Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
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the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
There was only so much time; and it was fleeting, quicker by the hour, by the minute. The press of its wick contorted against them – for him, the apprehension for Kiada, and for Elide, the possibility of too many other unwinding circumstances. A fresher hell, a denizen of foreign terror that could only be described and allotted so much to one who’d never experienced it – and he wouldn’t wish that upon her. His own gaze flickered over the stones, withholding another breath, stark and clear, as she mentioned no upgrades. Nothing to steal, but nothing to use. “Anything in the armory is yours for the taking.” At the very least, she should’ve been quipped in her preferred weapon (the crossbow; he imagined), and some other regards. She might have done well with an axe too.
Something blunt. Something heavy. Something to render monsters into pieces.
He controlled an instinctual eyeroll from rising to the surface at her mention of the Voice. He had stories to go with that particular goddess too, but also refrained, stifling it down, down, down into the burden of his lungs. But the beast didn’t expect her next words, snapping and riveting his gaze back to her, as she uttered a promise, a vow, an oath to him. No arch to his brow, no jocular impressions, no self-deprecating nuances. She didn’t need to utter anything of such ilk to him. He wasn’t worth that.
But if it kept her alive, kept her going, then he’d take it. No Warden for the moment, a General once more, the indication strong and stern in the rumble of his voice, in the hushed platitudes. “The Shields keep their pledges,” and he nodded, accepting it; the ghost of a smile transpiring in the corner of his mouth. Whatever she required for determination, to raise her head through the shadows doomed and damned to fall.
Then he said nothing on Wessex – his encounters with the Wraith plentiful and wrought with mercurial ramparts. It would be beneficial for her, and for Kiada, but Deimos had his misgivings on the subject matter. Instead, he nodded once more. “You are welcome.” To the information, to the experiences – because he wouldn’t wish the upcoming torment on her. And with another nuance, he withdrew, stepping aside as they began again.
Thereafter, the monolith offered a different tactic. Intending to appear as if he neared her side, to swipe at ribs again, or to careen with her hips, he raised his blade, then angled it completely downward. In a rush of power, precision, and strength, he aimed the hard edge of the hilt towards her wrist – fully attempting to disarm.
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
Elide is not inclined to argue over whether one should side with the Old or New Gods. It is simply up to the individual, as it is up to them what direction they allow such followings to take them in. As it was her choice, all that time ago. It's a choice she's come to terms with, even if her audience has not really been requested or needed until now - even if this is still a startling call to arms. She supposes it is her own fault for being hermit-like. Anyway. No, she doesn't have anything to say about the way Deimos' countenance becomes vitriolic at the mention of the Voice, and he makes it subtle enough that it doesn't need to be addressed. Saves themselves the awkward strain.
She is taken by pleasant surprise at his acceptance of her promise. It was given in the heat of the moment, something to steady herself with - she didn't quite expect anything from him over it. Although, deep down, she must have hoped, because she gives him a determined smirk of her own.
There is little else said as the storm inside of her cries for an outlet. Deimos advances upon being given the go-ahead, and she prepares for him. Elide's ribcage coils and her sword swings around to block at the suggestion that he will strike for it again. However, he takes her by surprise, which is evident in her reaction in that split moment. A passing, fleeting dread crosses through her dark gaze as his sword lurches in a direction she was not expecting, not planning for.
The hilt whacks against her wrist but, in that moment of realization, she managed to prepare herself for the impact. Her sword is not disarmed and there is no wince of pain - she cannot feel it. She does, however, surge backwards with the hit, a hint of annoyance in her eyes. "If you want a fistfight, all you have to do is ask," she mutters, glaring up at him.
Her sword snaps diagonally at his, attempting to 'catch' it so she can twist her blade around his in her own attempt to disarm. Tit for tat, it's only fair.
sewn together, my humanity and my immortality together, they hang, trading places like sun and moon
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
Only the lightest of smirks bounded, and then ghosted away, as if it was never there, at the minor quip. There were a multitude of responses conspiring in his head, but none of them were lifted and launched along the surface of the training arena. Not worth it. Not when he was wielding and teaching, instructing and orchestrating.
