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!
12-13-2020, 12:46 AM (This post was last modified: 12-13-2020, 12:50 AM by Nate.)
NATE
It's impossible to miss some people, no matter the weights on his mind already, no matter the thoughts he tries to run away from. Or, perhaps because of the thoughts he runs away from, familiarity an anchor that can drag away his sullen mood, that can distract the less controllable parts of his mind.
Regardless of why, Nate notices Deimos, because there are only so many people who can fucking tower over the general population like the general does, and even fewer who have the kind of bulk the other man does. It's not easy, but the ascended manages to paste a grin to his face, pushing his way through the crowd to fall into step beside Deimos, his elbow finding the other mans arm.
"Fancy seeing you here, killer." He says by way of greeting, his voice as smooth as his grin. "I meant to pop in when I went through Halo, didn't get the chance. You saved me a trip."
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
It was likely one last round of accumulating any additional supplies to store within the mountains, before an upcoming season of isolation. He had some notions of ceasing the restlessness, and at least they wouldn’t be so wholly confined by LongNight standards, but before then had been gathering, wandering through markets, hunting and fishing along jungle edges or lush oceans, instilling a fine amount to catch, and then freeze for the citizens of Halo. The bazaar square had been bustling, throngs upon throngs of people, of individuals, of wares, but he hadn’t been deterred by them, casting his size through the crowd, dispersing them by means of sheer presence.
Until, of course, there was another individual at his side, somehow sneaking and sidling his way towards the Sword.
The announcement and greeting caused a turn of his head, the arch of his brow. Nate being there wasn’t wholly unexpected, given prior, related circumstances with the Flood, and the slightest inclination of curiosity coiled and curled through him at the mention of Halo. The General didn’t grin, but managed an impassive tilt to his head, the reticence beginning to flicker away for the more meticulous contemplations of inquiry, as they wandered through the maze of inhabitants. “Nate,” his own blunt way of greeting, a rumble in his chest, proceeding onward. “What brought you through Halo?” Thereafter though, since he’d been an intended target, the machinations coiled back to assurances. “I trust Sunjata told you of my offer?” What little aid he could provide – with everything else seemingly beginning to press in.
If they launch right into a conversation, if they pick up that thread of motion and distraction immediately, Nate can keep all the cracks covered up, and put down his stress and his weariness for time being
The ascended scoffs at the question, his response sounding all but rehearsed. ”Oh this and that. I’m a busy fuckin’ bee, you know, and the Climb has just been buzzing.” It’s the most specific he’s willing to get, unwilling to just come straight it and say he’d been doing things for the Voice. Sure, he likes Deimos fine, but liking him and trusting him are two entirely different things.
So it’s right down to business then? Nate nods, shoulders rolling back as his chin tips up in something that pretends to be mirth. ”He did. It’s real generous of you. And,” Here Nate glances away, mismatched eyes focusing on anything but the general beside him, an uncomfortable bubble of sincerity rising from his through, ”we appreciate it. I appreciate it.” Theres a pause, a beat, as Nate considers letting that sit, deciding against it faster than he expects. ”I gave it a little bit of throughly, actually.”
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
The nothingness in the response, or the choice of words, caused him to briefly narrow his eyes. A manner of deflection in the weight of naught – and having been a taciturn individual with his own ability to divert measures, he took it for what it was worth. He wouldn’t make something out of it for now, letting the contemplations and considerations rest in his mind, to circumvent, to maul, to calculate at his leisure; considering Nate likely wouldn’t permit the actual information preside. “No sudden leviathan appearances then?” Breaking away from the scoffing, the degree of arch in his brows not spelling out suspicions; the assemblage of liked individuals, but probably on opposing sides.
