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!
No, they weren’t close – she didn’t let many people in. There could’ve been a myriad of reasons why, but mostly it was because she’d hardened into a cold little thing, with a lot less dreams and a lot more heartache. But she released something under his touch, a slow smile inclining along her mouth, a tilt of her head thereafter. No other words about the notion passed through, and they could maneuver away from the confession. There was naught he could do about it anyway.
“Stole your clothes and froze the room,” echoed, but prompted a light snort, that might have been a giggle following, but it was difficult to tell. “The Old Gods are fickle.” Irritating, vexing, perplexing, asinine; she could’ve gone on and on and on, but didn’t, relented to the haze. She had no need of unfurling her own family’s prayers to the ones who wouldn’t listen.
As for the Voice, the youth pondered, wondering all the while. If he’d been so independent, what about all the others asked and answered for? Maybe it’d been an excuse, a deity’s error, as they so often made. “Did you think you needed her?”
His hand is permitted, and Nate pushes no further than that, simply letting it sit while he describes other holy failures, a disastrous wetting with Frey that left him humiliated, freezing, and bruised. ”I don’t think fickle is one of the words that came to mind.” A dark murmur, some measure of genuine irritation still lingering behind the good humour, biding it’s time for moments like this.
”Yes and no.” He answers uselessly, wishy washy and uncertain. ”I wanted to be answered so I knew she didn’t hate me, or anything like that.” It sounds stupid to admit, but if anyone he’d spoken to, a fellow ascended should understand, at least the sentiment. ”But I didn’t need her.”
grab your saints and pray and we'll burn this world today
“Then how would describe them?” The semblance of her devilry at work, curled and coiled and contorted right along the depths of her growing smirk and snicker; to poke and prod and unfurl all of those renowned Old Gods. Who damned those they couldn’t be bothered with. Who strode around with purpose and precision and then let them all flounder and die. She fed into the darker murmurs, lifting her head again to face the feral fog, the white-lined abyss, the bones of fables and legends.
She hadn’t known their goddess to hate any of them – but perhaps it was misgivings he’d concocted and encountered after not hearing from her for so long. Her eyes segmented back to his, pondering, wondering, about all of this combined and misshapen; she didn’t think he was stupid. Just confused. Just like the whole rest of them for one reason or another. “And do you now? Do you need her?” Mabel thought she did; young and brash and wild, hungering for some purpose, for her rapt, driven, murderous ideals, for the journey thereafter – if they survived their next obstacle.
”Fucking humourless.” It’s the first snap out of his mouth, followed by another that he grits between his teeth. ”I’d rather have just been fucking ignored than be answered by a self-important deific dick.” He spits into the misty depths below them, feeing a touch better, even as his paranoia ticks up slightly. ”Better something that doesn’t answer than something that couldn’t care less about you.” Some part of him knows he’s being wound up intentionally, but it’s nice to be able to spew vitriol and venom, and have it be relatively harmless.
His jaw works as thoughts linger on the Voice instead, a stark comparison to the condemnation of Frey. ”Of course I need her.” He answers after a moment, the affirmation obvious. Putting everything else aside, they would starve and wither without the Voice’s influence. ”I want her too though.” This is quieter, an admission he hasn’t quite made out loud before this moment, no matter how he’s known it to be true for a while now.
grab your saints and pray and we'll burn this world today
She laughed – couldn’t help it – as he pressed and hissed about the Old Gods. Something she could do, spiteful and petty, harsh and grating, an unwinding bout of giggles that were both mercurial and eldritch; belonging to eerie sentiments and enigmatic plunges. Mabel could relish in the toxins, in the venom, in the poisonous promenade, listening to it bound and glisten against the fog, within the abyss. Theirs to have for the moment. Theirs to stomp and grate and wound within. “Or to be cursed,” she relinquished ultimately, with a shrug of her shoulders.
Perhaps they could cease and desist there about the Voice though – both in agreement. They needed her because of their elements, their chosen dispositions, their reasoning for aligning with the brightened segments, of giving and granting their souls over for a higher purpose. She glanced at him, from the corner of her piercing eyes, wondering why the admission seemed to take so much.
He can’t help it, he really can’t. A grin spreads over his lips, slow and creeping and robbing some of the bite out his voice. It’s not quite right to say the giggles are infectious, but the brighter mood absolutely is. Even when Mabel adds her two cents. ”God I forgot about the fucking curses.” A hand lifts to push his hair back roughly, missing it up in the process. ”Its just the cherry on top of the shit sundae, huh?”
Apparently his answer is correct, at least enough that Mabel doesn’t actually say anything more, even if Nate can feel the eyes on him. He could clarify, could explain that he’s in the middle of a rough tangle, caught between two warring armies that he never wanted to be entangled in, but that would require far more honesty than he’s really capable of. Instead, he lets the silence stretch out into something comfortable, wrapping around them like the most does, like an old blanket.
When he does speak again, his voice is soft, back to that distant, almsot awkward concern he’d started out with. ”How long are you planning on sitting out here for?”
grab your saints and pray and we'll burn this world today
She wasn’t familiar with the expression, but given the laughter remaining, she didn’t mind, didn’t question it. Curses were curses; either drawn from spirits or the heralds themselves, seeking out ridicule, punishments, or some immense, amusing satisfaction of watching mortals beckon for some sign of life. Another shrug rippled through her shoulders, she’d yet to experience the touch, but knew enough Naturals and Outlanders alike who’d been scorched and scorned.
Or perhaps her family had been, in a way. Maybe silence and indifference had been the most damaging curse of all.
She missed the way he seemed to embroil back into himself, contorting and coiling, slipping away from the bony filaments and edges where she’d been leaning. “Not much longer.” Her head tilted, back towards the abyss, lifting her head as if to drown in their fringes, corresponding to the fixtures of ethereal ethers she’d never be able to contain. “You are free to walk back with me.”
And with that, she settled down the bleached adornments – not waiting to see if he followed.
