and Kiada’s quest.
Deimos arched a brow as they maneuvered to a more open space for their upcoming spar – mildly surprised that the Firebrand didn’t have much in the way of expertise and experience with weaponry or fisticuffs. Perhaps it had come with the family lineage and name, and they hadn’t found any of those semblances or skills necessary when they had lies, manipulation, tyranny, and magic to work with. He shrugged, then nodded, accepting the terms, maneuvering into a grounded, weighted stance, his form and figure eternally primed for some formation of vehemence and action.
Testing the value of Loren’s statement, he sent a fist hurling towards the other man’s stomach, attempting to derive if it’d been a bluff, or what defenses, counters, the healer contained.
Unsurprisingly, Deimos didn't feel that further words were necessary. He just followed Loren into the center of the training ground like a larger, far more menacing shadow. The healer's heart began to pound even as he forced himself to take deep and even breaths.
As the General hammered a punch forward towards the Firebrand's gut, he made no move to evade the blow. Instead, he just tightened his abdominal muscles. Even so, the Sword's punch landed with bruising force. At least Loren wasn't winded.
In retaliation, he thrust his own fist forward. His right arm crossed his body as he punched at Deimos' shoulder. The healer was trying to target the General's joint in the hopes of evening this fight a bit right at the start.
Naught else entered or echoed save for motion; archaic denizens of practice and diverting tactics, arching his brow, nearly shaking his head, as Loren simply took his initial onslaught. The beast didn’t bother attempting to make sense of it; watching, waiting, for the Firebrand’s own pursuits to muster forth.
And so they did – with efforts to maul at his right shoulder joint. He didn’t maneuver into the notion or semblance, but simply in accordance with what would pierce or malign less; figments he’d learned on the battlefield, in the midst of war. In something unavoidable, he could at least attempt to lessen the blow, so it wasn’t as impacting, malicious, or goading in the future. A shift in position permitted Loren’s fist to land directly into the peak of his muscle, where it throbbed, a dull ache, but wouldn’t leave him agonizing or incapable of carrying on.
Which he continued on thereafter, right arm and fist drawn back, the nuance of a bruise warning him, but still gaining momentum, speed, and mettle, before drawing and pushing towards Loren’s ribs.
Seeing Deimos' raised brow, Loren narrowed his eyes at the General. However, the healer stayed quiet, focusing instead on the other man's body. Specifically on the fist heading towards the Firebrand's ribs.
His own punch missed its mark, landing on muscle instead of bone. Twisting to one side, he once again tightened his abs, taking Deimos' blow on the side. This time, Loren's breath did leave him with a whoosh of air. At least his ribs hadn't cracked, though he'd have a second bruise to compliment the first.
Growling with what little breath he had left, he righted himself even as his hand was coming forward. This time, he shot an uppercut at Deimos' jaw.
Without the abhorrence or vehemence flowing through his veins, no wrath or contempt extended towards the Firebrand, the Sword found himself going through the motions. Practice, prestige, precision; all weighted in the back of his mind, all suited for the purpose at hand. Any residual aches and pains gained, any onslaught or dominion of agony, could be sullied away by Zuriel’s healing, and it certainly wasn’t as if the General hadn’t withstood torment, torture, or discomfort before.
A mild disappointment only reverberated through his fist when there was no solid connection or contortion to his latest action. He didn’t have much time to focus on the moment though, as Loren’s fist came towards his jaw. The beast shifted, striving to twist down and away from the incoming nuance, earning the force towards his clavicle and trapezius instead (a rankling, a snarl of pain in the back of his mind, not permitted to be ignored for long).
In retaliation, he attempted to come in along Loren’s side, a fist aiming, intending, to pummel against the side of his abdominals once more – presuming the constant blows there would be instilling some level of suffering.
Once again, Loren's blow failed to hit its mark. Instead of delivering a brutal uppercut to Deimos, the healer smashed a hand further down the General's body. However, the Firebrand's attack left him exposed to the Sword's counter, since Loren had been forced to step close.
So Deimos' fist slammed into the healer's side again right where the previous strike had landed. His vision whited out for a moment and he found himself doubled over and wheezing. Body reacting on instinct, he stumbled backwards, trying to put a bit of distance between the two of them. To facilitate that, he shot a jab towards the other man's gut. It was almost more shove than punch, though the Firebrand was definitely making a fist.
There was no satisfaction to the sudden sound of Loren’s wheezing, by the doubling over, by the force exuded. It had been simple persistence, angles of battlefield throngs and throes, without the weaponry instilled in his grasp. Just his fists. Just his strength. Just a play on angles and deliberation, on orchestrations and means to an end, a measure on how he remained when others fell.
Loren’s shove was effective though, ensuring Deimos was forced back, the force amplified in his own gut by a whoosh of breathless effort, a harsh gasp and grasp. Lungs shocked and exposed to the motions extended through a series of coughs, though some of them were rendered into bouts of laughter, as if this was by far one of the dumbest things they’d done.
Taking a moment to recover, for his muscles to stop seizing, the beast maneuvered forward, drawing back to his full height, arm back to gain momentum. Then he reached and strove once more, to deliver a solid fist towards the Firebrand’s punchable face.
Loren did indeed manage to put a bit of distance between himself and Deimos with the healer's wild shove. However, it didn't prove to be nearly enough. The General's punch slammed into the Firebrand's nose, which made an audible crunch as it broke.
Screaming a bit, his vision whited out for a moment as blood began to pour out of his nostrils. Stumbling backwards, he threw a wild swing with absolutely no technique or aim behind it, simply trying to get away once more. Unfortunately, it was too much for his body to handle, and he fell over. Thankfully, the ground in Halo was usually soft with snow and he managed not to do more damage to himself as he toppled into a snowdrift.