Once more, she attempted to catch, to distort, to unravel his own blade – but were would be too much force behind it. He was might and demolition, and remained persistent in his own practice. No complacency, no shortsightedness, brawn and strength contorting in the breadth of his muscles, in the scale of his abyss, consuming the notions as if they were nothing. His blade stayed in his hands – as if it had always been there, trained from an early, early age, where the callouses had mended and molded to the shape of an armament. Where he’d begun to become a living, breathing weapon, where he’d been stung and strung along until he was bestial, barbaric, and behemoth enough to stand on his own.
So it was with his brutality that he mustered back, forging oblivion, pushing directly into her space, pressing blades into blades, intending to march her backwards.
And then sliding, twisting, turning, towards her left, swinging both of their blades free, and aiming for a tirade of the flattened side towards her back.
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
02-04-2021, 07:31 AM (This post was last modified: 02-04-2021, 07:32 AM by Elide.)
Elide
Elide thinks, for a moment, that Deimos and Aisha have a bit of a fascination with trying to knock swords out of hands. It's a good enough trick, she supposes, but when your body is made of mechanical, unfeeling parts, it's difficult to be thwarted by pain. Pressure might make its mark on her skin, of course, but that is all she will feel.
And pressure is something she can live with, as she relents to his - just enough to take capturing strides backwards, to keep herself from falling to the ground. Her sword bends beneath his but, at least it is caught, at least this is - to some degree - a defense. Elide has the thought to try to twist away herself but, he doesn't give her much room. She is at a loss as he whips the other way, releasing her sword from the unforgiving grip of his own.
His sword hits her across the back, her body flinching from the wake of his strike. No breath, however, is forced from her lungs. With inability to truly feel the infliction, she is able to recover quickly. Hesitance to hurt or maim is lost. Her own body turns and her arms arc to cruelly clash the sword against the fingers that grip his hilt, jawline clenching with the motion.
sewn together, my humanity and my immortality together, they hang, trading places like sun and moon
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
They’d lost some track of friendly ambience apparently – though he wasn’t certain when or where or why – Deimos had always employed a significant amount of control in his teaching. Nothing went beyond the scope of the other’s ability. Nothing to maim. Nothing to torture. Nothing to torment. They held a variance – a reading, of experiences, levels, and aptitudes. But without the rendering of pain on her side, he couldn’t be sure of the breaking point.
His eyes narrowed (a warning; if she were to notice it at all) – he’d used the flattened portion of his blade to ensure naught significant warped or bewildered, just another maneuver. Just another motion. Just another interplay of swords and parameters, potential stratagems she could employ and utilize for herself. Why she chose to chisel and amplify the semblance of affliction – something only he would feel – was perplexing.
He could easily destroy her, after all. There was a measure of trust in the flow of these movements, and she was stepping on the fringes.
But Deimos saw it coming, as it had so many other damned times in his life.
A side-step, a pivot, a turn, and her sword grazed over his furs, tucking his arm neatly against his side. Thereafter, on opportunities, he lifted his blade at an intriguing angle, sending it careening on a diagonal, intending for it to be difficult to muster and catch – seeing if she could muster a defense on an armament sailing towards her hips.
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
She's caught in the heat of the moment, in the inflation of emotions built up from all of this news. If she had a set of lungs that needed to be filled, her breath would be shallow and hitched with anger, with sadness. But she doesn't, and she is an otherwise stoic individual, so it makes sense for her suddenly cruel strike to perplex him.
Elide sees his narrowed eyes and her own flinch wider in response, a silent realization of the nature she is not so easily inclined to. It has, however, taken advantage of her - even if only for a moment, even if only for one motion. His wordless warning is enough to humble her.
She knows that she stands no chance to best him in this fight. She should be treating it as a learning experience, not as a chance to ignite and enflame, as a way to take out her darker emotions on something else. It's not like her.
She is caught up in this when he retaliates. Though she tries to muster her defense, tries to recuperate from the {fortunate} miss of her mark, her muscles falter. Her hands are not prepared to bend in such a direction, the angle taken to defend herself a decidedly bad one. She flinches beneath his strength with a gritted flash of her fanged teeth. Her weapon clangs down onto the stones.
sewn together, my humanity and my immortality together, they hang, trading places like sun and moon
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
The warning, ominous in just the motion of his eyes, seemed enough. Lines crossed and boundaries infringed upon – sometimes what the daring, the emboldened, the brash concocted upon him, taking moments, opportunities, to seize some semblance of scarring and maiming his form. Lost, away from the true purpose of their skirmish, snared by their emotions and inveigled by their munitions, and the Sword an easy target. Tall, built, monolithic statures, capable of taking and enduring their hits – but it didn’t mean he needed to. Battle and war were different from duels and practice – there was no necessity in becoming their effigy.
