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!
Blood still stains the bottom of their dressing gown, tainting the simple woven threads from white to blackened ruby. Though their horse is no shining pearl, it carries them loyally through the Sanctuary, plodding along the debris-strewn streets as if the young creature’s weight is meaningless atop its spine. It very well could be with how petite they are. A product of starvation and deficiency in every way. Ghostlike and luminescent beneath the waning moon.
Pale eyes like shards of winter glass cut across the Sanctuary, watching silently for any signs of life. The timing could not be more perfect. They seek those who dwell away from the sun. It is merely a small blessing that their father deigned to end his life in the weaning hours before twilight. The last gift he could give his sole surviving heir. If only he knew their lineage would die before the night was out.
Pulling gently on the reins to stop their steed, Ophelia turns their head toward movement between the buildings. Here there are more candles in windows, ruins fixed up into proper dwellings - or what passes for proper in the Grounds. “I seek an Ascended,” they call quietly into the night, as they have a few points along this path. Any non-Ascended have merely continued on or sent them further into town, but it does not dissuade Ophelia. They will find what they seek no matter how long it takes.
With your naive heart you praise God above But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
04-03-2021, 11:23 AM (This post was last modified: 04-03-2021, 04:43 PM by Aamu.)
Aamu
A snowstorm blew inside a wolf's eyes
And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides
His clock is Mabel, or when she is missing, a hand stretched into the world beyond as he waits for his skin to blister. As a consequence his left hand is wrapped in bandages to keep it from further abuse as he drifts through the night. In his right is a rod with which he sweeps the ground ahead of him, moon-glazed eyes open out of habit. Despite his blindness his braid is neatly done.
He moves carefully between the houses, heading for the main street were the thud of hooves has rung. Now they are silent, but not gone, so Aamu presses on.
A voice calls out into the dark, quiet to match the hour.
He doesn't know it. Doesn't respond yet. Just keeps on walking, the night punctuated by the rustling sweep of his feeling rod. It whispers of debris, clicks against stone.
Then he steps into the moonlight, washed in silver. He tries to remember from where she had called, listens for the flick of a tail, the sound of breathing, the creak of tack—anything to guide him towards the horse, until he feels close enough. Carefully he tilts his head back, seeing nothing but darkness through the white-out of his pupils. "Which one?" he asks softly of the stranger.
Gosh that beautiful opener was so wasted on my blind bat x''D
But then the time got by and the wolf died
And someday that wolf would be I
Their steed is no familiar companion, a working creature more than an emotional tie, but here they are together in the moonlit streets. A fated pair. As such, Ophelia gives the horse his fair share of attention and respect, and when twin peaked ears swivel in the dark towards something Ophelia cannot personally hear.
The clicking of something against stone echoes strangle across dilapidated brick and stone. It reminds them of the bats in the barn, chittering odd echoing noises to one another in the twilight. Eerie blues scan the long clustered shadows, but once the newcomer is in sight there is no denying their presence; pale hair is radiant beneath the moon overhead, alabaster skin a beacon in the darkness. In this they are the same. Ophelia watches with keen eyes, not daring to be hopeful until they have come close enough to pause and speak. Only then does their heart rabbit, useless human pulse betraying optimism.
A long-fingered hand strokes the horse’s neck as it shies slightly from the man. “Any who will guide me to The Voice,” they murmur, as if physically incapable of raising their voice any higher. Still, it is projected as much as they can, watchful eyes peering down from their perch and noting the inherent blindness of their potential savior. If their voice can be a guide, perhaps they can be of use to one another. “I wish to become bright.” Here there is an uncharacteristic ache of emotion present in their voice. A desperation, a longing. They have waited so long to be free of their shackles, and the blood on their dress and flaking off bare feet is the last chain broken at last.
With your naive heart you praise God above But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
A snowstorm blew inside a wolf's eyes
And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides
He yearns to reach out, to touch the wary animal, run his hands (cold fingers) over soft fur and strong, warm muscles (not that he remembers temperature, anyway). But the horse moves restlessly as he approaches, so Aamu doesn't press.
He doesn't know what he's expecting, or why he's even here. These are treacherous times and he is more vulnerable than ever, yet he answers the call of a stranger, not seeing if they come with knives or smiles. There's nothing but their voice and their horse and the unending darkness around them.
