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!
He escapes once the shadows begin to lengthen: flies his coop and lopes through the snow, west, away, away. Not with any particular destination in mind, just...away. The settlement, with its unanswered questions and ruins and that black, looming Spire, had suddenly seemed too crowded. For one who does not need to breathe he had felt oddly suffocated.
So he escapes. It feels good to shed his pretense of being alive, to break the rust from his joints and limbs and run, breathless, quickened. With no components that will tire it feels like he can run forever, the world opening from horizon to horizon—
It feels like something is missing, something he can't put his finger on.
Which sums up his existence right now.
He doesn't care how much time passes out here. He is not beholden to anyone, and doubts anyone would miss him, or care enough to go looking. And out here, under the open sky, things seem clearer. He breathes in; holds it, lets it warm to the tepid temperature of his mortal shell. Breathes it out; it pools like a white cloud, rising, dissipating.
He knows well enough where he is: the barrows and meadows of the aptly named King's End. Snow covers the colorful flowers of Mourn, a gentle, rolling landscape of pale grief. He wanders the paths like a ghost, fingertips trailing along trees, benches, anything within reach. The night deepens, then lightens, and Aamu finally slips onto a bench. He is neat: knees and legs together, his frayed coat straightened out. Absently he reaches behind him to tug his long braid forward over a shoulder, letting it spill into his lap as his fingers comb through the tangled tuft at its end.
Above him, the sky continues to lighten in the east, changing to a cold and pale blue. Aamu's eyes are on the horizon, under the pretense of judging how much time he has left before he has to find cover.
He doesn't think it's entirely coincidence he went here.
He rolls the name around his mouth, searches through his memories for who it is. The details elude him, but the feeling remains: someone he cares for, deeply.
"Oheň," he whispers in white, fingers twisting the leather cord holding his hair together.
If he came here for revelations, he is disappointed.
Open to anyone he hasn't threaded with!
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
The Timeline of events surrounding her return - that is, the chronological order - isn’t important.
The Wraith is back, whole and as sane as she ever was. All her systems run at full-steam, her head metaphorically screwed on tightly, clean and shiny and full of energetic purpose. There is a lightness, a brightness, a sense of righteousness and certainty about her steps, the way they press the snow with a deliberate crunch as she chases Loki and her celebratory acrobatics across an open, wine-dark sky.
Fifty things lay on her proverbial plate and still, there’s the song of the unknown. A breathless, magnetic pull from somewhere deep inside her - her gut, perhaps, or her heart - a need and a joy deeply entangled in each other. And it’s no wonder, is it, that this child of the barrier has such a deep psychological need to explore, to exercise her freedom to move? Stillness means death. Acceptance means death. Settling for a certain lot in life means… well, you get the picture.
A white blanket stretches before her and her path brings her to another set of footprints. Loki soars higher and flies ahead, doing a preliminary search whilst the Wraith hangs back for a moment, squatting down to visit her old life, the hunter takes the place of the Queen for a moment as she touches and examines and stills.
Her companion comes back to her with bursts of curiosity before the Wraith can see - or hear - the other person. A stranger, someone unknown to the black dragon, and yet there’s a level of comfort that comes from spending the majority of her time around other Ascended. Whoever - whatever is on the other side this crest is neither a threat nor prey, so the demigod rises and continues, turning around a small, gently sloping crest to find a stranger. White on white. Pale. Deepfrost personified, without the deadly allure of the Eirachi.
Loki is far more gregarious than her bonded; she lands at the edge of the bench the man sits on, fanning her wings wide and looking up at him with something like expectation. Though what she expects of this stranger (food, scritches, a companion for her to play with?) is entirely unclear.
Seconds trickle by, join together, form minutes of stillness and silence—
Her name sits like a stone in his breast, stuck between his ribs, a sharp jab each time he breathes, moves, thinks: she's a memory he can't find, a presence he carefully washed out of his hair. He wants to say he hasn't forgotten her, but it is what he has, isn't it? He can't recall her, or her face, the sound of her voice, her laughter...
When the shadow passes across the lightening sky his gaze rises. It's not a bird, is it? It's too large, yet so graceful, and Aamu feels himself go cold.
It's a small dragon.
What the hell is it doing here?
