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!
Aisha sat in the great hall of the barracks, leaning back in a chair with her boots up on the table. Near her the hearth was born and roaring with flames, eating away at their wood stores. She could be outside training, doing something to keep her mind off the curse, but instead she wallowed in the misery of it, praying to any of the gods at this point that she might feel the heat of the fire.
Her nose began to run a few days ago, sickness having slipped in easily to her body as she fought against the cold. It was annoying at most, she'd never allowed herself to succumb to complaining over nature's bitterness. But this was not nature, this was some monstrous spirit's doing. And so she sulked in her chill, wiping at her nose every now and then with her sleeve, feeling her muscles ache, and peeling bark off the logs to throw into the fire.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Another series of office hours completed, and no one murdered amidst their petty arguments; Deimos considered it successful, and marked it down as an interval he wouldn’t have to repeat. The middle of the season approached, which spelled out different angles of plotting, ruses, schemes, and the signal of the ending due to approach without much more preamble. He’d once thought, initially, they wouldn’t have to deal with the nuances of LongNight – and now, by stretch, by measures of Kiada and Elide’s impending departure into the framework of hell, he’d spent a multitude of time sketching out diagrams of weaponry for both. Between that, and attempting to not grow into a restless, monolithic beacon striking out against the cobblestones, the Sword had kept himself busy.
A return into the barracks was met with an opening of the door, sliding inside, transitioning from cold to warmth, with the roaring fire, the clamor of the hearth. Normally it was the first thing he went towards, drawing and contorting the flames to a brighter, bestial crescendo, feeding its adornments to ensure the rest of the halls and walls were to working order. Instead, as he pulled his gloves off, placing them on his desk nearby, his eyes went to the figure in his usual brooding spot.
“Aisha,” he announced, over the roar of the fire, and the incoming greeting of Zuriel, who’d been somewhere intertwined in the midst. His eyes narrowed, speculating, considering, because this wasn’t where he normally found her. Ordinarily, she’d be off in the midst of the training grounds, instigating, agitating, rankling fellow Guards until they all volleyed and rallied. “Are you pouting?” Perhaps something else had occurred – one more trial and tribulation, and automatically, after his rumbling tones attempted to exude some amusement, he wandered over to the cabinets – in search of alcohol.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Deimos's voice caught her off guard, almost instinctively she pulled her legs back in and off the table surface. Once she realized it wasn't someone who would scold her for scuffing the wood she placed them back, relaxed her senses, and returned to peeling at the wood. His presence was a comfortable one, but not enough to ease the cold that made her skin prickle with goosebumps.
Zuriel did catch her eye, and Aisha reached out for the beast to come. Partially because the companion was a friend, and partially because unicorns could heal, and maybe by some miracle that extended to curses as well. Her hazel eyes shot back towards Deimos as he spoke, realizing then that she hadn't addressed him yet. She hated being this scattered, "I'm not pouting," she pouted.
"I went to a shrine yeah? As one does. Mother fucker cursed me." she explained, staring at the general indignantly. How ridiculous was this? Go ahead, make fun. There was a sharp pain across her fingertips, as though a cold breeze flew by, and she withdrew her hands to bury them in her lap, seeking some respite that wouldn't come.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Since she persisted in the reel of petulance, he opted not to respond, save with a snort, dignified and muffled. His eyes went to two glasses in the cabinets, and a tumbler of whiskey that still contained a decent amount, grabbing all three and bringing them towards the table. The clink resounded against the wood, quiet while he worked.
Zuriel provided a relative distraction, a tilt of her head in almost near-mimicry of her companion’s habitual, predatory movements, advancing towards Aisha. Her muzzle drew towards the woman’s hands, soft breaths coasting, wafting, an easygoing temperament despite her usual haughty nature. Almost as if she were inspecting, devising, and ordaining possibilities – but even her magic had limitations. Even if she bent her head and placed her horn upon the swordswoman’s shoulder, it wouldn’t have done any good. She shook her massive cranium, almost apologetic, but didn’t back away, in case Aisha still craved comfort.