Except he was willing to aid and assist in the bizarre intermingling of these hours and days; the hopeful destruction of the Voice not catered to a majority of her subjects. They wandered further and further, over the outcropping of the docks, away from crowds and hordes of people, and as he stepped across wooden boards and down into the dunes, he didn’t expect the sincerity or appreciation. And as normal, the Sword didn’t know what to do with it – the primordial years of presuming he didn’t deserve it eternally resting across his shoulders. But he nodded, taking it for what it was worth. “You are welcome.” And then the other nuances, figments, and fractions, of what his creation emblems could fathom, attempt, and strive to do. “What was your idea?”
Ah, the Leviathan. Nate had heard just enough of what happened in the Climb to be a touch smug about it, to snort quietly when he says ”Saw that coming.” under his breath. Though he hadn’t known the Sword had been part of that particular group. ”I had a much quieter time than you must have. Fuckin’ nerve wracking the entire time, but hey, I lived.” It was something, right?
The answer comes almost immediately, already waiting on the tip of his tongue. ”Something fire resistant. I love the heat,” A hand lifts to gesture around them, Torchline hot even in Leafchange, even with the sun waning, ”but it seems to not be the biggest fan of me.” It seemed more and more things weren’t, but at least no one could ever say he wasn’t lying in the bed he’d made. ”You think you could make it cool, too? I mean, no offense to you, but I’m just not a cape kind of guy.” Not that Nate was really even sure he’d ever seen Deimos in anything capelike, but the man just had a certain aura about him, just seemed like something he could pull off.
While he doesn’t have it on at this very moment (preferring a button up shirt, completely open, obviously) Nate’s hands still come up to pull at either side of a jacket, the necklaces around his neck clinking softly as he jostles himself. ”Maybe a leather number?”
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
Considering Deimos’ involvement with a number of monster events, he snorted at the saw it coming comment; old hat and habitual now, half-tempted to stare impassively into the eyes of beasts. And while he was foolish enough to get immersed straight into the notions on any given day, he’d yet to underestimate an opponent or adversary. So he shrugged at the second response, because other than the piercing shards ripping into his flesh and new scars to bear, the assemblage had been a ridiculous series of misses, blunders, and gods imparting their measures. “Tanau took care of it,” by way of explanation, and then he maneuvered on, as they cleared off into more sand and less of a throng.
Fire resistance made plausible sense, and he and Sunjata had discussed the possibilities prior. The natural weakness of an Ascended didn’t afford a welcoming homeland in Torchline, but Nate had somehow managed – but there were larger, more ominous things on the horizon, far beyond the heat or beating of the sun. Collected, impassive, the Sword waited for the full explanation, crossing his arms over his chest, tilting his head, the posture feline in its gestures – uncertain by the meaning of making it cool, and pondering why he would take offense over the mention of capes. The General hadn’t worn a mantle since his days in the Basin, and even then it was a forced banner and emblem.
He watched Nate pull up the lengths of …something, and the action was completely lost on him. But he could understand leather, and with a shrug, he conjured the folds of several pieces of paper and a length of charcoal, roughly outlining and sketching the jacket. When he was finished, Deimos handed the parchment over for the Ascended to inspect. “Like this?”
Nate’s brows lift until they’re nearly touching his hairline, his chin hurting out as mismatched eyes search the general. Once he finds what he’s looking for, or rather, doesn’t, he shakes his head. ”No shit?” Nate huffs out a short laugh, wrapping it in more teeth than lips. ”You must feel pretty lucky then, huh?” Being rescued by a God, even a minor one, is not something Nate can imagine. Even the Voice, caring though she might be, tends to stand to the side and allow them to succeed or fail by their own actions.
With no way of knowing the thoughts his babbles about capes have stirred, what deep ripples have been caused by the stones he’s tossed, the ascended instead lets his focus find its place solely on Deimos, a disbelieving huff leaving him as the man produces paper and charcoal. He is the picture of impatience as a sketch takes form, Nate leaning this way and that to try and sneak a glance at what’s unfolding.
His first true glance comes when he’s handed the paper though, a scrutinizing gaze taking it in, turning it this way and that. ”This is pretty good.” He admits after a long moment of consideration, toothy grin rising up towards Deimos. ”You mind if I make a change or two?” He holds his hand out, waiting for either the charcoal to be offered out, or for the other man to tell him to fuck off.