He doesn't like the feeling creeping through his flesh, this wary distrust.
"Of course." Then— "Why?" He does not want to dissuade them, does not want to judge them, for he is delighted to hear they wish to become bright. It is a welcome respite—but the world is full of broken creatures and Ascension will not fix them.
So he asks, gentle and curious.
But then the time got by and the wolf died
And someday that wolf would be I
Ophelia doesn't know if the horse is stressed more by the long shadows and eerie presence of echoes over stone, or if it's the Ascended man himself. Do they fear them somehow? Sense their biological wrongness? It's a disappointing thought, but nothing can dissuade them from their path. Not even the inquiry posed by the man standing still and willowy below them.
His blindness is more than apparent, which does not bother Ophelia in any way, though it does present an ironically-amusing hurdle. He cannot see the blood, the unnatural thinness of their wrists and gaunt cheeks, the tired and drab nature of the steed between her legs. He cannot see the physical evidence of the life they seek to escape from.
"The last of my family has ended his own life," their sonorous voice sings softly, prim and unaffected. "I am free of their shackles. Free of their oppressive, misguided devotion to the Old Gods who abandoned us." Their downy, breathy voice finds vehemence here, a fire that smolders beneath the gauzy veil of their being. Composure comes on the next breath, rabbiting heart receding back to its normal rhythm. Still as an untouched lake once more. "I have waited many years for this moment. I will not waste a moment more."
Their pale head tilts, strawberry-blonde tresses cascading over the porcelain skin of their bared shoulder. "You can ride with me, if you like. It is not your eyes I need, but your mind. We are to be family after all." A family far more strongly bonded than the one blood had afforded her.
With your naive heart you praise God above But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
A snowstorm blew inside a wolf's eyes
And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides
He cannot see them, but he can hear them: the soft, ethereal voice falls like whispers in the night, yet some of their words bite like the lash of a whip. Edged in fire, quenched in cold water, hardened and sharp. He does not flinch, and does not believe they mean to rebuke him, but he wonders still who they are, to speak in such a hush and yet make him feel so chastised.
(He thinks they may be a little broken, and he worries privately that ascension will not be the salvation they seek, but the choice is not his to make.)
It somehow seems inappropriate to offer his condolences when they do not speak fondly of their dead kin. Aamu bows his head in silent agreement, carefully approaching the horse. Feels his way along its flank to where its rider sits, and with their help he soon sits behind them. And he is cold to the touch, like something dead, so different from their body. He can feel their heartbeat as he wraps his arms around them for stability.
"Ride for the underground," he says by her ear, once more the guide.
But then the time got by and the wolf died
And someday that wolf would be I
His silence is remedial, a far cry from their father’s harsh words and long bouts of rages and wailings. They have no way of knowing his thoughts, of defending their choice, but Ophelia has been quietly stalwart in their devotion most of their life. What is another few hours?
Their touch is gentle, and does not shy away from the chill of Aamu’s skin. What little strength they possess is given freely to help hoist him upon the horse, which stands quiet and complacent, well-trained and desensitized from years of farm work. Only when the yet-unnamed man is perched behind them does Ophelia wrap their arms overtop his own where they curl around a thin waist. Holding and embracing freely in return. They were not exaggerating with how they perceive the Ascended after all - he is their first brother, and as such is already cherished. Such is the way of their intrinsic faith.
Directions given, Ophelia squeezes heels against the horse’s sides, redirecting towards the Underground. As the click of hooves on stones resumes, Ophelia slightly turns their head, only enough to better hear the man behind them. “My name is Ophelia,” they offer, still sweet but not at all bashful. “Can you tell me yours? And, if you may, tell me what The Voice is like in person? I have dreamed of her for so long, there is no nervousness within me, but I would appreciate your impression.” To categorize and memorize if nothing else, as is their way.
With your naive heart you praise God above But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
A snowstorm blew inside a wolf's eyes
And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides
They are much too thin: starved flesh and bone held together by hope. He can feel it through their gown, the slender waist, the ribs, in the sharpness of the shoulder against which his head rests. Feather-light, starved on tradition and nourished by faith. It is like holding silk and swords in his arms.
