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 looked back up at him from where she'd been watching the liquid in her glass. What would she have done? Her eyes narrowed just a bit, if not from the thought than from the headache that pulsed at her temples. Had she stayed, not been stolen away to other lands and other wars, would she have exacted her revenge? Or would she have left the treaties in place, kept the 'peace' with the Khan and watched them raze other lands?
It came down to what she wanted most. To spare her kingdom more bloodshed, or to be the lionhearted queen who would not stand to be taken advantage of.
"There would be no treaties if I was in charge, I would've had that captain brought to me on a platter," she replied, taking another swig of the drink, finishing it with a sigh. Her answer might change, fluctuate with her mood. For now, as she sat here cursed and angry, she focused all her frustration into the face of that captain, his stripes and swords, and she imagined him dead.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
In normal parameters, there wasn’t satisfaction in treaties. In alliances. In armistices. And while one could claim their people were safe for another day, what truly ceased the enemies and adversaries from stopping entirely? Not a piece of paper, with signatures scrawled across the document. Death. Imprisonment. Something else to desist, to ensure others wouldn’t follow suit. How many times had he hunted down another, only for the rest of the world yearning for their survival? How many times had he yearned to press his blade a little harder, straight into the heart, the chest, the lungs? How many times had he simply not been stopped?
And then more and more circumstances; a spiral, a labyrinth, a conjecture. Possibilities fragmented and gone, wiped out, for another to take its place. Because there was always something, somewhere, rising and snaking around like an asp, waiting for their opportunity to strike.
Deimos took another swallow, polishing off the rest of his drink, letting the glass sit on the table while his fingers drummed against it once more. Quiet and methodical, mulling and musing, eyes going to Zuriel, who still angled along Aisha’s shoulder, content for the moment. “You can always recreate him as a target.” A little cathartic, trying to instill some measure of humor into the breadth of the chill. “It is not the same,” and he knew, for it wasn’t reality. “But sometimes it is nice to feel a measure of it coming to fruition.” A shrug followed, incapable of doing anything else for her.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
The response from the general did bring some humor to her face. She hadn't realized that she'd been clenching her jaw, that it'd only made the headache worse. Anger would do that to you, pull you somewhere destructive that you're hardly aware of. Zuriel brushed against her shoulder, reminding her that she was still there for comfort, and the child from her memories let her go for just a moment, letting her relax into the present.
"I think I'm done with targets, for a while," she chuckled, sickness in her throat scratching as she did. Back before the curse, when Deepfrost wasn't so constant in her body, they'd partied and celebrated. They'd painted and been so warm. She'd made her enemy target a rival, not a true enemy. She wasn't sure if creating him would've been the best idea, emotional memories dredged up and tossed about. She'd rather see the owl.
"What was your target?" she asked, turning to him now for anecdotes, if he was willing.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He laughed in response, light, not so heavy, not so cumbersome, not so weighted down by the angles of before or after. He toyed with his glass some more, considered refilling it, but by way of memories and their target painting, it was left empty. There would be other days, other moments, other measures where amusement and enjoyment could fill the halls again. They had to merely hunker down, bide their time, remain in their isolated juncture for a few weeks more (and pretend, in the back of his mind somewhere, that LongNight wasn’t a dreadful wake possibly consuming some of his brethren).
The Sword didn’t expect the inquiry to be launched back upon him – anything else he’d altered and shared previously had been by way of distraction. His fingers drummed once more upon the glass, before he kept shifting it in between his hands; stifling some measure of vehemence at the thought of the target’s face, painted from beyond in the other rooms and grounds. He hadn’t gone to maul her yet. Perhaps he needed the right motivation, the right goal in mind, to finally spin her head clean off her neck, her shoulders. The beast leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the table, not lifting, settling the smile off and away, replacing it with only an edge of a furrowed brow. “Confutatis.” The last syllables were nearly hissed. She likely would enjoy the notion that she still weighed on his mind years and lives down the road, a vengeance unfulfilled. “She had a group that targeted our kingdom. Kept trying to take the children.”
And he’d rampaged and shadowed and tailed the little dastardly creatures in his way. He didn’t want to imagine what she would’ve done with them, had her claws sunk in and her methods been pressed. “I defeated her, but never had the opportunity to kill her.” To put that final nail in the coffin, to watch her bleed out and die before his eyes. A life faded and gone and done. “Eventually, she disappeared.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
It was funny how much history a word could hold, a name that mingled with hatred so much that it must be spat from your lips. Aisha watched as Deimos pushed the name away, Confutatis, as though it were just as evil as the being themself. He explained who she was, she sounded similarly cruel to Aisha's own foe. He told her how they'd fought, and that he'd never gotten the opportunity to finish her off. She nodded, to revenge abandoned like dust.