Deimos expected some sort of common sickness – a cold, perhaps. Nothing like the recent suffering – she didn’t appear to be hallucinating, dehydrated, or otherwise out of her mind. Thinking to ease her discontent with a hot toddy, the Sword poured the mixture together (lemons honey, melded in between) and then concocted one for himself. Fire incantations ensured they were warmed, and as he was passing it over, sliding it along the surface, her answer came.
A curse.
Entirely different then – and something feathered in his jaw; a muscle, brows furrowing slightly. There was no humor in his features, and he sat down, fingers going around the glass. “In what capacity?” He was familiar with Chulane’s – who once held a long, lasting sunburn – but couldn’t recall many others.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Long calloused fingers were met with a slightly wet nose and unicorn fur. Zuriel inspected her for a moment, delicate and gentle, even in the cold Aisha felt comfortable with her presence. The unicorn did not mend her cursed soul, but it was the closest thing to warmth Aisha had gotten since that day in the shrine. She hoped the companion would stay near, so she could stroke her mane and shower her in affection.
Deimos neared the pair with a mixture, the steam ensured it was hot but Aisha wouldn't know if not for that sight. She reached out for the glass, lifting it and taking a sip. If she couldn't feel it's heat down her throat, at least she could get drunk and pretend. Her incredulous response was met with his usual level of gravitas. "I'm cold," she began, letting loose the cynical words in favor of a more serious discussion, "no matter what I do I can't feel warm."
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The mare accepted the affection, leaning into the touches, asking for scratches as she tilted her head, offering her ears. There was little else she could provide beside the ways of distraction and deterrents, her capabilities ill-reaching from the spirits of the shrines.
Deimos leaned forward, elbows on the table, eventually lifting the glass, sipping slowly, taking it all in, absorbing the answer. Her punishment was ironic, given the climate they lived in, and he eased a sigh building and brewing behind his lungs. It explained the hearth, the fire rising and roaring, the heat flickering everywhere, encompassing, comfortable, and warming amidst the stones. Just not for her. “Did you do something to anger them?” A light bit of humor, seeing if he could provoke, instigate, jibe, irritate, annoy her into a temper – if that would coax the inferno likely still remaining, existing within her being. He tucked the smile behind the glass, taking another swallow before continuing, setting the drink down. Uncertain how the curses intermingled, what vengeance lingered in those depths, what inspired the parameters of cruel exposition, he persisted. “Or do you know how long it is supposed to last?” Perhaps they were all furtive measures; the unknown creeping and crawling, like in so many other notions and motions in this world.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Deimos's humor was usually encouraged, usually coaxed out of him. This specific statement made her scowl, a quick fire bubbling up inside her as she snapped back a reply, "Oh yes I lit the whole shrine on fire." Her sarcasm was biting, fiery for sure, but not in a way that would ease the pain. Curling her fingers through Zuriel's mane brought a sigh, some calmness once more.
How long it would last? She thought about that constantly, every day hoping to wake up to the warmth of her sheets rather than in her own arctic atmosphere. She shook her head no, gazing back into the hearth and watching the fire crackle and spit ash onto the stone floor. "No idea," her free hand wrapped around the leg of the chair, fidgeting with the wood there, "I guess you don't have a quick fix for me then."
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The bite of sarcasm, the sardonic snap, only ignited the depths of his mischievous grin. The Sword wouldn’t put it past her to have done just that – flames and all, in one glorious conflagration. Likely, much like Chulane, it had been the result of misfortune, a trick and twist of some higher or lower spirits, amused by their own antics, indifferent towards another’s plight. So while he grew silent, mulling over other particulars, the unicorn snorted and placed her head on the woman’s shoulder, offering what little comfort she could provide.