Hair brushes by his face and Aamu raises his head, moon-blind eyes peering in the direction of their soft voice. How they can sound both so direct and so sweet baffles him, but on a night like this it seems best not to question. "I am Aamu," he says, gentle, wondering what has them so ardently devoted to a goddess they have never met. What stories were they told, what dreams did they have?
(He misses feeling warmth: warm skin, warm blood, the warmth of the horse beneath him. He wants to rest in the sun and soak up the heat of their body.)
"She is..." I have not spoken to her in three hundred years. "Remarkable." All you need.
The words to describe her doesn't fit within his mouth. They're all somehow slightly the wrong shape. "To borrow the words of another Ascended I asked that question: wonderful. Analytical but compassionate, logical without being cold." His false breath stirs their hair as he pauses. Thinks. Takes the plunge, anyway; asks gently from between his sharp teeth. "How come you are so devoted to her?" You, who are not Ascended yet. You, who have been raised among the followers of the Old Gods. What made you fall in love with the enemy?
But then the time got by and the wolf died
And someday that wolf would be I
His voice is chorus and melody to their own, soft and unassuming. Kindred spirits finding each other in the lonely hours of twilight. “Aamu,” they repeat wondrously, committing each curve and shape of syllable and intonation to memory as if it is scripture. “I am honored to meet you.” The first of their new brethren, and the golden string that forms between them is all the more beautiful and inimitable for it.
Remarkable. It seems so small a word, but even Aamu seems incapable of defining her. It’s far from a dissuasion - aren’t all the greatest things incapable of being bound to paltry things like words? Expanding beyond the boundaries of human expression. What Aamu is capable of transcribing for their ears is assurance enough of that which they have already held private and precious in their chest. A guarded chest that opens as if never locked the moment his gentle inquiry stirs her flaxen hair. There are no secrets Ophelia intends to keep from their new family. Their life of hiding and silence is over even while their heart still beats.
“Humanity is a beautifully flawed concept,” their serene voice starts instead, more a spinner of tales than a conversationalist. “We are capable of such emotional extremes. We are unique down to our bones, capable of incredible adaptability and perseverance. Famine, drought, injury, heartbreak, evolution...there is little we cannot overcome.” Their fingers idly drift to the wiry mane of their mount, beginning to braid as their crooning tones cocoon around the two wandering souls. “And yet...we are also capable of great feats of cruelty. And our lives are so short, our suffering so great. We may break in ways no creature should recover from, and yet live onward in our anguish. Cruelty is a human invention, one of many vices no other animal is capable of. And we were made that way intentionally by the Gods who bid us to worship them.”
Turning slightly so they can twist their head to gaze at the corner of Aamu’s face, Ophelia lays a hand overtop the cold, smooth skin of his own. “They were trapped here with us for hundreds of years. Us and them alone in our prison, no distractions, no alternate plans. And they let us suffer as we crawled pitifully on our knees for their love, their gifts and powers that could have saved us. We suffered the weight of their scorn for being born in the faded image of an enemy they only continued to foster with their distrust. Yet our souls were claimed all the same, proprietary in death and heedless of the abandonment we faced in life. As the crops withered, the animals ceased to birth, the families grew desperate in their prayers...we were never spared. Never saved.” Their eyes go distant for all Aamu cannot see it, a tide of memories overtaking them in distant, lulling waves. “The Voice...she saw that the Old Gods has created us with inherent flaws meant to make us malleable. She found a way to live free, independent. To never hurt again, never feel the pang of starvation or the furious hand of a desperate father. She offered us all a key to our shackles, but never forced it into our hands.” Ophelia finishes the braid in their fingertips, and tilts their head to the moonlit Sky. Smiles and closes their eyes as if they can feel the light caressing their skin. “I have seen the worst of the world she seeks to fix. Experienced all that she has promised an escape from, that the Old Gods never could. I have heard of her love, her acceptance of our inherent uniqueness. How can I not be devoted to her?” Even with their long winded answer, their voice never goes hoarse, soft and measured the whole way through. An inherent gift perhaps considering their near muteness growing up on the farm.
With your naive heart you praise God above But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
