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!
Eagle talons clutched at roof shingles as he gazed out over the horizon, dusk falling, countering the landscape with its residual glows. Out of habit, out of some forlorn memories, he still half-expected them to burn into a flurry and fury of blending, unwinding hues, facets of other worlds he’d once haunted. They didn’t – flickering apart the same as normal, the same as the evening before, and the one before that, stark, cold reminders that mountains were not always similar. Not always his.
Except for this season – which sent him into another grumble and brood of distaste, a bitter, acrid frustration coiling its way over plumage, where shoulders would normally be. Where the pressure was felt, no matter which shift he occupied. Even if this was meant to be easygoing, far more repose-filled than the Basin, he could feel himself reverting automatically, the habitual inclination to watch, to stalk, to cling to the shadows, ensure his overbearing, shielding mettle was there and forthright.
So the Sword took a breath, and settled along eaves, staring down at some gathering down below. It didn’t appear threatening, a gaggle of onlookers over something centered along the Citadel’s cobblestones – laughter, chuckling, exuding from movement and motions. Another evening where the trepidation, apprehension, couldn’t fully take hold.
It had been far too long since he had embraced his feathered form and taken flight. He hadn’t really felt the motivation to take to the skies since he’d become more of a recluse, but recent developments had gifted him with a renewed lease on life. With Deepfrost settling over the region and making leaving the Citadel virtually impossible, he flew high above, sensing more than anything else that he was not completely alone in his tour of the skies today.
He’d heard the news, of course. Heard about the changes in the ranks, heard that Morgan had elected to go to the Grounds, that the General had become the Warden. And while he was worried for Morgan, having a fair idea of what LongNight meant for the Grounds, he was comfortable with the idea of Deimos leading in her stead. From there though, it was a matter of how Deimos felt too – did he welcome this change?
‘Warden,’ he greeted, beaming it across the bond that all Attuned shared, having followed the other eagle to its place of landing. Feathers bristled and settled as he turned his attention to the crowd gathering below, taking the scene in as a sort of secondary focus, turning his attention back to his friend with a quiet sense of companionship. ‘What’s going on?’Besides everything else, of course.
Fellow avian creatures billowed and flickered, and he’d paid the unfamiliar plumage no mind until the familiar voice flickered against his senses, with a greeting he would’ve preferred not to have heard. He withheld the sigh, the hiss, the growl, a clear intonation of restraint, the fringes of frustration, the embittered shackles of self-loathing, and only resounded with a deepened modicum of vocals across their expanse. Temporary Warden. A reminder; this world would not stay his and he wanted it that way; hadn’t asked for this role. Had preferred the protection, the angles, of the arches of swords and blades, rather than the mantle, for however short of a time it pressed against his frame.
Then the other bird landed, and Deimos released the slightest of breaths, his eyes sharpening, focused on the assemblage below. The inquiry could’ve been tied to any number of things, figments, fractures, and fragments as of late: Kiada’s resurrection being the largest topic, and the other flickerings, cinders, and ongoings just other pieces of massive puzzles. He had half an inclination to dive forward into the former, to unveil that the Harpy’s misgivings and apprehensions had been simply that and naught more; but maybe it was soon to ask. Perhaps it’d be treading too far, too soon, the uncertainty volleying back and forth with the new season, with everything else circumventing.
So it was easier to gaze down upon the crowd and wonder, rather than circle the thoughts in his own head. Some sort of tree. And since the people were laughing, full of mercurial, bizarre whimsy around it, the Sword hadn’t flown down yet and attempted to rip it out of the ground; seemingly no new, overbearing threat, no singular omen rising over the horizon.
Ah, so the Sword was rather determined that it was temporary. Chulane said nothing in return to the correction, merely letting a strong sense of understanding emanate through the bond, a silent promise that he’d not stoke that flame intentionally going forward for his friend. Clearly there were unresolved things going on attached to the role, the title, and Deimos was keen to be released from the responsibility as soon as the season turned and allowed Morgan to return.
‘If I can do anything to help, just let me know.’ Sorry for being so absent, he silently added, a quiet hum of apology undertoning his words. He’d done the bare minimum to get by, and felt awful for being such an absent friend to the Sword.