He took another swig, contemplating where exactly to push and prod and irritate, or to flicker off into other ethers. “I do not.” Blunt and honest truth; the man could calculate and persecute and maim, but there were only so many solutions to unknowns. Curses, especially with a range of possibilities and limitations, could only be so known. “May have to suffer through this one.” The notion of it could be worse contorted through his head, but he gave it no voice via Attuned bond or other predilections – no intention of accounting for which plague ailed more. So a sigh filtered through instead, contemplating how best to approach. Distraction? Listen to the grumbling? Perhaps he’d try one, and then the other. “I believe it is your turn for a story."
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
02-11-2021, 10:21 PM (This post was last modified: 02-11-2021, 10:23 PM by Aisha.)
AISHA
good lava, we all know you wanna
Unusually sardonic and bitter lately, Aisha huffed and refused eye contact, having felt the mischievous grin angled her way. Couldn't he see that she was miserable? Being cold and achy had really sucked the joy out of everything, even her biting sarcasm didn't make her feel better. Right now, Zuriel was the only one who seemed to understand, and the leopardess appreciated the unicorn's morals.
Deimos still sat nearby, silent until he settled on his answer. And she wasn't surprised, but it still made her sink a little. Nobody could really help in this situation, like he said she was on her own, living life in a snow globe. She wondered briefly if Deimos had ever seen her sulk, so often she was on her feet, giving hearty speeches and fighting with blazing resolve. This was a different aspect of her personality, the part that was inclined to crawl into a shell and internalize all the pain.
Distraction was possibly the best course of action, the request for a story brought her gaze away from the crackling fire. She'd told stories of her home world before, but nothing too personal. Delving into her memories might help ease the torment of the present, and so she turned to face him. Still a bit hesitant and still with a pulsing pressure in her forehead, she sighed.
"Okay," she started, withdrawing her hands from the unicorns mane and the leg of the chair to place them on the table and lean on her elbows. "Where I'm from, everyone is a shifter. We don't have 'accepted' or 'abandoned' and definitely no robovamps. Just everyone and their one animal."
"My kingdom was ruled by the Khai, leopard shifters. First ever battle I saw was a skirmish between our people and the Khan, the tiger clan. Border skirmish broke out, as they do, and I get sent there as back up." she grimaced, reaching up to massage a circle at her jaw. "By the time my unit gets there, Khan have the village burning to the ground."
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Perhaps misery loved company; but he had no intention of crawling down into that space with her. Melancholic for seasons, where he’d been inexplicably drowning for multitudes of passing days, weeks, and months, he’d struggled and strived to rise above the tides of agony, depression, and anguish – and had no intentions of sauntering into the siren song, the allure, the spell, of breaking apart.
But he’d stay there with her – because he knew what it meant, to suffer, to be tormented, to be smothered, contorted, and scalded into those pieces.
Elbows on the table, head in his hands, drink by his arm, he listened – the story weaving its way through the barracks’ parlor, pieces of the past, little revelations, he hadn’t known. And though Deimos kept his stories and mythos under tight, entrenched trappings, he could only vaguely recall some of Aisha’s – so he tilted his head, taking it in, absorbing what she had to offer and share.
No abandoned, no defined lines of who held what – similar to that of Helovia, where nearly all of them had been immersed with incantations. He smirked, snorted, at the notion of ‘robovamps’, and then strived to envision this world of leopard shifters, the Khai, between tigers, the Khan. His eyes narrowed at her grimace, at the notions of something else conforming – and sure enough, a village burned to the ground. Then she ceased, so he gently prodded. “What did you do?” How did they react?
The Sword knew how Basiners would’ve responded. Were they of similar ilks? Or were there other factions, other motivations, other designs, plots, and plans from worlds beyond?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Fire was a constant thing, everywhere she went there was a flame, lighting and warming and being the sun. And every fire was different, blazing brighter or dimmer, licking the air softly or ecstatic. It took on many shapes, but in essence was all the same mixture of gasses and elemental energy. But the fire that formed in her memories was not like the others at all. It swallowed, chewed at skin and turned homes to soot. This was another beast entirely.
