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!
I was waiting for something extraordinary but as the years wasted on...
The snow has iced over with the chill of the night air, and Henry is walking the streets of the Sanctuary as if he has any business being in the Grounds tonight. He's not here to visit someone, though. He's taking stock, of all things. Surveying the streets in the lamplight, looking around at all that the Grounds have become - and what might become of them in the weeks to come.
It's never the same after LongNight. Time is slipping by. The situation seems to feel more precarious with each pressing second. People he knows might not come back. There's a constant trepidation in his heart.
He stops beneath a street lamp, his boots scuffing over the slick ground underneath. He pulls his jacket closer around him and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There's not much hesitation as he lights one up, the ember sparking in the midnight air. Movement catches his eye and he looks to see who's there, raising dark blue eyes up from the smoke that drifts around him like fog.
"Oh, it's... you," his voice is clear in the still air even though it's not loud. He shifts his weight to better look at her, "have you found your sister yet?"
She didn’t wander quite so often now; steps filled with purpose, with prowess, with predilection, rather than the willowy embrace of nothingness. No longer immersed in the haze of rebirth, renewal, and resurgence, no longer trapped in her threadbare clothing and contorted in salt from the sea, no longer shrouded in her death-veils – her mind rewiring, refiring, into necessities. Into willpower. Into vestiges of revenge that would take far longer than she wanted or craved. Into motivation, goals, and ambitions for after the stretch of LongNight – as if that could be quantified or put into words.
As if they had a chance.
Her hands were full of necessities for the farmhouse, for what she figured Aamu required, as if one more evening in the bewitching clarity of normalcy might make it through, might set minds and hearts at ease. The youth’s head was up, and her predacious eyes scanned the darkened folds, the press of shadows, wayward from the beams of lantern light, when she caught the motion of smoke from the corner of her eye. Her initial instinct was fire, and a clamorous hum began to rankle within her heart, until she realized the figure was someone she recognized, and there were no ember, save for the cigarette.
A snort billowed through her, and she rolled her eyes – uncertain at who.
His voice pierced though, punctured right through her spine at the inclination, at the words, and every bone in her body stilled.
Predator, monster, molten little beast again, abomination from her watery crypt. “She’s dead,” came out in a hiss, a warning, her fingers ghosting towards the precious knife in her pockets.
If you dig under my feet You will find things that you don't want to see
01-30-2021, 05:52 AM (This post was last modified: 01-30-2021, 05:53 AM by Henry.)
HENRY
I was waiting for something extraordinary but as the years wasted on...
He feels her contempt before she even speaks, can hear the snort, can see the stiffening of her figure in the shadows. His eyes narrow through the darkness, trying to get a better look at her, at what's wrong.
The boy himself doesn't tense, perhaps because he's too well-intentioned, assuming that since things hadn't ended up bad between them before, that perhaps she was a begrudging friend. Not.. a thief in the night, come to steal his blood, to spill it out like water from a full cup. As if it might fill her own empty, vacant one, and repurpose her existence.
Henry pauses there in the slivers of smoke that sweep past his fingers, in the shadows of her blustering emotions. Vaguely aware of the balance he's hanging in, and feeling okay with tipping it. For a moment, he's stunned into silence, though, because her words do come out and that hiss of hers is ripping out towards him.
"I'm sorry," A part of him thought she might be dead, gone, lost. It's why he had urged the one that's not... to think more clearly.. before she followed suit. For a second time. He starts towards the girl slowly, trying to draw near enough to see her eyes. His voice is guarded as he asks, "What are you going to do now?"
The apology might have meant something to a girl nicer, more compassionate, than her. Mabel was all edges and knives, hungry wrath, willowy conjectures, an eldritch spell from natural inclinations, unfurled, unleashed upon the world like a sullen, silent void. If he expected her to hang her head, to wither away in the fading light of those well wishes, rues, and regrets, than he was due a surprise. Her head tilted, and her fangs edged over her lips – eerie promises making their way through the clouds of smoke and fumes. “Avenge her.” As if it were that simple. As if it were that easy.
Survive LongNight.
Find the culprit.
Destroy him.
A step by step process she’d already begun to roll in her youthful, vibrantly malicious, mind. The basket hid the dagger in her hands, but he advanced, continued, persisted, and she could make this a game. A hunt. One with meaning, if given, granted permission – an inquiry lofted into the air. “Do you know how to fight?” The jut of her chin, lifted and imperious, likely solidified her interest, her intrigue, in the notions.
If you dig under my feet You will find things that you don't want to see
I was waiting for something extraordinary but as the years wasted on...
Vengeance is something Henry doesn't quite resonate with, so his lips purse and he stops short. Partly because he doesn't know if she means to have specific revenge, or to simply take it out on everyone around her. He can't predict her but, that might be what prompts him to stay. To see what he can do for her, even if all that means is...