He's torn between staying absolutely still and trying to find some cover, fighting the urge to throw himself under the bench. He can't say why his first instinct is to get away, press his back against the wall and disappear, but as it comes arcing back towards him he sees someone walking over the crest.
She walks like a fighter but not like one on business. Aamu's gaze snaps to the dragon, one of his wrists tensing oh so slightly in preparation, and it comes down, down...
It is not attacking. It merely lands on the edge of the bench and spreads its wings, which is menacing enough to Aamu, who quickly decides that becoming breakfast sounds like a really good idea. Well, not really—but as it is just peering at him with an intent expression he's seen in dogs and cats before he slowly unfurls one hand, showing the dragon that he is not armed. (Well, not visibly so, at the very least.) Lest it displays any sign of obvious aggression he reaches out to let it sniff his fingers, and if given permission, stroke and scratch its lower jaw.
It's not every day you get the chance to pet (or get mauled by) a dragon, after all. "Hello there," he murmurs in his light, clear voice, content to ignore the person accompanying it for now. If she wants anything to do with him, she's likely more than capable of opening her mouth.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
For the most part, Wessex has the utmost faith in her companion and the dragon’s ability to make good decisions. Their bond is strong, built on a foundation of trust and love, tender dedication and caretaking. Loki is more than her shadow. The dragon is part of the demigod’s soul, the playful, curious, and carefree side. The part that soars on starlit nights and is not beholden to responsibility or politics.
If Loki isn’t worried by the man, then neither is Wessex. The queen doesn’t miss how he snaps to watch her land, taught as a bow string.
Nor the way he does not exhale, even when he speaks.
(Deepfrost is both friend and foe to Ascended, she thinks, an enabler and traitor depending on the world around them)
It’s not that the Wraith didn’t believe her companion when she said the stranger was safe, it’s that… well, Loki is still young. Grown, but young. She may have traveled with Wessex from the tops of the Fangs to the jungles of Apopo, but she has yet to truly engage with danger. She assumes that everyone who doesn’t have a human-smell is a friend, because all of them have been friends until now. She is almost too much like Wessex - overly confident in her abilities.
But that doesn’t negate the dragon’s friendliness - not in this moment. She extends her snout to butt up against the man’s fingers - no smell, remember? - and then trills softly when his fingers find her jaw. Much like a cat, her eyes begin to half-close in contentedness and expectation. This is always what happens, for Loki. And while her companion is being scritched, a corner of Wessex’s mouth quirks up in amusement. She shakes her head slowly and steps forward, mildly amused. “Careful, she’ll wrap you around her finger if you’re not diligent.”
Another step, and a curious, yet calculated tip of her head to the side. “You’re Ascended, aren’t you? New to Caido?”
It doesn't make much sense, this; the dragon rubs itself against his offered fingers, much like a cat would. He can see the small, perfect scales covering its snout and cheeks, pitch black and precise in the vague early morning light—the outline of teeth through its lips, the flash of white as it gives a noise he can only assume means approval. It doesn't seem interested in giving him a go for his life, and the way it leans into his hand as his fingers work over its jaw and throat seems to be in appreciation.
The wonder he feels is plain on his face. He's glad he gave it the benefit of the doubt. He suspects this morning would've been very, very ugly otherwise, blood and reanimation fluid to stain the peaceful snow of Mourn.
"It would be an honor," he responds with mild amusement, figuring the reason the dragon is so far away from home is this woman. Likely they are bonded together. Not an uncommon thing in and of itself, though Aamu thinks he never experienced it himself (thinks Oheň was human), but to a dragon?
She looks quite ordinary. Quite Ascended, if it was indeed a hint of teeth he'd caught when she spoke. He considers asking how one finds themselves with a dragon, but she beats him to the right of first question.
Well. One's a statement (sort of). Second's a question, one that has him furrowing his brows, a perplexed look on his face. "New to Caido?" he echoes, as if he doesn't even understand the concept of what she's implying.
Which, to be fair—he doesn't.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
An entirely un-ladylike (and un-Queenlike) snort-laugh throws Wessex’s head back. “Don’t let that go to your head, Loki,” she says aloud, fixing her bonded with a raised brow. Loki, for her part, just creeps a little closer to the man with the nimble fingers. If her human won’t indulge her dry skin in scratches, then she’ll happily throw herself onto this willing stranger. A flare of stubbornness and spite flows between them, quickly erased by contentment and the low, throaty hum of yes, more please.