Thinking about the way he'd told the story, a question came to mind. Her fingers found their way into the soft hairs of Zuriel's mane, she exhaled a puff of cold smoke as she asked, "Were you a general back in your world too? Or something like that," he seemed to be the spearhead of all the ventures he shared, not a simple warrior. The responsibility that weighed in his words were those of someone with decisions to make and vendettas to carry through.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Breadths and breaths released, and then he pondered over refilling the glass again. Instead, something like a snort rumbled through him. Zuriel’s gaze landed along his features, and he could feel the weight of her stare, but shrugged that off too, brows furrowing all the more, features collecting themselves back together. He eventually dropped the glass, left it alone and vacant on the table, arms coming to rest on the sides of the chair, head lifting, gaze landing somewhere over the hearth.
Zuriel leaned heavily on Aisha’s shoulder, providing and presiding, while Deimos’ mind wandered. “First a soldier,” as if he’d ever be anything but – trained and honed and lifting a blade into the enemy without any semblance or sense of guilt. “Then General.” A few of his most coveted, prized moments, rising through the ranks, stretching out across the battlefield, rampaging, unleashing, unfurling until there was nothing left. “And then Lord.” But the end statement felt tired and fatigued; and they’d both be able to see the patterns there, the cyclical means he’d seemingly encountered again and again, no matter how he’d tried to avoid it. He had no intention of keeping this title though – the Warden mantle wouldn’t rest on his shoulders for long. The beast would keep his promise, and hopefully Morgan would do the same.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
So he'd risin, not likely given his titles by birthright. From soldier to general to lord, some sort of nobility pulled from his victories. Aisha had never been just a soldier, in fact her titles were reversed. First a princess, then a captain, destined to be general, and now- soldier. It was almost cynically humorous, but not enough to reach her eyes. Instead it sat in the pout on her lips.
The pressure on her shoulder was welcome, she glanced up to the unicorn and all her kind glory. Regal and maybe a little stuck up (if unicorns could be that) but she was by far Aisha's favorite companion, and favored over many of the humans she'd met. It was off topic, shifting from their usual chatter about pasts and titles and blades and bone, "Where did you find her?" she asked, wiping her nose with her free arm before settling that hand back in her lap.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
No commentary on the subject matter was probably best – the justifications of actions, the reason why he loathed leading in the first place, the pressure and weight on his shoulders, the amount of responsibility tied and tethered to his spine.
That the attention deviated to Zuriel was all the glory the unicorn required. Her haughty head raised ever so slightly; if the equine was capable of smirking, she would’ve done so, openly and with a batting of her eyes. Regal and ever-impressive, Deimos couldn’t deny the imperial nature. She’d had it from the very beginning, and continued to earn it well into their bond. “That is a story.” The light smile returned, an air of fondness extended towards the mare, who’d somehow managed to keep him, and many others, alive and whole more times than he could count. “Saved her from a landshark.” A simplified version perhaps, but then he leaned forward again, arms on the table, the glass forgotten once more.
Near death himself, dragging his vessel along towards the closest shrine, calling for Safrin to save those remaining in the Spire. “I had been wounded from a previous misadventure,” and he snorted, because that mere statement encompassed a multitude of errors and scars and heartache. “And when I came through the Fields, she was being chased. I went to intercept. Nearly lost my arm.” Stripped down, bone for bone and muscle for muscle. “My sword took care of the landshark, and Zuriel took care of me.” Healed, mended, soothed. "And then she stayed.” Bonded, thoughts (of which she had many) shared, trust keen, and far easier to understand than the connections forged, then cut and slashed and torn apart. “I owe her a lot.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
The lighter subject seemed to please the unicorn, as well as the man. Aisha's finger's followed the mare as she raised her head, the woman kept them intertwined with the soft hair. Despite the ache in her face muscles and the jab at her temples, the cold the engulfed her, she smiled.
A landshark, at first glance they were menacing and violent, but Amun's little companion wasn't so bad. She imagined Zuriel, surrounded by a swarm of gnashing teeth, and then Deimos coming in to save her. Another smile, fondness did somehow warm her. "Get a room you two," she teased, "I guess if I had a companion like her I'd probably be just as mushy."
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He snorted at the comment first, then permitted one round of laughter – a deep rumble meant to fill the room. A shake of his head followed, and Zuriel seemed to presume the same, teeth going for some portion of Aisha’s hair, snagging at it with a tease. The monolith resented the notion of being called mushy, but allowed it to pass without comment, another shrug undulating through his shoulders. He’d only been truthful – the mare had kept him alive on occasions where he should’ve been perished, gone, and vanquished. She'd done the same for many others.
So while Zuriel set out to irritate or amuse Aisha, he tilted his head, lost in some quiet thought again. Without the drink to distract him, he could only air on the side of calculating, pondering, eventually settling his eyes back upon the being doomed to be cold for the rest of the season. The subject matter of bonded individuals and animals could continue to be a distraction and deterrent from her otherwise morose conjectures, so Deimos prompted. “What would you want for a companion?” If she’d had a choice, with circumstances and moments aligning.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
02-24-2021, 02:43 PM (This post was last modified: 02-24-2021, 02:48 PM by Aisha.)