But the focus on that did not last long, as keen senses turned to the crowd, to the laughter, to the tree? ‘Halo doesn’t usually grow many trees, in Deepfrost of all seasons…’ he mused idly, curiosity piquing. There was much for them to discuss, the return of his lover certainly a priority, and yet this fresh distraction proved to be quite a point of convergence. ‘Shall we go for a closer look?’ he asked, wings lifting slightly from his sides as he prepared to follow in the acting warden’s wake.
That Chulane offered to help was not a surprise; Deimos might’ve been counting on it, given the potential for upheavals at any given time. But he also had no intention of taking advantage of the farmer’s benevolence. He’d already assisted the Sword effectively more than once in previous seasons, between dragging him out of death’s dirges, or observing him from afar to ensure he didn’t do something very asinine in the wake of illnesses and afflictions. Thank you he permitted to coast and ghost through instead of the other, tumultuous, tempestuous weights. Perhaps none of the apprehensions would come to fruition, and the Sword could easily pass the title straight back to Morgan upon her return, and never have to worry about it again. Promises were promises, creeds were creeds, convictions were convictions.
The accord of regrets, rue, piercing and contorting through caused the Sword’s eyes to meander elsewhere. Chulane had his reasons. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, blame him for meandering off into his own business. How many times had Deimos done the same, incapable of handling the endless, aching onslaughts? How many times had he dragged himself through the murk and mire, because he didn’t know what else to do? No need to apologize. How they survived differed from individual to individual. Chulane owed him nothing in that regard.
The tree remained the safer topic anyway; the other bird suspicious of it in turn. Halo’s lack of forest, the endless, stark wilderness available for miles to see, had been on his mind too. This spur-of-the-moment growth was bizarre, but maybe a hallmark of Frey predilections (whatever those happened to be). The encouragement of motioning closer thereafter was all the Warden required, a nod in agreement following, before his wings were unfurled, and he hastened a swift, quick leap, intending to circle over the crowd.
What is it for? was his initial inquiry, though he didn’t expect the other man to know either. The giggling, the wiggling of the boughs, from overhead was bizarre and ridiculous, and he was half-tempted to dig his talons into it just to gauge a reaction.
The gratitude given to him was underserved, but Chulane did not want to throw it back at his friend by denying it, so he merely quietly accepted it, and resolved to uphold his promise should the Sword ever call upon him. Whatever he needed, if the farmer could provide, he would be there. He’d needed to fold in on himself for that time, to simply survive it without any significant action of note, to slowly but surely heal – at least he was able to provide for the Citadel in that time, and be around long enough to see her come back. He didn’t want to consider a world where he had passed on and she returned for him, and he hadn’t been here.
It wasn’t worth torturing himself over that particular thoughstream for too long.
‘I have no idea.’ The tree had seemingly risen up overnight, and thrived not on soil and sunlight, but on attention. Even as he took wing to watch alongside Deimos in the skies above, he heard something that could only be described as giggling coming not from the bystanders who tickled its trunk, but the tree itself.
‘It’s moving like an animal,’ he observed, circling a path out in a hoop above it, dipping low on one pass that he could feel the wind of the tree’s movements jostle his wings. All plants moved, but usually at such a slow pace that one could not observe it with the naked eye – that this tree seemed so alive in a way normally associated with fauna made the farmer wonder at what magical energy gave it life.
Was it Frey? Was the God responsible for this blessing, this gift of life in the midst of what would otherwise be a season of snow and isolation? The Citadel had been recently blessed by the God, allowing them to linger outside as if it was Flowerbirth during this otherwise frozen season, could it be that they saw fit to bless them again?
Or was it something more sinister?
Or was it just a simple tree, another marvel of this world?
‘I’m gonna see what it does when I land on it,’ he said as he dived low again, wings spread broad as he neared to slow his pace, as he gently alighted on a thicker branch that swayed without aid from a breeze. He kept his grip loose on the branch, and his wings aloft, that he might take flight if he were dislodged by it’s movements. But it almost seemed to welcome him near - almost seemed as if it were trying to dance with him.