They’re a better match than they know.
Wessex, for her part, is a little too preoccupied to do more than keep half an eye on the dragon’s antics. “Yes,” she responds good-naturedly as if this is a normal, everyday explanation (and for her, it is). She takes another step towards the bench and gestures to the snow-swept world around them, she continues. “This is Caido. Did you come here through a portal? From another world”
Well. She can laugh all she wants—she's the one spending every second with a dragon sharing her soul, after all. He's sure that removes some of the novelty and wonder of it. But to him, who only knows (how well is debatable) the wild and vicious dragons of the Cordillera, actually having a dragon indulge in his childish scritching and coming closer for more is .. magical. Amazing. "Don't listen to her," he stage-whispers to Loki, carefully bringing up his other hand to stroke her muscular body, looking for other spots where she enjoys a good rub and scratch.
I don't think you understand he wants to say, to interrupt, if interrupting was in the nature of Aamus. He knows this is Caido: technically, he arrived through the portal from Halo.
She goes on, and every thought of cutting her off leaves his mind, along with most other thoughts too.
He is too still, too quiet, withdrawn, only his hands mechanically moving to stroke the dragon's alien scales.
From another world—
Such a casual question. It tangles up with the barrier in his mind, just the same way in which Mabel asked about it: he's supposed to know what it is, to understand, but he doesn't, how could he? From another world—
What are they like? What's on them? Are there more Ascended, did some of them find a way across the stars? How—why—when? It makes him feel impossibly small. Insignificant. Less than the snow around his feet. He misses his heartbeat, that surefire way of knowing he's still alive.
"So what you're saying is," he begins, after many minutes of stunned, frantic silence, "there's other.. worlds.. out there? With portals, like the travel-gates, to Caido? And-" He doesn't know what he wants to say. He doesn't know what he wants to be told. Just wants to close his eyes and go back three hundred years in time. Finally he shakes his head, defeated, and looks down at Loki again. "Nevermind."
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
Loki obliges and turns under his ministrations, directing (in her own fashion), his fingers to the hard-to-reach parts, her wing-joints and spinal ridges, the places she can’t easily reach on her own.
Wessex needn’t say the obvious (she likes you/), and even if she did, the conversation is turning in a far more interesting direction. Or it would, perhaps, if there were anyone talking. It’s fine, the Queen doesn’t always listen to listen, she listens to reply and when the man goes still and silent, she is forced to listen elsewhere. To the way he freezes. To the too-long pause. To his clothing and his first question.
New to Caido?
Had she heard him correctly?
As the quiet between them goes on and on, Wessex come to an entirely different conclusion - but isn’t quite sure how to proceed from there. “Yes,” she confirms, with an assertive nod. “Portals to other worlds - and times, apparently - exist. The Voice made them, much like the travel-gates? Between Halo, Torchlight, and the Grounds. Except - different.” And that story is best saved for another day. She rounds on her new conclusion, slowly, like she’s cajoling a cat into coming closer.
“No, not nevermind -” Her head shakes, tone authoritative and motherly, dismissing his deflection. “You’re not an Outlander.” Another statement. Definitive. If he were, he’d probably be up in arms about his sudden change and indignant about being dropped here. She’s met enough newly-portalled to be able to say they have a modus operandi about them. But he’s obviously Ascended, and yet - her nose crinkles at the mystery.
“And you don’t seem to know about the portals, so… are you - who are you?”
He wants to wrap his arms around the friendly dragon, bury his face against her rough scales and skin, hide underneath her wings and disappear back into sleep. Like thawing, waking up is painful.
But he already knows the worst of it, doesn't he? He knows he's been asleep for three hundred years (or more), that the world is irrevocably changed, all he held dear dead and lost, the Voice an ether specter and The Order still clamoring for his faux flesh. What's a bit more change on top of that? Portals to other worlds.
(It's like being punched straight in a fresh bruise.)
"Of course she did," he comments quietly, but it's unclear if it's to Wessex, or to her dragon. The Voice he remembered had always been ambitious and eager to experiment—reaching for the stars (figuratively speaking, unless she wanted to throttle Safrin). But opening portals to other worlds and times? Power beyond compare. Aamu is both awed, and a little frightened.
