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!
01-12-2021, 08:34 PM (This post was last modified: 01-27-2021, 08:51 PM by Bastien.)
Kid, I feel like yelling
Ring the bell and bang the drum
The season would hold great hardship and tragedy as it went on, Bastien knew. Fantasies of the Ascended all easily overcoming the monsters without a scratch were attractive, but even Bastien, a prolific dreamer, couldn't believe it was realistic. Who would they lose? Would he still be here to see the Flowerbirth, to care for Azrael?
It was all very, very depressing. Combined with the anniversary of Rexanna's death coming up on the horizon, the artist was in a fog for a few days. Continuing in his routines, smiling for Azrael and Pittore and making art, but rotting away inside, feeling his chest hurt and burn as if his Ascended heart was getting smaller. He decided, as he couldn't even bring himself to take out a new canvas for the day, that it was time to do something silly and fun, no matter how much he didn't want to.
Some levity would help them all, he thought, and he had an idea too. Caido had recently bloomed in Firling trees, odd and quick growing things - they would look wonderful with some decoration, as would many other parts of the grounds; the walls, the doors...anything, really. Just some colour and joy before the darkness over took it.
So Bastien made a notice and set out his tables, ready for anyone that wished to come to make whatever they wished. Clay, wood, modelling tools, paper, paint...if you could make a decoration from it, he had it, and he sat at the head of the table like the King of Arts and Crafts, waiting for them to arrive.
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
Aamu is still amused and fascinated by the Firling. It grows much too fast, and its merry giggling seems to get louder and louder. Sometimes he stops by just to slap its boughs for some instant cheer. He still hasn't figured out what it's for, but he's alright with that: it does more than enough at the moment.
When the notice of making decorations for the Firling is posted he is (naturally) intrigued. He does his best to find Mabel and see if she'll want to go with him, then turns up at the Artist's Sanctuary.
He's not sure what he's expecting (or what he's not expecting, either), but somehow he gets the impression he wasn't expecting this. A long table is laid with all sorts of materials and tools, pots of paints like splashes of color in between it all. At the head sits a lone man: beautiful, majestic, dark somehow. He assumes it to be Bastien. Aamu tilts his head to the side. He's a fool for feeling surprised by the scene, and he knows this. "Hello," he says, his voice light, gentle. "I am Aamu."
Then he slips towards the table. Pulls out a chair. Pauses. His eyes roam the offered options while his mind wishes for a cup of silver and a forge. Instead he holds his long braid to his chest while reaching over to select a block of wood and a whittling knife before finally sitting down on his chosen chair. He turns the wood over in his hands a couple of time before putting it to the knife, hoping more will turn up. His own silence feels awkward.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
Aamu managed to raise her out of the doldrums of staying contained in her house all day; and very rarely had she wandered towards the Artist’s Sanctuary. She wasn’t creative by any stretch of the imagination; skills had been employed and implemented for farm work, for calloused hands, and not quick brushstrokes, not works of talent or disposition. The hesitation in entering the place was likely evident by her features, an arch of a brow at the curiosity of colors, of hues blending over and over on various backdrops and sceneries – widening the more she stared and looked.
“Hello,” she prospered towards Bastien – instinctively looking for Azrael, though the last time she’d seen them had been around LongNight. Then she glanced at the wares, the options, churning probabilities in her mind, uncertain in how to go about creating or contorting a bauble, a trinket, for the bizarre tree. Instead, she presumed to ask the master artist, her head tilted downward, seemingly overwhelmed. “What do you recommend?”
When Neos caught sight of a place called the Artist's Sanctuary on what he figured to be the local Notice Board, the false human made himself quite the beeline towards the place-in-question, curiosity getting to him while thinking of some of the various art forms he had dabbled slightly in on one of the past worlds he was in. He had absolutely no doubt that he was rusty in all of them, so a place where he could knock off that rust and improve on those old skills?
Yes, please.
"Wonder what kind of place I should be expecting to see," he wondered to himself just before opening the door...
...unfortunately for him, he experienced the same sensation of instincts telling him to flee that he did with Nate at his and Sunjata's wedding, magnified by three due to their being three of the...was it 'Ascended' that they were called? He gulped, trying to squelch the instinctive fear while scolding himself for being so damned afraid of people he hadn't even started introductions to. "Hello all," he managed to say, voice cracking a tiny bit as he caged the last of the fear away for now. "H-How is everyone today?"
This ain't no game We're not here to entertain you
Isla is late - the clinic does that to her, even when there are no patients. But she is unable to resist the prospect of a little frivolity in a place like a Hollowed Grounds, where it feels as though it is sorely lacking. So as she enters into the Artist's Sanctuary and sees some familiar faces, it already warms her a bit.
She takes a seat near the top of the table - probably a throwback from her duchess days, but it does put her into the direct proximity of his highness, and she directs a bright smile to Bastien.