At least for the moment, Deimos didn’t need to reflect on mercurial ramparts and tempestuous sieges from the passing seasons – his scrutinizing mind too occupied now on this strange concoction. He’d been taught from an early age to be scrupulous, observant, and painstakingly detailed in his observations. Experience melded and molded far greater lessons in suspicion and distrust; the treacherous, hazardous uncertainties frequently prevailing over the triumphant ones. So his eagle eyes remained suitably narrowed and conniving, drifting closer and closer, hovering along the crowd and onlookers, listening to Chulane’s keen notes.
Moving like an animal made him wonder if this threat was something established below-ground, much like an iceberg. Perhaps there was far more under the surface, and this was just a lure, made, encouraged, to entice a gathering of prey before it launched upwards. Another form of a landshark? His head went back and forth, nearly snakelike, in his intuitions and notions, stifling a bout of frustration when nothing else seemed readily apparent.
The potential misgivings in Chulane landing on it were stifled and smothered, but still readily present in the back of his mind. The Sword had no intentions of relating a story to the Harpy about her lover being snagged and mauled by a tree; the disastrous, untimely end of the farmer by boughs and branches. So he remained as a chiseled, wayward guard, another disciple of weapons and armaments, waiting, waiting, waiting –
And then the sapling undulated, laughed again, and the crowd exclaimed its surprise. I do not understand pierced through the bond, before doing just the same as Chulane, and landing upon one of the uppermost branches. It didn’t sway underneath him, but seemed to encourage movement and motion, and he was so incredibly bewildered and confused, the beast had to wonder if it wasn’t some domineering menace or ominous beacon at all. What is the purpose?
He swayed and tilted with the tree, which seemed keen to play with its new avian partners – Chuy had a moment of delayed reflection to a story of another tree, one that whomped those that came too near. He was glad this one didn’t seem like that one, all whiplike and dangerous. On the contrary, this one welcomed others near it, invited them with laughter and gentle movements.
‘Maybe it is a gift,’ he suggested, unable to keep the idea from bounding across the bond even as it arrived in his head. A gift, without any deeper meaning or connotations, a simple and welcome gesture that had clearly brought joy and laughter to the region. ‘Maybe it doesn’t have a purpose,’ he quietly added, as the motions settled and slowed enough that he could tuck his wings in closer and simply sit with the strange tree.
‘Another gift arrived recently,’ he said, suddenly unable to contain the joy that bloomed within him at the thought of her, of Kia, returned by the grace of the Voice. Deep affection and a low thrum of pure contentedness was all he felt, all he beamed across the bond as he spoke her name to him. ‘Kiada.’ As if he needed to clarify, and yet he looked to the fellow eagle to gauge his reaction, to seek perspective on this most unexpected, but welcome, turn of events.
Regularly immersed in trials, tribulations, sacrifices, dismay, regret, and loss, the monolith sometimes forgot there were things that existed for joy. For amusements. Without semblances of danger at every turn, without monstrous ties, without a looming, ominous setting. So try as he might, there were no wicked doldrums exuding from its sanction. There were no demonic emblems creeping and crawling from its essence. A gift, he repeated, echoed, trying to make sense of the phenomenon. And maybe Chulane was right. Maybe there wasn’t meant to be one. That for all his logic and machinations, it might not have been entangled in this flora.
And he had to be all right with that.
Were he in human form, his brows would’ve been furrowed. Instead, his talons clung neatly to the tree, wings and feathers puffing out in a hapless shrug. The subject altered and changed though, for the better, and he ceased, smothered down, the immediate implications of other Ascendeds rising.
It wasn’t time for calculations. For scheming. For plots. For wondering just how far manipulation and coercion would travel and traverse. It’d remain in the back of his mind, as most often things did until he had to unearth, unfurl, release them into the pits and pendulums.