Fortunately, the procession of what could’ve been (annihilation, belligerence, caustic, demolition) ceased. She flinched, she bent, she clenched her jaw, and the whirlwind of sentiments seemed to have hollowed out, into a swallowed, consumed void. The clatter of her sword against the stones was enough, a reverberation of understandings and misgivings. He ceased his motions entirely, some vague semblance of a sigh threatening to unfurl from his lungs. Instead, he placed his foot on her blade, and then side-stepped, lifting it into his grasp.
Not offering it back to her yet. His palms wrapped around both hilts now, and his eyes settled upon her, an arch to his brow, but features otherwise not betraying anything. A stoic, reticent countenance, devoid and absent of the play of ruminations scaling within his mind. On a deep rumble, but low enough not to be overheard by those straggling, glancing over (attention scraping immediately from the echoes of a fallen weapon), he committed to his instructor precision. “What have you learned?”
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
02-06-2021, 04:15 AM (This post was last modified: 02-06-2021, 04:18 AM by Elide.)
Elide
Elide makes no move to pick up her sword. She's crouched lower though, worn down by his grating pressure, and her gaze lifts up towards him as his boot steps on the blade. His dark, rugged voice finally carries over the stones, a clear rumble through the activity going on around them.
Her lithe form straightens then, the movement taken in tandem as he lifts her sword, as if she is following it. She is calmer now, in comparison to the swings and clashes of moments prior. There is a semblence of breath that rises her shoulders and chest but, no exhale to indicate that she's fallen back on such a human habit.
"That I can not defeat you," she says this with a humorous edge to her tone, eyes flitting up to meet his. More seriously, she continues, "and that I can not change a course that has already been set, whether by the Gods or other, uncontrollable forces," her hands fall to her sides, fingers relaxing. Her words feel grim and heavy as she hesitantly presses on, "I suppose that I hoped, one day, I would be strong enough to fight fate, in spite of the odds." She wanted to, before, when her brother was killed. She imagines that she will want to again - sooner or later. Quieter, she says, "It is a naïve.. ambition."
"As for those," she tilts her nose down towards the swords in his hands pointedly, raising her brows a fraction, "I have much more to learn."
sewn together, my humanity and my immortality together, they hang, trading places like sun and moon
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
Deimos snorted, loud and abrupt, at her first statement. “That was not the point of the exercise,” countered with a vague sense of humor, ghosting away from the blistering conflagrations of days when he’d been trounced, in one way or another. Sometimes emotionally, the deeper foundations drowning him so much that he could no longer scrape to the surface. Sometimes in machinations, another equally clever, tactical, seeing him for what he was. Sometimes misfortune, burrowing into the layers and lacquer of the unknown, until he was overwhelmed by their chaotic efforts.
But it’d never been his spirit. They could only break apart the lacquer of his formidable, enduring, persevering soul. The rest remained, chiseled, solidified, beneath layers of scars and lacerations, beneath muscle and brawn, beneath the stony fixture of his presence. The sedition, the irreverence, the timeless revolution always came after.
And fate? That she so easily passed herself aside for the course of pre-conceived notion of destiny nearly made him snort again, but he withheld it. Deimos had always had faith in himself first, before everything else – before deities, before others, before even those he loved and cherished (because he’d learned, that they too, could just as easily abandon him). However, the monolith understood the nuances in this case – she had no say in being sent to an onslaught she hadn’t asked for. “You have a voice in how you fight.” In how she lived, in how she intended to alter this abrupt, choking course. To take what she could, to not let the world diminish those aspirations and ambitions. “Not naïve.” He shrugged his shoulders; because at least she had something to shoot for, when everything seemed very dire and hopeless and lost. How many times had he buried himself in his grief, with no light, no contortion, at the end of the overwhelming abyss? “It is a goal. And if it motivates you out of this upheaval, then follow it.” She couldn’t slay dragons if she was perilously cut apart by monsters. She couldn’t avenge her brethren if she was torn to shreds by demons. A figment to grab hold of was far better than sinking into the terror and torment.