"We used to make decorations out of paper, when I was young," she says, selecting a few bright pieces of card to start folding them in soft and practiced motions. "Let's see if I can get this symmetrical. What will you be making?"
and the sky was littered with the corpses of stars
Of course, they knew their father was working on something like this. Only, they’d forgotten the time to meet back, too busy gathering little items and things from the center of the town for their own projects that when they return with a handful of things – wood and metal, things to be made and crafted into something – they pause at the sudden sight of so many people.
They spy Mabel, a grin shot the Ascended’s way, before they’re scampering inside and moving to deposit their things in the corner before they approach the group, nearer to their father and Mabel than anyone else. “Sorry I’m late papa.” They offer, lowering their head a fraction to peer at the paints and items out, their curls falling alongside their face as their head tilts. For a second, they peer back at Mabel. “You can come make some with me if you want!” Their hand reaching out to tug on Mabel’s sleeve (because they didn’t know that she’d died and returned to life, if anything they’d simply thought she’d taken a long vacation).
Azrael decides on the clay soon after, a quick drying sort that they snag a few modeling tools with, moving to take a seat with room for Mabel beside them, and place the clay to be crafted into something hollow and circular, little details etched within, their brows furrowing and their hand motions stopping abruptly and hovering in the air before they decide something else and smooth it out to start again.
Azrael may be late but they are not the last; minutes behind the child is yet another bauble-maker. The Notice Board was one of the first places she checked as she exited the Temple, though why they were making baubles and what exactly a Firling is (alas, these things are a bit out of order), she has yet to discover. But the Artists’ Sanctuary is cozy and bright and she had no doubt it would have a least a couple of attendees.
Cracking the door with a surprisingly gentle nudge, Wessex does her best to slide in without drawing any attention to herself. Another tentative touch pushes the door shut behind her as she pauses against it and takes a moment to take in the scene before her; unfamiliar faces shine in the light and creative juices seem to flow easily. It’s never been her scene, though she is always ready to admit when something is beautiful. The Wraith’s hands are made for butchering, for violence, the eternal calluses on her hands rough and clumsy as she tentatively clenches her fists.
Suddenly stepping forward, the demigod takes a seat at the foot of the table and takes a moment to look studiously over the offered crafting tools and finds herself (to no one’s surprise) indecisive about what to make. Whittling can be done, but of what? A spear? That’s hardly an appropriate Bauble.
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
"Aamu. Welcome." Bastien nodded to their new friend, pleased as always to see more Ascended; that happiness would continue as Mabel then Isla joined; he'd heard of their resurrections but not yet seen them in the flesh. While there was still a part of him that snagged bitterly on the lack of Rexanna in the returned souls, it was joyous to see so many old friends back, and just in time for Longnight.
A rather nervous man he did not recognise entered; in his usual enthusiasm Bastien gestured outwards with his hands and loudly greeted: "Welcome! We are well, and I am sure all the better for your attendance! Come, sit. There is wine and treats for you...I believe you're the only one who'll be bothering with them." He laughed, looking about at the Ascended gathered in the room (and his child who entered late and got a scuffle on their hair).
Finally Wessex, the matriarch of their family, entered; he nodded respectfully towards her then turned to Mabel and those who seemed lost. "If you are struggling for ideas, I recommend taking one of these--" For those that were less creatively in tune, he had made some base baubles already. A simple wooden circle with a loop of string attach. "And paint it to your heart's content. Feel free to add anything else, too."
For his own, well. He was obviously doing something extravagant. Bastien would begin work on a small bird made of cloth, the wings and body sewn with complex swirling patterns in purples and reds. "How are you all? Especially those of you who have recently returned from the other side?"
There's just no telling all the things that you’ll become
And so here they all are - and honestly, as strange as it is to be doing something so comparatively ordinary, Isla has to admit she has missed it. Listening as Bastien addresses them all, she finds herself thoroughly enjoying the way his accent hugs the words. To no one's surprise, it reminds her of Remi, and coupled with this act of creating something, the medic is as comfortable as one might expect.
"I am doing very well," she murmurs, her fingers dilligently cutting paper and folding it, arranging it into a bauble in a process which takes patience and dexterity both. "With Aamu and Mabel's help, I was able to clean up the medical clinic. I know we have very little need of it in a traditional sense, but I will be trying to make it more Ascended appropriate in time."
Suddenly there were more and more and more of them; a hustling, bustling crowd. Save for one, an odd man out of the surging march of Ascended, they were all familiar. And something like that, that might’ve ordinarily sent her elsewhere, gave her some semblance of hope – and the slightest, lightest of smiles pressed into her mouth, displayed her fangs, nodding her agreement with Azrael (who’d only grown and grown and grown). Taken by the sleeve towards a designated area, her eyes searched over the pieces again, granting a light nod in the direction of Bastien for his creative efforts and notions. She took hold of one of the base baubles, felt its lightness in her hand, and then several other paint hues and colors.
“What are you going to make?” A question for Azrael, as her head buzzed around for ideas. Creative outlets were not her forte’, and her brush dipped lightly into a hue of deep, everlasting green, intending to begin the path out of the farmhouse’s treelines – like a step towards other utopias.