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
Luck and fortune had not been on the Sword’s side within the past year – save for friends willing to pluck him out of his own personal void and hell – so Nate’s perspective coiled back upon him in a curious array. Had it been kismet and fortuity, sensical and forthright, or mere happenstance? And was that worth holding onto, or letting it all slide down his spine again, gone into the abyss of all the other events involving monsters, creatures, and cretins. “I suppose,” managed to emerge on a half-smile, the shrug undulating through his shoulders; peeling the uncertainty away for other notions and motions requiring his more meticulous means.
A portion of him pondered if he should draw and sketch to a juvenile degree – intentionally slowing down the work as Nate hastened and hovered – but the temptation pierced off elsewhere once he’d started. The dark lines of the charcoal curved and carved, and he wasn’t particularly bothered by the scrutiny of the Ascended – understanding the nature of a request going through the formalities of what someone wanted. For those he was close to, he could usually render something to their liking, a striking assemblage of their spirits and souls – but he didn’t know Nate well enough to simply garner a guess. So he wasn’t fussed either when he must’ve seen something to be corrected or altered, handing the paper and charcoal over. “Go ahead.” There was always room for improvement, for growth, and the General had been re-honed under its fair share – but would adhere to more.
Nate found it difficult to tell where he really stood with Deimos, unsure of where the line between his actions and Sunjata's soiled reputation was drawn. Especially considering the barbed way their last meeting had begun. But ease claimed his limbs with the suggestion of a smile on the other mans face, one spreading over his own face at the almost teasing air that rose up as Deimos drew.
"Thanks." Nate purred, accepting the sketch and adding a few lines of pure decorative whimsy; an extra fastening here, a bit of decorative flair there. His hand is heavy compared to Deimos', Nate not at all suited to simply whipping out paper and sketching tool and making something passable, but his rough lines seem to do the job, at least in his eyes. The real test was when the paper was slipped back towards the General, Nate's brows raised in quiet expectation. He can't keep himself quiet though, can't help but feel the need to back up his additions with words. "It's nothing too fancy, and you don't need to listen to me." After all, he didn't even know how Deimos' magic worked.
"I really do appreciate this." Something else that Nate doesn't know how to leave alone, his strangely uncomfortable burden of thankfulness, the debt that this began between them, whether the General considered as such or not.
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
Depending on subject matters, it took a good amount of irritation to truly instigate the ire of the Sword. There were some easier ways to go about distorting his calm, composed existence, to unfurl, to unravel, to distort, but he hadn’t met many that wanted to. It could be a dangerous gamble, to push the pernicious layers, to rankle and rattle the chain on his contemptuous lacquer, on the nefarious qualities he kept so deftly immersed in bones and veins. But Nate hadn’t pressed any of these notions or motions, not like his counterpart (though they’d seemed to have settled on more truces – passing information from one to the other) or annoyed like the pretentious, once-Sage. So the process, the meeting, could continue on more easygoing nuances, at least for the General.
Deimos took the paper, the sketches, the outlines back when Nate had finished with his adjustments, snorting a little at the way flair seemed to be the only discernment. Décor and adornments, segments that must have held some suggestion, some meaning, for the Ascended, lost on the monolith. But he shrugged, tilting his head in perusal, in study once more, applying the lines to his mind, to his machinations. “It is feasible.” An arch to his brow flickered, followed, gaze motioning once more to the other man at the semblances of appreciation, a nod hastened, delivered, and thinking nothing more of it. No debts. No transactions; even if it was something he also tended towards – feeling the rush of burdens, of striving to alleviate places of transgressions. This was something he could do for another, and much like he’d always done, he went ahead with it.