The Sword still made no maneuver to hand back her blade, half-amused by them both in his grasp now. He inclined his head, half a grin forming, the tilt avian, canine, and feline all at once – formulations of predators who knew their place. “We all do.” His jaw jutted forward, indicating the rest of the crowd, continuing the same ministrations; combatting, skirmishing, striving to find a way to become better, stronger. “I would much rather learn than become complacent." An arch to his brow signified a do you not feel the same indication without words, passing her the armament back by the hilt. “Show me your crossbow skills then. I can set up a mobile target for you.”
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
02-09-2021, 05:53 AM (This post was last modified: 02-09-2021, 05:53 AM by Elide.)
Elide
It's a bit of a comfort to be validated, especially by someone you admire and aspire to be as strong as. Deimos' words soften the blow of the lessons that have come crashing in around her. It all weighs heavily across her shoulders and the forefront of her mind. But there is little anyone can say that will actually lighten the load. It's all she can think about now, the chaos she stands to face in LongNight.
Her expression relaxes a little from the darker frown, visibly resigning to his advice. "You're right, of course. I can't give up before I've even begun." A life spent in relative solitude with her head down. Of all times, now she's chosen to become something more. It's quite the test, and really impeccable timing on her part...
We all do.
She's taken aback, not having expected him to agree. But then he continues and the question in the arch of his brow has her nodding before she can even think about what he's said. Once she does, he's already moving on to invite her to showcase her real skills.
Her own trusty crossbow rests safely at home but, there is a whole plethora of weaponry at her fingertips. Another nod, "I was wondering if you would ask," and she moves to trade the sword for a crossbow.
Once readied with a full quiver slung over her shoulder, Elide takes a ready stance, one hand supporting the underside while the other holds it firmly by the handle. After years of practice with this weapon, even one that's new to her feels comfortable.
To start off, she will see how difficult Deimos intends to make this before she really settles into any sort of tactic. Once he is ready, her first shot will be simple. A few extra seconds are taken to attempt to predict his patterns and, when she feels the moment is right, she lifts the sights up to her eye, pulls the back of the handle into her shoulder, and aims a few inches ahead of the target before pulling the trigger.
sewn together, my humanity and my immortality together, they hang, trading places like sun and moon
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
Reflections and misgivings, paramount to a world full of them. He left her to her own thoughts and musings, placing his blade back along the sheath and belt, and then proceeding to scrounge around for a suitable target. None of them would be burdens on his incantations – it was all in the manner of how to stretch, elongate, or minimize them. To somehow orchestrate mannerisms and monsters she might see in the coming of endless upheavals, terror, and torment. A test of abilities she already had, long since instilled as a hunter, now come to collect in the fabrication of more than just gathering meat, but another hinge of survival. Do or die situations. Action, action, action, with no fleeting moments to think – muscle memory, and not much more.
Eventually he found a lightweight front of one of the arrow targets – there would be no need to lift and launch the entire stand. Peeling it away from its pile, eyes going towards more work to be done on organization, cleaning, and properly repairing their effigies (withholding a sigh; another notation in the back of his mind, for when all these occasions seemed to be over – and then one more thereafter, because when were they ever?), he then walked back towards her. She appeared to be ready, and so he nodded, no other words necessary. A few strides away, out of sight and out of range, the beast honed in on his incantations.
The Air magic contorted and upheld its bursts of power – content to be summoned, utilized, and formed. On broad strokes of precision, it ascended, tossed, the target, hauling it into the ramparts above, amongst stone and wood, fluttering along as if it were an animal. A bird, maybe, coasting through the wind. A bat, perhaps, searching for its next meal. An easygoing goal for the most part, for the beginning, and he watched, waited, while she fired her shots.
The first few made the goal look like slim pickings, and several times he made a mock show of the form dying, falling dramatically in a slow, spiral to the ground, before being cast back aloft again, the arrows still sticking out of the inanimate object. She had a good eye; there was no doubt about it.
But what would she do when it turned upon her – as the monsters would?