He is very happy when Mabel chooses to come with him, though how much of it shows is questionable. It's in the details, though: the brightness of his blue eyes, the ease of his smile, the way he glances at her to make sure she's alright. Bastien comes to her rescue, offering her an easy way to get started (he has no words for how grateful he is, in that moment) while a child breezes in after Isla (who was greeted with a smile) and a nervous stranger (greeted with a curious, thoughtful look and a nod) and takes charge of her.
Curious of this lone man who is not Ascended Aamu stops his whittling for a moment, regarding him with a mostly unreadable expression.
Reminding himself there is no war anymore (though it seems it might start again, soon).
No reason to be afraid, or wary (not yet).
He is outnumbered, by far, anyway, and it only gets worse for him as Wessex, too, comes into the Sanctuary to play. Aamu looks for the dragon for a moment.
"It was a pleasure," he offers quietly after Isla's telling of the work done in the medical clinic, his attention returning to his whittling. It is chunky still, just the roughest outline starting to form—it, too, seems to be a bird, wings spread in glorious flight, but the question of how skilled a whittler Aamu actually is remains to be answered.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
Look out 'cause here I come And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
Neos bit his own tongue and hard...hard enough to draw blood apparently, since he just got a taste of copper. He was trying to steel his nerves, the instincts literally screaming at him to run away from this group, but if he did that...welp, explorers face dangers all the time. And this appeared to be one of the most peaceful 'dangers' he's seen so far. Taking a deep breath before covering his face with his hands, allowing himself to try to anchor onto the friendly words, words that sounded genuine despite the inherent feeling of danger he kept being forced to experience.
"...sorry, I just developed a sudden headache," he said, not really a lie, since fighting against instinct was causing a good-sized one. He sat himself down near the food, sipping some of the tea in range to help ease his nerves...and slightly thankful it was sweet, too. He glanced over the food, all of it looking fine, smelling fine, and after nibbling a little of it tasting fine. However, something about it all seemed off and he couldn't tell why. He didn't taste poison and didn't feel ill, so that's something he's crossing off his mental checkli---
And Neos suddenly slammed his forehead onto the table, thankfully missing all the food, but increasing his headache more. It did cause those pesky instincts to shut the fuck up for once, though. "...Arceus-damned paranoia peeking up over nothing," he mumbled into the table before lifting his face, a nice circle of red now on his forehead.
And a headache from an impact was more tolerable, in all honesty.
He heard the question of what to make aimed at another, but it was a question that got him thinking as well, trying to figure out what to make for what to hang on the tree back in Torchline...wait. Why were they talking about decorations here unless there was anoth...
His eyes widened in realization. He needed some woodcarving supplies and a lot of wood, preferably multiple that were the size fitting of figurines. Especially if he planned on trying to find all the trees he can reach...minus maybe Halo's possible tree...and hanging something on each of them. "Um, where are the woodcarving supplies in this facility," Neos finally asked, headache subsiding and the thought of what to make currently keeping instincts on the backburner.
and the sky was littered with the corpses of stars
There are many new strangers to them, but they do spy a smile aimed at them from Aamu, which is shot back in their hurriedness to approach and grab their items for what they wanted to make. And once they had, tugging Mabel over to follow them to the table once she’d retrieved the items she wished to craft something into, they sit a bit more focused in their attempts to carve into the clay.
The question aimed at them from Mabel pulls them from the trance they’ve put themself into and their head lifts to let their dark gaze scan over her face with a soft smile. “A ball of some sort… Out of clay I thought. It’ll harden and then I can paint it! But… I’m just not sure what kind of design to do.” They look back down, brows furrowing as they peer at the bauble.
They really would like to make smooth curved lines, but every time they try it ends up straight. So they decide to pick up their tool again and make patterns instead. Some in the shape of stars and sparks of light, and some smoother lines. “What are you going to paint?” They ask, looking up from their project to flash a fanged smile at the other Ascended.
Returning Bastien’s nod with one of her own, the Wraith sits in an unfamiliar chair at an unfamiliar table to do an unfamiliar thing.
Who knew that something as simple as arts and crafts could teeter on the verge of overwhelming?
Luckily, her Advisor has a smart suggestion and she feels no shame in taking a pre-made bauble, some purple and white paint and a brush, setting herself up to make something simple. One ear is turned towards the question and the conversation, the other towards the stranger-stranger (versus Ascended-strangers, who aren’t really strangers at all in her head).
“Aamu has some whittling things,” Wessex tells Neos with a little point towards the man with the long blonde hair. Otherwise, she isn’t quite sure - after all, this isn’t her place. Back to the conversation. “Well rested,” she finally replies to Bastien’s question with a soft chuckle. Turning her head from her focus on the bauble's purple base, she offers a fanged half-grin to the other woman. “You’re Isla, right? I’d heard about you - before everything happened.”
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