Fight.
The word brings the cigarette down from his pulling lips. Thoughtfully, he considers his answer, close enough now that he can see she's holding onto a basket.
"I'm no expert," he starts, but he's already putting out the cigarette as it falls beneath his boot, "but I can fight." He eyes her hands, which seem... busy. "Why do you ask?" His gaze lifts up to her face, to the smoldering rage that roils in her eyes and lips. He already thinks he knows the answer.
She wanted to remain unpredictable. Something fierce and ferocious, something unknown and unbound, something feral and wild and untamed, the world leery and uncertain of her. She wanted their eyes to dart suspiciously. She wanted their nerves coiled in apprehension, in trepidation. She wanted some measure of intimidation to spark and sizzle and seethe from her form, and into the earth.
Someday. Eventually.
She wanted to be feared.
Mabel didn’t need an expert. Just a body, a form, to practice upon. A place where she could unleash her hate and feel no regrets, no remorse, when blood and fluid and ichor had spilled; a sanctum in the potential and prowess of pain (not hers) and agony. An arch to her brow indicated her thoughts towards his inquiry – he must’ve known. “So I can get better.” So I can carve them up. “I need to survive LongNight, and then-,” a shrug followed, like it was that easy. They both knew it wasn’t, wouldn’t be. The chances were slim.
But she’d survived before. And died. And survived again.
The youth simply didn’t want that particular ritual to meet its next interval. There were too many things to do.
Thereafter, the traces and edges of her smile curled in the corners of her lips, where the fangs nestled, where the grin didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Will you help me?”
If you dig under my feet You will find things that you don't want to see
I was waiting for something extraordinary but as the years wasted on...
Henry nods. The implications and intricacies of vengeance meant little to him. He's never been the type, even when overcome by sorrow and anger at the loss of his friend all those years ago. He wanted to stop the monsters in LongNight, but not because he wanted revenge... because he just wanted it to stop. But he can't be there, not this time. If all he can do to help is ensure that she's more prepared, then he'll jump at that chance.
"Of course I'll help you," he says almost immediately, earnestly, taking note of her wicked smile. He doesn't reflect one back at her, unusually enough. If anything, he's apprehensive about what she expects, but he doesn't make a show of it. All that meets her unsmiling eyes is a stoic expression. "How do you want to do this? Bare-handed brawl? Or do you have something else in mind?" He's not exactly armed with anything, himself, so his own ideas are a bit limited.
Mabel cannot quite process how easily the assistance was accepted, and extended. She narrowed her eyes, very briefly in speculation, as if she were trying to see past a particular pitfall or trap, a snare lingering somewhere. Had she of seen herself wandering around, skulking about, promising vengeance on others, she wouldn’t have offered support. She probably would’ve gone the other way.
“I’d like to practice with knives.” Which was a dangerous, bizarre statement to make – and she even had a second one, lodged down and folded up in her pockets, handed out, hilt at the ready for him to take. “First blood?” A casual joke, made on a fanged smirk; considering she didn’t have any of the crimson lifeforce.
Why he needed her name was beyond her too – so she snorted, stepping back, placing her wares down by the lantern light. “Mabel.” Her mind went to all the angles, all the nuances, all the notions Aamu had instilled within her – eyes glancing carefully, pinpointing various locations, conspiring in plots of anatomy and movement – waiting the verdict.
If you dig under my feet You will find things that you don't want to see
02-01-2021, 11:54 PM (This post was last modified: 02-01-2021, 11:55 PM by Henry.)
HENRY
I was waiting for something extraordinary but as the years wasted on...
He just wants it all to end. At least they have that in common. Well, to an extent. He also wants something new to begin and that hope, that optimism blooms inside of him like a stubborn, tantalizingly beautiful flower. He finds her ferocity to be a strength, a fire that cannot be contained but must be matched so that it might see its full potential. He's only sorry that he can't quite manage to be that for her, to be the one that makes things alright. It seems that that's up to her. Still, he will try to be supportive - until he can't.
Even if practicing with knives draws a startled breath from him. He takes the hilt in his strong fingers, noting how small yet deadly it was. It's then that a smile parts the serious look on his face, because he can't help but think she and these knives have that in common. "Okay, first blood it is..." he nods, looking up from the knife. And he looks expectantly, waiting for her name.
"Mabel?" He's already begun the game, because her flame has faded in the shadow of his cool demeanor, and he's not too nice to fan it. "That's cute. I thought you'd have a way tougher name," he teases, snapping the knife open.
Only, he doesn't press forth to attack. He decides to make her work for it, figuring that she will be faster than him. Well, you know, given her Ascended speed. "Catch me if you can, May bell!" He calls over his shoulder with a wicked grin of his own, He slips around stone pillars of nearby buildings, intending to use them to his advantage and give her an obstacle.
