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!
The bar is called Kickback, but Ronin's not sure whether it's ever been used for bribes. It's got good booze and a live band every Friday night though, and that's enough for him. Well, mainly the band is enough for him, and it has nothing to do with the music.
He's finished work for the day and come straight here, still streaked with a bit of oil and in his bike leathers. The bike itself will not be driven tonight, regardless of how tempting it might be to scream at high speeds while out of his mind, and the keys have been left at the garage to remove temptation altogether.
So Ronin steps in and heads straight for the counter, where he sits and orders two drinks. Either they're both for him, or one is for someone else. Whichever that turns out to be remains entirely up to fate.
It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses, So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
He checks his phone before doing a line of something that goes down with practiced ease. The lights of the green room begin to sparkle and blur out, dulling the urge to check his phone again. He's got a two-minute warning from the stage guy, and the rest of the band are already on their toes going through their pre-show rituals. Given that he's already rubbed one out in the bathroom and chased down the unsatisfying ripples of his orgasm with both powder and liquid, Remi is about as ready as he'll ever be. Ready enough for a show at a bar, anyway.
He can't help it though; Just checking the time, he tells himself, as he taps at the screen. Three little words appear, but not the ones anyone wants to see. No New Messages. But it's fine. It's fine; the music of the opening act is already beginning to shiver in his veins as the drugs and alcohol light him on fire. No time to worry about a pretty pair of blue eyes, now.
His band, Sunset Patrol, takes the stage to drunken applause. With the lights blaring in his eyes it's impossible to distinguish anyone in the crowd, which is as much of a blessing as it is a curse. It keeps him looking for one fact in particular, and then subsequently blinding himself as he takes a seat on a stool in the center of the stage.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
The lights dim and the crowd bursts into riotous and drunken applause and Ronin puts down his third drink (the other two have fallen victim to fidgeting hands and a dry throat) to turn and watch the proceedings. His phone is tucked away in a pocket best not looked for given how snugly his leathers sit on his hips, and he absently walks a coin across his knuckles before someone walks on the stage that he recognises very well indeed.
It was only one night - one messy hookup, one maybe I'll see you at the bar, one instance of finding another man's t-shirt balled up in his bag when he got home - but once is enough, as it happens. And so, deciding against the sudden urge to go out front and sneak a cigarette through this opening set, Ronin settles in to watch.
It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses, So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
The drugs help. They help everything. They make bearable the shitty guitar licks his fingers are forced to play, help him smile through the pre-show photo-ops, and even now, they help him focus despite the way his eyes are searching and his mind is on the verge of forgetting his own words. He's living his dream, (arguably), and yet instead of enjoying the moment, his eyes are scanning through the crowd. One girl throws her bra at him, which is probably some sort of metric his manager will be keeping track of. As he sings the words I hesitate to think the ocean holds a candle to your eyes, he sweeps his eyes across the girls in the front row as he's been told to. They gush, and he forces a smile around the words he continues to sing.
But the line wasn't written about them.
After the first set Remi and the band return to the greenroom where some stale sandwiches have been left out. Living the dream. Grabbing one, then thinking better of it and grabbing another, the alchemist slips out the backdoor into the alley. Turning his collar up against the wind, Remi puts a cigarette between his lips and fumbles with his lighter. Inside the bar has turned on some top 40s bullshit that has his head pounding already and makes him wonder why he's even here, if that's the sort of stuff the people inside prefer to listen to.
Finally he gets his cigarette to light, leaving him to wonder why he grabbed an extra sandwich instead of another drink.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Yeesh, but it's not Ronin's vibe. Wrinkling his nose and turning back to the bar (but keeping one eye on the band, because the music is absolutely not the thing he's interested in), he's only vaguely aware that the bartender is hitting on him when she slides her number beneath the next drink he receives. The smile he flashes her makes his eyes look like glass, and he tucks away the number. She's not bad looking, and so he might go home with her later.
Or he might not. Who knows?
The first set ends and Ronin abandons his barstool to head out for that promised cigarette, fishing in his pocket for his phone along the way. His legs haven't informed his brain yet that they're getting kind of buzzed, and so when he shoulders past some guy with a too clean shirt and a tattoo of a bunch of Chinese characters that probably means "angry soup" or some shit, it's obviously his fault.