So his powers shifted; making it appear as though the effigy had spotted her, a leering, sort of predacious movement one might see out of a terrible, ominous figure, debating, deciding, the fate of the individual before it. Then he sent it careening towards her, darting, flashing, an unpredictable nuance, no patterns, nothing she might’ve seen out of the animals she stalked.
Because the things she was damned and doomed to encompass wouldn’t be.
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
02-09-2021, 11:59 PM (This post was last modified: 02-09-2021, 11:59 PM by Elide.)
Elide
The bolts fire in quick successions. As quick as they can, at least. She's satisfied to note that they hit their target. The patterns he mimicked were recognizable almost instantly to a hunter, prompting more instinctive knowledge. Birds, for the most part, sail through the air with occasional variations of flight according to species - bats were a little more difficult, less predictable. It helps that the target is not actually the size of one, at least.
It's as she's reloading and preparing calmly for the next exercise, that Deimos catches her by surprise. For the first time in a long time, she feels what might be reminiscent of a cold sweat, of her blood turning to ice. The way it whipped around, as if snagged by her presence. Immediately, Elide knows what he's mimicking - even if she has never seen one before.
It's only when the 'monster' careens towards her in frenzied, tormenting zig-zags that she feels uncertain of how to react. There is little time to formulate a plan, to plot a promising action in her mind, and that catches her off guard - the fact that she doesn't know how to handle a target like this. As it sails for her, perhaps thinking her a deer caught in the headlights, she leaps to the side at the last moment. Her backside hits the ground as a means to avoid its clutches. Her weapon lifts up to fire several merciless shots at it until it stops moving or otherwise concedes. Not the most skilled move she's ever done but, if it does the trick...
sewn together, my humanity and my immortality together, they hang, trading places like sun and moon
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
The Sword watched, gauged, her reaction. Part of the dilemma, and eventual, future ones, were that no one quite knew everything the monsters were capable of. He could only reflect back memories, mimic experiences, but even in those instances, some were left out. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, torment the way they had – the whispers, the claws, the sadistic spread of threats, warnings, and declarations, the way torture wound its way through minds, a hazardous, treacherous, lethal crawl. He couldn’t render his effigy invisible, cloak it into decrees of the unknown, where a shattering maneuver devastated, unleashed, unfurled towards a target. He wouldn’t pluck out her eyes, like when Rexanna had been blinded, or throw a beam into her chest. He wouldn’t take her fingers. He wouldn’t burn the barracks to the ground to prove a point.
Deimos could grant her these movements, these motions, but not much more. The real test would be in that hellhole, where she’d be forced to face a completely different range of demons.
Despite her arrows volleying, building quite an array within the target (it had begun to look much like a porcupine), there was no ceasing its onslaught. It had no brain. It had no way of ceasing its compulsion. It was only controlled and contorted by him, and his incantations.
After all – when did the monsters cease? When did they stop? He’d never seen it for himself. Only when he churned the guildhouse into ash and soot and cinders, when he’d taken the walls down, when he’d released the flames, the conflagration, the inferno, to eat at the world and to consume everything within – had those demons relented.
So his did not – the effigy once more rising from its beseeched landing like a wounded, dying animal; and roaring with no voice, no sound. It whipped along and came at her, the arrows in its threshold now becoming a cantankerous edge to its existence. What would she do when faced with something that had yet to give in? That wanted her to die as badly as she wanted it to succumb?
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
The arrows fly and pierce and yet, they are ineffective. What is he trying to prove to her? That she'll have to do better than this? There is no beast she's ever known that would rise up after an onslaught like that. A more impulsive person might fume with anger and shame. Elide's mind is racing, gears turning, emotional responses hurled away.
Elide doesn't try to run. There would be no point. If an animal could not die by means of piercing its flesh, there is only one last thing to do. All animals have a head; a central nervous system in which all movement and thought operates. If that is gone, the animal will cease. Even Elide would not recover from such a wound.
So she pulls her crossbow back against her chest and shoulder, not to aim it, but to press it back, charging up her strike. She will let the monster think it has her succumbed to its terrors, to think she has sunk into the stone. Her feet come up to hold it back, legs locking. Then, throwing all of her might into the motion, the crossbow itself becomes the projectile. She moves upward with gritted teeth and bashes the target across its head, aiming to completely 'decapitate' it.
sewn together, my humanity and my immortality together, they hang, trading places like sun and moon