Whatever came through them must be similar enough to human if he is that easily mistaken for one. He can't help but think they're lucky it's not some eldritch horrors spilling from the sky, and dooming them all.
Or perhaps he doesn't give the Voice enough credit. She is, after all, very clever. It is uncharitable of him to think she would be so reckless.
And Aamu, lost, mourning Aamu, is not left alone. It dawns on her, and he wants to not answer, to not have to face all of that again.
But he has to. So, he looks up, at her. Tired, worn. "I am Aamu," he says. He knows that's not what she's asking, though, and he's not one to keep her guessing out of spite or some sense of dramatics. "I have been—for lack of a better word—powered down for quite some time." He looks away from her, towards the ever lightening horizon. "I didn't know about - about the barrier, either."
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
Should she be offended at that comment? Wessex can’t tell how it’s supposed to be taken - an affirmation of the Voice’s power or some kind of derision? Which would be odd - and ungrateful, the thinks - coming from someone who just came back to life.
No, excuse her, powered back up.
Whatever preconceptions she had already formed about this unfamiliar Ascended are unilaterally shattered. She makes a face, somewhere between awe and definitely wasn’t expecting that. Another beat hangs between them as the Queen tries to quickly recover herself and fall back into something resembling a leader.
“Okay. Well. Welcome to 311 PC, Aamu. Three hundred and eleven years after the war… cataclysm... thing happened.” The tall warrior crosses in front of Aamu and then sits on the other side of the bench, nudging Loki closer to hi to make room for her. Once seated, she begins again. “I’m Wessex. Theskyra. Queen of the Hollowed Grounds and Ascended demigod. You probably heard me in your heard earlier - “
Tapping her temple, she indicates her mental message to the returned, as she thought of them. There were some familiar presences, and some unfamiliar ones, but she didn't realize Aamu was quite so special. “Hope that wasn't too much of a shock. This must be... a lot for you.”
She can relate, kind of. But this - this isn't about her.
Her facial expression about sums it up—it's one of those unequivocal what the fuck things, and if she feels a bit strange talking to someone who spent most of their life three hundred years ago, well, she could take comfort in the fact that it's quite bizarre for him as well. He suspects there's two reasons he hasn't lost his mind yet, one being his naturally placid nature, the other the fact that it hasn't sunk in yet. But, if anything, he's nice proof of the Voice's ingenuity and care in making her Bright Ones. If Aamu lasted three hundred years beneath scree and snow, there's no telling the heights they can reach.
Three hundred and eleven years. At least. He can't remember how the years were tracked, as if it was a knowledge so natural and so mundane it is completely wiped from his mind. Everyone knew it, and now, maybe no one does.
A delicate frown spreads over his forehead as she comes closer, but it is unrelated to her. He opens his mouth to ask about it, subconsciously inviting the dragon onto his lap as she is shooed closer to him, but Wessex goes on before he has the chance to speak.
Not that he minds. Torn as he is between wanting to stick his head in the snow and actually figuring things out, he knows he has to at least try and be sensible.
Wessex Theskyra (a vaguely familiar name), Queen and Ascended demi-god. Well well well. Aamu decides his services to the Ascended afford him some leniency, and besides, she has not seemed to mind his lack of, ah, reverence. If she does now, after revealing herself, she's free to smack him. "It's alright," he assures her. "I suspect it hasn't sunk in yet."
Aamu sighs, gently, and leans back against the bench. Closes his eyes. "I remember the war—The Order, too, more than I'd like to. But no - no cataclysm. What happened?"
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
What a terribly good question.
Wessex is caught up on his mention of The Order, the energy around her sharpening, as if the hum of a brandished a blade were singing through the air.
The Ancient Enemy.
Well, one of them and hardly ancient, but for dramatics’ sake, let’s go with it. She so rarely gets to be dramatic. “Then it appears you’ve arrived just in time. The Order just… came out of hiding. To threaten us again.” Well, sort of. Their very existence is a threat, but it’s an easy summary of all the moving pieces. They’re playing games and the Wraith has no idea who’s winning; it’s hard to see the game as a whole when you’re a pawnQueen a piece in the thick of it.