"Watch your fucking step," he mutters, pushing open the door and slouching against the wall around the side of the building. Head down against the wind, he sparks up with an old Zippo, then turns his attention to his phone.
Finding the number he's looking for, he smiles around the cigarette and sends a swift message.
04-12-2021, 10:46 PM (This post was last modified: 04-12-2021, 10:50 PM by Odd.)
It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses, So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
Still lamenting the drink he didn't bring with him, the jolt of adrenaline that's caused by the buzz in his pocket is nearly enough to send his cigarette tumbling from his lips. It's probably Vai, he tells himself silently, already bracing for the disappointment should he turn out to be right.
One New Message.
From: hallwayguy (followed by an eggplant emoji).
Remi's cheeks flush and suddenly the drugs in his system seem entirely ineffective compared to this new thrill.
Was the bra your size?
It's a good thing there is no one in the dark alley because the way Remi smiles down at his phone is as goofy as it is tickled pink. Tapping his food on the concrete, it's time for the charming musician to put some of his lyrical wit into a text. No problem.
Only...fuck. What should he say? The old who's this?, so that he might seem cool and unavailable like the superstar he's meant to be? Maybe he could come up with a good one-liner like, why, you want it back? (was that a good line?), or how about why don't you come and tell me yourself. (what if the hallway guy thought he was a crossdresser?) "Fuck sake." Remi hisses under his breath.
"Abruzzo! Get your ass on stage."
Shit. Never good under pressure, Remi defaults to his resting state of bad dad jokes and before he has time to realize what a bad idea it is, he replies: Nah, but it'll make a good mammary."
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
And so it is that the contact Ronin has labelled bandcamp (followed by a trumpet emoji) lives up to his nerdy namesake, leaving him a little perplexed but also vaguely amused, in a huh, okay sort of way. Someone hisses something out into the alleyway, but by the time Ronin looks up he’s alone again. Drawing on his cigarette, he takes his time to reply accordingly, though whenever bandcamp will get a chance to see it is beyond him.
As good as the one from the other night?
Then it’s time to finish his smoke and get back to the bar, where he supposes he can ignore the twee guitar solos and toddler-on-sugar energy of the songs to admire the green eyes and tousled curls of a man who apparently has all the wit of a bus ticket.
It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses, So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
Cool and musician might go together in sitcoms and teen dramas, but in the real world, all that time spent honing one's craft usually meant you got a pass in the you're awkward, bud department. If you were any good, anyway. And Remi was. So too was his inability to be cool over texts. And in real life as we'll see, but that's for later. Remi's phone is in his pocket as he heads back inside, and it's with an inward cringe that he accepts a quick bump of something to get him through the second set rather than allowing himself to read whatever response his terrible pun had earned him.
Waving for the stage lights to be turned down—a gesture that immediately has his manager on edge, making constipated faces at him from behind the curtains—Remi grins out at the crowd. "Okay with you all if we do something a bit—" The bartender is swirling a cherry stem on her tongue, that she's probably just tied, while making eyes at hallway🍆 . It's too much to say it makes his blood go cold, but his stomach certainly turns as if he's mixed coffee and yoghurt together. "—a bit different?" Steve, the manager, is fuming; Remi locks eyes with someone in the crowd. Someone. Anyone. Doesn't matter. "Alright with you, bella?"
Yeah. It's alright with her, if the way she jumps and demands a selfie from her friends is any indication.
Pulling in a breath, Remi begins to sing. There's only atmospheric noise from the band at this point, and the way the lights have dimmed make it feel to the RocKStAr that it's just he and the microphone. That makes him feel better. Just shy of a minute in, the harmonies come on thick and strong, and Remi loses himself in them; in them, in the lights that are blown out and full of colour, in the drugs in his system, in the way he can sink into the sounds and ignore all the bullshit that has been added onto getting him to this moment.
So he sings and latently he thinks fuck that pretty boy with the blue eyes—which is exactly what he'd like to do to him. Instead, he'll go home alone and write a song about it.
The bartender is making eyes and Ronin is looking into the bottom of his glass, trying to figure out where the rest of the drink has gone. (He drank it, his legs inform him, as the booze starts to work its way up the rest of his body). But then an accented voice hits the air and he turns in his seat, glancing up at Tall, Dark and Mammary up on the stage. What a life it must be to have the world eating out of the palm of your hand, he thinks, propping an elbow on the bar as he begins to play.