He’d rather express the gratitude that Kiada was alive and whole. Even if she wasn’t the same as before. It did. A pause, his eyes lifting, the puncturing gaze not pinpointing towards Chulane, but along the rest of the pathway, towards cobblestones and those gathered. Though he didn’t quite see them, didn’t fixate on their movements. Just mere distractions. You two spoke. A statement, not an inquiry; Deimos knew the Harpy well. How she’d been anxious. Worried. Far more frenetic than he’d ever seen her. But he’d allow the farmer to fill in the gaps.
He could understand the hesitation to accept the idea of a gift given without strings, without conditions or ulterior motives. In the short time Chulane had been a part of Caido, he’d known an initial time of relative ‘normalness’. He’d been quite spoilt really, as he’d had a relatively warm introduction to the region the portal had dumped him into, and an entire season spent in isolation with one who he quickly and easily grew to love. But even that season was not without its drama and danger, with the Palace being attacked, the shifting of Wardens, the death of a Warden – Halo had seen it’s own drama and chaos for it’s time spent in isolation, no matter the rest of the world battling Longnight monsters and other such calamities.
Then when the season finally did shift, the news of Kia’s biological mother having passed, shortly followed by… everything else - it was easy to think that nothing good could ever happen just to good.
Perhaps Chulane was the foolish one, the naïve one, forever looking on the optimistic side of things even when absolute disaster inevitably struck.
Or perhaps that was his strength.
‘We spoke,’ he echoed, the simple and complete happiness unable to be hidden across the bond as he recalled that before-dawn meeting. ‘She’s staying with me,’ he supplied easily, unaware of how much or how little the Sword knew. ‘She has my shifts, if she ever needs them – I’ll not lose her again.’ It was a quiet but determined assertion, a declaration of his resolve to live again, with her, for as long as this brutal world would allow – and he intended it to be a long time. With another glance to the Sword, he let the sense of inquiry colour the bond. ‘What are your thoughts on… the Voice? Now?’ Because he remembered that first time he’d met Deimos too, that first impression, that apathy for all things god related, and he wanted to know if that had changed at all, with everything they’d been through.
He watched the crowd billow and wane, flourish and flock, intermingle with one another before tending to their other duties – shaking their heads, smiling, shrugging shoulders, hastening off in other directions before another interval arrived. And all the while he breathed in the contortions of acceptance as best he could; a difficult trapping for a heathen and fiend who’d spent lifetimes angled away from it.
Instead, while talons remained clutching to the sapling, he could listen to Chulane, and the conversations he’d had with the Harpy. Deimos had known better; never second-guessed the ningo farmer and his devotion, had nearly said as much to Kiada when she shared her understandable apprehension. The alterations didn’t seem to bother Chulane, and that readily-available belief, faith, and credence was likely exactly what she’d needed, required, and would continue to snag, grasp, and hold onto in the coming days. The Sword had prospered his own credences and convictions, a steadfast nod in the wake of not losing her again. There was some trepidation in answering that particular oath and vow – because he knew better. Because he’d lost and lost and lost and despite scratching his way to the surface, the anchor, the mooring, was too great.
Not now though. The surface couldn’t reach him now.
The inquiry that followed though was a sharp one, and he continued to glance towards horizons and stones, no movement in his still, stoic calm. It’d been an armor-piercing rumination he’d molded and melded into his mind once the occurrences, the miracles, had settled in, once the triumph and glory of having her back had carved its way into his heart. Because the world was altering. Because there were other forces at play. Because they still didn’t know what was going on, and the implications were very grave. I remain suspicious. He could look past the benevolence – this was a figure who wouldn’t have survived thriving on kindness and compassion. He’d lived in ruthlessness, savagery, and Machiavellian voids for a long while, and wondered where the ritual sputtered, ceased, and desisted in warmhearted deliberations, or cold-blooded calculations by the goddess. I was grateful to the Voice for being there for Rexanna. And perhaps I should be now for Kiada. But he wasn’t, and the blunt truth flickered and unfurled between them. But I cannot stop wondering if this was a deceptive, manipulative ploy. To raise up her own army.
Only then did he turn his head, eagle eyes pinpointed on the fellow avian. How was she able to snag at souls from Mort’s realm? Not a question for the other man to answer, but to muse, to mull over. Have you heard of the Order?