AISHA
good lava, we all know you wanna
The laughter that echoed in the hall was comforting, she even let her own voice mingle with it as Zuriel's teeth found her curls. She pulled away until there was no more shrinkage to uncoil and the unicorn had to let go, then the curls bounced back to their usual pattern. She could tell mushy wasn't his favorite descriptor, but that only made it better. If there was anyone who she felt the need to tease, it was her friends.
His question brought a furrow to Aisha's brow, she hadn't thought about her own companion. It'd just never really occurred to her that she could have one too, though it seemed obvious. There were so many options, and she wasn't super picky, "I don't know, that's a toughy." She reached up to comb her fingers lightly through the now soggy bits of blonde fluff, "There are so many different animals here than we had back on my world, I haven't seen enough to choose."
She paused as the cold settled back in, "And monsters, and spirits."
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
Bemused for the moment, Zuriel watched as the curls bounced and bounded back from her torment, and then maneuvered to Aisha’s other side, intending to occupy the opposing shoulder. Deimos watched the entire spectacle with an arch of his brow and the shake of his head, but if it kept the cursed one occupied, indifferent, or content, rather than sitting and settling into the ominous chill, then he wouldn’t warn the mare off.
Then he waited, entirely habitual and routine to do so, immersed in the layers of silence. The man could’ve been quiet for lifetimes, and had been on many occasions, still and waiting, for movement, for motion, for unraveling. But such wasn’t the case in these interludes – banter and affability in the otherwise turbulent world, and he merely sat in the conclusion of thoughts and parameters, as she gave over to options. The Sword might’ve made a comment about her lacking any impulsivity in this regard – no impetuous reign or obvious choice. “Sometimes it just happens.” Nothing more than a moment to make a decision, to come face to face with the semblance of bonds scorching and blazing through – acceptance, monumental regard for a creature slipping in amongst one’s soul.
At the mention of demons, infidels, cretins and creatures of otherworldly expanse, he barked another laugh. “And what monsters have you already seen?” Besides the human aspects – for he’d seen plenty of both.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Zuriel moved to Aisha's other shoulder, occupying herself with the hair there. It was another nice distraction from her flu, the aches and shivers. She carefully gathered back her hair as they spoke, pulling strands and clumps away from the unicorn even as she teethed on more. She nodded to his comment, sometimes things just end up a certain way. Her mind wandered again, and she added, "I loved Jigano's little thing, Isuma." I hope he's doing well, wherever he ventured.
And then to the monsters, the things that'd plagued her mind these past weeks. Sure, she hadn't been on the front lines with any longnight horrors, she'd only ever squared up against the wild things. But having recently delved into the myths and legends, she'd come to the conclusion that a guild like Kiada had spoken about might be a good thing to bring back. She scowled at what she assumed was a playful tease, "Alright I personally haven't been in terrible danger."
"But I've heard stories, you have plenty," she gestured to the sword, who'd been in Caido far longer than her own year. "Kiada talked to me about the old monster hunter's guild," she started, knowing he was involved, hoping he might have something to add.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
While Zuriel continued to stoke some haughty, obnoxious behavior, the Sword’s brows furrowed briefly at the mention of Jigano. The Sage hadn’t been a topic he’d thought about much, not since Ludo declared his wish to fulfill Kiada’s quest essentially in void, due to the lack of a specific lantern. They’d either embarked on a steady truce and armistice, or been at odds with one another on various things – mostly centered around inaction and the nature of consequences. When there was something to be done, Jigano always seemed to settle into excuses rather than the value of exploits and undertaking. But Deimos had nothing against Isuma, save for her unfortunate choice in companions, and he retained the fixtures of stoicism – refilling his drink with a few gilded incantations, a sweep of his hand. “A griffin.” He figured the once-loreseeker was off with Rory somewhere, not partaking in the angles of anguish they so often revisited.
Then the monolith smirked, slightly, at her admittance. “I do.” A line of emblems and stories from the past years – from whatever had been concealed in the cave (where he almost died), to the craven insects in the Spire (where he almost died; the patterns weren’t subtle in early days of outreach and ignorance), to recent excursions amongst sea panthers (felled by his hand) or the leviathan (somehow snagged by Tanau again). But Aisha didn’t ask for them, so he left that open to her lanes of curiosity.
Instead, the topic drifted to the Monster Hunter’s Guild. He’d only gone out on several adventures with them – especially in the underground, combatting R.O.U.’s and finding Emmett lost amongst the labyrinthine stone. However, he’d also been the one to burn the last down, to take it to the earth as the monsters crawled within, and then to refurbish the newer. “Did she intend to restart it here?” A sip of his drink followed; for he hadn’t heard.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