And the memory of it eased the pain for a moment, a resentment so hot that it replaced the fever. "The Khan retreated after they'd finished, I wanted so bad to watch them burn instead," she huffed, "but my regiment was sent to protect, not give chase. So I went in and tried to find survivors. There weren't many, but we took them back to the capital as refugees." Aisha's bitterness devolved, a child took form, grasping tight to her fingers.
"They were so grateful, they adored us. But it didn't feel like we deserved it, I hadn't saved them all you know," she leaned back out off her elbows, "I always pictured myself killing that Khan captain who had raided the village, things don't really turn out the way you want." She took another swig from the glass Deimos had so generously prepared. The drink was not so generous, it was just a tasteless ice water that seemed to freeze in her mouth before going down.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos could understand the temptation of wanting to give chase to enemies. How many times had he defended, shielded, and protected, but because of his unyielding, unwavering stance over those fallen, he couldn’t rampage after the true adversaries? Sometimes the opportunity came later. Sometimes he carved the occasion himself, calculating and ruthless, bellowing and howling into the void to strike it down. Picking and choosing the right moment, the right meaning, the right weapon, the right regard; lofty, weighted decisions that had plagued his mind as soldier, General, Lord, and then warrior again.
The aspects of refugees had him nodding – watching as she altered out of the rancor for a moment, as she didn’t give into the chafing, endless cold. And the ending statement, the puncturing trace, had his eyes falling to the table, piercing gaze contemplating as it ran over the wooden surface, along the entanglements of knots and gnarls. “They do not.” For all their actions, the results still might not come out in their favor. One could have the most compassionate regard in their minds, and still, the instant might have gone unnoticed, hastening no fortune; only the feral platitudes of something else gone awry.
He took a swallow of the alcohol, let it burn along his mouth, down his throat, the essence of warmth sliding down, gaze finally lifting back up to hers. “So what happened instead?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Deimos knew how she felt, vengeance always came from a place of trauma, of rage. And those are things you cannot forget, so how could you forget and forgive your desire for retribution? How could she leave behind that memory, of the child who's parents were nowhere to be found, and the name of the one who had caused it? Even worlds away she still wondered if they'd gotten what they deserved.
What happened instead? Aisha scoffed, placing her glass back on the tabletop, "Politics. Apparently everything up top got worked out so there was 'no harm done, no vengeance required'. And since I'm here I guess it will stay that way." If she'd ever been queen, risen to the rank she was born for, and taken the army as her own; well who really knows what she might've done.
And maybe it was nicer that the responsibility was no longer hers. That she was here, just a Shield, not a warlord. Here that might never be a worry at all, she could hope.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Retribution and retaliation was one of the single-most tempting, enticing things in his battle-forged mind. To return the punishments, to assault in similar, awe-inspiring assailments, to lay siege and waste to those who’d dared. Sometimes it was feasible. Sometimes it wasn’t. The latter was the most disappointing – because for all the rage, for all the fury, for all the might instilled in the fabric of their everyday lives, it could amount to nothing. How many hours had he traced the compound of his kingdoms, of his fortresses, training, guarding, shielding, ensuring those within his ranks were ready, capable, and able? Only for it to fall flat?
He snorted in response to politics; scraping his drink across the table, back and forth between his palms. The Sword didn’t do well in diplomacy either – preferences eternally inclining towards waged bombardments. But he’d still signed peace treaties, when it had been for the good of his own. When they couldn’t do anything else. When there was naught more to be committed, acted upon, when their heads were weary and their lives were drawn across battlefields with no end in sight. When stalemates coiled and the inevitable sunk between bones.
The beast had no talent for it. Never an orchestrator of words, of little turns of phrase to appeal and impact a crowd, a forum, a council. He was action, and then silence. The motions, the movements, the presence, often did the speaking for him.
There was a sigh embedded somewhere amidst her words, the way the vengeance would never play out, the way it was cut short by other methods, means, and motives. “What would you have done?” A chance, an opportunity, to unleash her plans – even if it couldn’t become tangible measures.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