The implications of his question, posed so directly, were not lost upon him. He had thought for many hours on how his thoughts of the gods of this world had been skewed by this latest development, how his entire perception of their great and wondrous power had been tarnished by the fact that the God of Death had kept Kia’s soul from him when there was a possibility of being able to bring her back all along.
Chulane was a logical, scientific man. He knew there was a natural order. He knew that life would inevitably lead to death. And yet his heart could not logically separate the pain, the grief and loss from losing Kia from the fact that there was a chance, a way for her to return.
Suspicious. And perhaps that was the wisest way to remain. Chulane was also suspicious, but perhaps of different things. It was why he wished to speak of it with the Sword.
‘Army…’ he echoed softly, as he dredged up what knowledge of the Voice he could, as he thought on his few but memorable interactions with various Ascended, and the lore he’d picked up along the way. Had Kia been resurrected purely for the Voice’s own argument against the Old Gods?
And more importantly, would she support it, and go fight for this army, if that was indeed the reason for the Voice’s actions?
‘I’ll not lose her again.’ He repeated, as if saying it again would make it more true, more possible. If there was a fight to be had, and Kia was in it… then so was he.
He gave the temporary Warden’s question due consideration before responding. ‘No,’ he replied after a moment of quietly going through the many thoughts cascading through his mind, tilting his head and letting a soft pulse of curiosity colour the bond. ‘Ningo farming doesn’t lend itself to much news beyond the borders.’
None of them could be certain; all seemingly a guessing game in this realm. Deimos only had his own experiences to harken back to, and the stories, the myths, lurking behind the ominous framework. Perhaps history was due to repeat. Perhaps it wasn’t. But there were too many circumstances, too many hinted at predilections, to keep his head buried, pretending, forging on as if naught was occurring. Maybe they were better off being cut away from everyone else this season – relatively reclusive from the potential of a disaster from the exterior voids. They only had themselves to worry about for the time being – save for these bizarre schemes, plots, and ruses. It could’ve been innocent, but the Sword knew not many played that game any longer.
Again Chulane made his oath, and again Deimos remained silent in the assurance. He’d always do what he could for Kiada – that went without saying – but they had no way of knowing what lay ahead, and he was tired, so damn tired, of making vows that led nowhere, that he couldn’t salvage, that broke apart soon after. The monolith could do his part, could reach, could extend, could offer, but ultimately, in the end of so many of those beliefs and creeds, it was another who made the decision.
He hadn’t prospered much word on the Order either, save for political machinations, extensions of note given to Morgan when he obtained them. While he’d remained relatively quiet in the unease, as he was prone to do amidst many occasions (easier to gain and retrieve information), with Kiada back, he saw no need in keeping the nuances away from Chulane. He’d already informed the Harpy, so she wasn’t left out in the dark, so she wasn’t at the mercy of one, should they ever cross paths. They are supposedly a group intending to destroy the Voice, and the Ascended. There has been some talk of their movements lately.
A cool determination, a renewed desire to grow in strength and skill had freshly blossomed within him – he’d always said he would be there for Kia, and yet when there came a time that he needed to be he had not. He simply could not, would not allow that to happen again. He would do everything in his power now to improve, and reach his greatest potential, to protect her, to hold onto her, now and into the future.
Of all the seasons, Deepfrost felt strangely the safest in Halo. Isolation, while stressful in some ways, also lended itself to a security bubble not otherwise achievable. And there was plenty to do – a ningo farm to run, a town to feed, and new faces to meet and know. And always, always, people willing to help him train and improve himself.
News of the Order caused a rumble of concern to colour the bond now, as he digested the information with careful consideration. “They’ve been in Halo?” he pressed as an immediate follow-up, a sudden desire to take flight and roam the region scouting for such Order members suddenly rising up. He did not give in to the desire, instead his feathers merely raised and then smoothed themselves out again as if in a great, troubled sigh – he doubted such an Order would advertise themselves so openly as to be spotted easily from afar, not to mention the great unlikelihood that they would willingly strand themselves in Halo for an entire season. Which led him to his next question; “Where are they from?”