“But the Cataclysm…” now, here she must remember her history lessons. And in the Grounds, they weren’t terribly thorough. “It almost broke Caido apart, or so they say. After that, or maybe that’s what happened when the Voice was imprisoned? I'm not sure of the sequence of events, the barrier around the Grounds went up. The portals were shut down. I’m afraid -” she inhales needlessly, raising her gaze to the horizon, taking in what she considers a paradise, compared to the Grounds.
“ - that the Grounds got the shit end of the stick. We were cut off from the world. Trapped. The history I know was written by the victors, except for what our Lady has told me.”
And even that feels like breadcrumbs.
“How much do you remember?” the Queen asks him with a quiet intensity, blue eyes flashing with curiosity and… something else. Not quite dark. Nor threatening. Maybe the other way - maybe need.
Translation: How much information can you give me?
Is she calling him a blessing in disguise? Perhaps; the idea amuses him enough, and he'll take whatever he can to not stare the abyss in the face. He thinks he will not like what he sees there.
He might not seem like he is listening—looking down at the dragon, still offering his ministrations to the spots she seem to enjoy the most—but suddenly his head snaps up, blue gaze locking intently on Wessex. "She was imprisoned?" he whispers on a white breath. Shocked. It seems so impossible. How could anything, or anyone, contain such energy? Such power and potential?
Aamu mulls over what he's been told, ignoring her question for the moment. He has questions of his own. "How, and when, was she freed? Why the Grounds? Was she there?" And just what type of barrier was it, anyway?
"I remember a lot, but I'm not sure how useful it is," he goes on in that quiet, careful way of his. "I remember the Voice and her advancements, before the Ascension began." He doesn't remember what she had looked like back then (or had had the memory overwritten), or if they had been friends. Maybe it is just his fondness for her, and the fact he has spent at least two decades linked with her. "I remember some of the problems we ran into, the brewing dissent, how we came to call ourselves Ascended, the Voice equal to the Gods: a new one, even. I think there might've been more, but none compared to her."
He shakes his head. "The dissent spread, solidified into The Order, and took proud, haughty Stormbreak in its grip. The war, when it broke out, was going poorly for The Order and the Gods. I don't remember why it started, but there we were, fighting to have the Voice recognized as one of them, and to keep The Order from massacring us. That's.. that's the last I remember, until she dug me up on some forsaken mountainside."
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
Loki, like any cat dragon, will only stay still for as long as she likes. The scritches have been nice, but as the man has covered every itchy spot, she’s feeling a bit restless again. A bit of boredom flashes down their bond before she makes her way to Aamu’s other side and peers up at the sky. With the imperious presumption of an apex predator, her tail lashes back and forth to dissuade his hands from continuing on and launches herself into the sky, pumping her wings to rise quickly above them.
Wessex watches her with a vague smile before returning to the conversation. Imprisoned. Right.
“Yeah. In the Spire, a big, black obsidian tower. Right over one of her own portals. The Old Gods brought a barrier down around the Grounds and left their heralds inside to take care of our needs… but you know how the heralds are. Life got worse. They barely helped, it… I don’t know, maybe they couldn’t.” She shrugs, not feeling particularly kind towards the heralds, like ever. “Or maybe they were in denial. Or wanted to get out too. Whatever the case, they couldn’t stop her from pulling stronger people from other worlds into Caido. They came in droves, almost all at once. They somehow found favor with the heralds where we couldn’t, somehow found the key to gaining magic and shifts and when we figured out that defeating the creature that guarded the Spire and releasing the Core and the Voice would bring down the barrier, it was a no brainer. Once they killed the Demon, I led a group of Ascended to open the Spire, and then others went inside and defeated the traps. It was a done deal after that.”
They trade stories, and Wessex fills some generalities in; she tries not to press too much, but she wants to shake Aamu, wants him to open his brain to her, or press a button and find out what he’s seen. Oh, she knows that three hundred years can corrode something, she knows that memory is faulty and yet that doesn’t quell that small rise of frustration.
“We’ve always had the term New Gods, but it’s only ever been the Voice. The Core, perhaps, but it seemed to be a thing, not a person. Were there other demigods? What kind of upgrades did you have?” She catches herself before the next question slips out, the strategist in her hungry to know more, to see how far they’ve come and whether or not they are, better and a greater threat to the Order.