If he sought to invoke some wild flame, some hidden brazenness in the mocking of her name, it wasn’t the right match to strike. She’d grown up in a world of siblings – there were far worse connotations. So she snorted, invoked the impudent, seditious mark in the corner of her mouth, a snicker, a smirk, in the acceptance, in the notations of violence.
To try. To strive. To enact the procedures Aamu had taught her; proving something to herself.
Capability? Merit? Potential?
What it should’ve been was the semblance of survival.
He could slip around pillars if he wanted – but the darkness was hers. Under the cloak of shadow and veils, shrouds and twilight, her eyes took it all in, absorbed, knew the parameters of every building, of every piece and portion of this rubbled, ruined world. Quick, stealthy, she pursued, ran, ran, ran, no need for breath, no need for lungs to expand, charging onward, onward –
And reaching out with the knife, stretching her arm, the hand clasping over the hilt, intending to nick and torment whatever she could snag.
If you dig under my feet You will find things that you don't want to see
I was waiting for something extraordinary but as the years wasted on...
Slip around pillars he does, though not blindly so. He deliberates over these motions, knowing that it would be far too naive of him to simply run between the stones and expect her not to be able to keep up. No, he had to altogether surprise her.
So when Mabel runs, he darts, he hides. She attempts to catch him, to cut and dive for him with her nimble hands. Henry's a simple guy - and, as a general rule, fighting is simple. It can go as in-depth as you want but, at its heart, the basic rule is fixed. All you have to do... is win. Somehow, some way. Whether it's by being faster, stronger, or smarter. It doesn't matter, so long as at the end of the day, you survive.
So when she strikes, she'll find that he's not where she thought he was. In a swoosh of movement and exhaled breath, he dips around the pillar and strikes out with the knife towards her ribs.
Now, Mabel might have learned about where to best attack, where to best assault, where to best cut and slash, rip and tear, but what to do when the body simply wasn’t there or how to defend, hadn’t been as notable.
Her reach did nothing – and though an air of frustration didn’t quite reach into a growl – she could feel it beginning to build in her chest. Which was stupid; she couldn’t expect to snag him on the first interval.
But sometimes she wanted that instantaneous moment of triumph. She’d had so little of it. Just a taste. Just a morsel. Just a light savoring of what could be.
He dipped around the pillar, snagging, striking towards her. There was no muscle memory for defenses, for catching his movements and hastening her own parry or retaliation; only natural instinct, to dive in another direction. Swift, but not swift enough, as he caught the tail ends of her shirt, and she could hear the fabric tear, pull apart in its haste. Lucky, perhaps, to not have been embedded in flesh.
Not to be dissuaded, not to be outdone, Mabel pounced. Quick and rapid, she maneuvered around the portion of stone too, dagger outstretched, intending for his shoulder.
If you dig under my feet You will find things that you don't want to see
02-04-2021, 07:44 AM (This post was last modified: 02-04-2021, 08:35 AM by Henry.)
HENRY
I was waiting for something extraordinary but as the years wasted on...
Henry can feel her frustration like a pulse, even if their only connection is the heat and thrill of the moment. He can see it in the way she tenses, the way she pounces for him with hunger in her jab.
He sees the dagger incoming but, all he can do is bend with its momentum, hoping it does not graze his skin. It doesn't, and he is simply lucky for that as he ducks and dips his shoulder in response. It does cut through the material of his coat, however, and he winces at that. This is a jacket he's had for a while!
In a wavering step, he jumps away so as to avoid any quick, successive attacks. As he goes, he pulls the hilt of his own knife in against his palm, to try and slash the blade against her own arm in a deliberate move.
When he lands a few feet away, out in the open, no games left to play but the one to determine the victor, he tries to offer some amount of advice. His voice echoes off of the stone walls surrounding them, "Don't lose control. Especially not because you missed your first try," he offers a grin and a tempting twitch of his brow, "that's what makes this a fight. Relax, trust yourself."
Could one lose control, if they never had any to begin with? Where was the stopping point? The lines drawn? The release of rage? The ceasing, the desisting, when she’d only just begun?
But she’d take it – what little morsels were there on offering, infusing a breath that went nowhere, trying to steady her own pace, her own mind, her own clarity. He swiped and she backed away again, a mixture of limbs and rapid shifting, flailing a bit more than she intended.
(Like when she was slowly, painstakingly, drowning and starving beneath the waves, no control-)
Mabel lunged at his left side this time, not releasing the knife until she thought she could get closer, closer, closer, before attempting to slash against his ribs. No vital wound, if it managed at all; not pressed and cajoled in the way that Aamu had taught her. This was a game.
For now.
If you dig under my feet You will find things that you don't want to see