But he didn’t have to stand before monsters today, guard the populace from some wayward strike, shield the world from some other onslaught of harm, or plot out a meticulous way to annihilate a foe. In some variation, it was a semblance of preservation, but only for one individual. Placing the paper back into his pockets, memorized, the beast lifted his hands, watched, waited, for them to become gilded, glowing, signs of the creation pulses beginning to churn. Between his palms, the item began to take form, shape, the jacket outline pooling and rounding, the fixed pieces of his request readily applied, honing, adjusting, in the deepening mires of his concentration. Thereafter, on the fringes of his own fiery incantations, he placed the necessary ramparts within – and when it was complete, extended the item to Nate. “Suitable?” On a rumble, on a long-lingering exhale, wiping the beads of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
--
Deimos has created:
Leather Jacket: A leather jacket that can reflect basic fire damage away from the wearer. Can be used again after a two post cool-off period.
A sharp glee pulls at the corners of Nate’s mouth as he turns his specifications back, a snort leaving him at the less than enthused response he’s earned. ”Oh. Only feasible? Well I can fix it up if you want.” Teasing only, motions already underway to get the show started.
With the exception of healing magic, Nate is nothing but interested in the way Deimos’ hands glow, in the power evident just under the others skin, all but waiting to come out. And come out it does, the flourish of sparks that complete the jacket suddenly in the General’s hands sending Nate leaning back, away. Not far, too engrossed in the creation held out to him, hands suddenly scrabbling, moving over the craftsmanship. ”Thats fucking cool.” He offers immediately, before he tugs the jacket on. ”Its perfect.”
Turning this way and that, Nate tests the fit of the new jacket, glancing around for some metallic surface to catch sight of his reflection in. ”You don’t have to go right away, do you?” The words are tossed towards Deimos casually. ”Let me get you a drink, huh?” The Hanged Man wasn’t far, though it was hard to find a less private way to drink, especially when the Slagveld and his clinic both were about the same distance. Though he didn’t need to worry about it
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
Deimos would likely never admit that he waited for approval, for the known aspects of acceptance. In other lives he wouldn’t have cared, drawn into the impassivity, into the detachment, into the apathy, of tearing apart adversaries and ushering in brutal, catastrophic force. But here he’d been treated with basic human decency, and had fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on the situation), adapted into the role of sanctions and assent. His features coiled back into their known reticence, where brows weren’t furrowed, where everything became a blank, hardened slate, sliding into the recherche and guarded tactics while Nate inspected.
He also wouldn’t admit the rush of relief flooding through his lungs, on a far more easygoing exhale, when the proclaim was announced. “Good,” rumbled on a nod, the genuine, small, discrete curls of a smile forming along the corner of his mouth. At the very least, it might give the Ascended meager windows of opportunity to not be burnt into cinders, and that had to be enough for the moment.
The beast made to shoulder his bag over brawn and muscles again, work and role completed, when the invitation was lofted, extended, cast. He hadn’t expected it, and the surprise registered briefly over his face, eyes widening, head tilting, considering the hour, the nuances, and the notions in between. For half a second he hesitated, thought about rambling right back towards the portal, into the mountains, into some version of his preferred seclusion – before swallowing down the age-old, primordial habits. “Sure.”
Nate doesn't notice the change relief brings to the other man, but he does notice the grin, and answers it with one of his own, sharp and bright. "Let's just hope I don't need to use it anytime soon, huh?" The jacket stays wrapped around his body, at odds with the rest of his outfit; casual, revealing, and so typical of Torchline. It seems his suggestion, his offer is unexpected, though Nate can't quite fathom how. It's the least he can do, the least he can offer in return for something that is as much armour as a breastplate would be, were he in need of such mundane protections.
"I hope you don't mind the ring." Nate says by way of explanation as he strides by the well-worn paths that lead to the Hanged Man and instead turns along the far more familiar steps to the Slagveld. As far as he's concerned, the alcohol is better when it belongs to him, not that it really makes a single lick of difference. They are moving away from Deimos' destination, but not by too much, and the trip is well worth the moments of ease that a shared drink can bring, even among mere acquaintances. How else do you grow closer, after all? And when the General is sick of his company, Nate will be more than happy to lead him back to the portal, and see him off to Halo.