It’s a wildly different flavour to the music that came before it; slower, deeper, almost. It has meaning that the others don’t seem to possess, despite their pretty lyrics. And Ronin doesn’t hate it, raising a hand to stay the bartender when she tries to ask if he needs a top up. No, he’s content to listen right up until the end, a small smile playing across his lips.
Another hand lands on his shoulder, and before he can shoo this one away, it’s hauling him out of his fucking seat and towards the doors. Angry Soup is back, and he’s not happy with Ronin’s treatment of him earlier. It’s going to end badly for everyone involved, but Ronin’s used to that. Sorry, bandcamp. Gonna have to take a rain check on the performance.
It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses, So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
With his in-ear monitor and the rush of endorphins singing their own song in his ears, Remi is utterly lost in the moment he's creating such that the brawl that's about to begin outside doesn't even register. The vibration of the guitar against his body has his bones quaking (this is the primary reason for a pre-show orgasm I'll have you know), making it all the easier to ignore the images of the bartender's tongue shoved down Hallway's throat that his mind is supplying.
He probably wasn't even gay, anyway; at the end of the day, a hand was just a hand.
Meanwhile, two of the bouncers shadow Angry Soup and Hallway, giving 0 fucks about their grievances with one another. 'Take it the fuck outside.' One warns as the other pushes open a door to reveal a nearly empty parking lot.
This isn't the sort of crowd that cares much for encores, so as Remi finishes his last song, they whoop and cheer before immediately placing their last order of the night as last call is announced. Slipping back to his dressing room he finds that his mind has almost let him forget about the text waiting for him from Hallway. The message there makes something spew fire in his belly for a second as he reads the words, and then reads them again.
Surprised you even remember.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Remi might be surprised but Ronin isn't, or at least that's what he'd try to articulate into a text if he weren't currently being manhandled outside. He's drunk up past his waist by now, which means his legs only sort of want to respond to him. Luckily that means he can still come in swinging, which is exactly what he does as they're tossed into the parking lot. Does it matter that he started it? Does it matter that there's literally no need for it? Nah. Nah, it doesn't.
His first punch catches Angry Soup right across the jaw, sending his teeth crashing into each other and his body lurching to the side, and Ronin meanwhile tries to circle about, to get his bearings and put himself to the advantage, but lol if the world hasn't started spinning. By the time he focuses enough to gear up for a second punch, Angry Soup is bumrushing him in a tackle that sends both men right to the ground.
Something goes crunch in Ronin's back pocket. It's probably his phone. Fuck sake. He won't realise that until he's been scraped off the parking lot though, and for now a crowd is gathering and starting to cheer. So y'know, show must go on and all that.
It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses, So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
With his guitar packed away, Remi tosses on a jacket and flicks off the light of the closet dressing room. Shouldering open the back door, he nods a polite goodbye to one of the bouncers who is muttering something under his breath about calling the cops; apparently, some new guy is beating up one of the regulars. It's that last little bit of information that has Remi stopping and spinning around. "New guy? That wouldn't be...the one with the leather jacket, would it?" Both relieved and not to hear that yes, that's precisely the sort of idiot who is about to find himself hauled off in the back of a squad car, the musician fishes in his wallet and pulls out a crumpled bill (the only one in there, as it happens). "He's an old friend from school. A real idiot. How about I take him home and we forget this whole thing ever happened?"
The look on the bouncer's face all but suggests that Remi has about 30 seconds to make this happen. He pockets the money anyway.
"Hey—" This would be a great time to have something to call blue eyes other than Hallway. "...Pe...ter." Pushing his way through the growing crowd (were there more people here, than had been watching him?), Remi reaches out to snag part of Ronin's jacket and haul him back. "Good to see you, man. That's our cab up there." Each word is punctuated ever so slightly with a tone of take the fucking hint.
The bouncers start to close in, one already raising a cellphone to his ear.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Ronin's drunken legs have come through for him. Or at least, they've managed to navigate themselves to a point where he can straddle Angry Soup's chest, his fist drawing back to sock him around the face again. The knuckles of his right hand are bloodied, there's a nasty graze along his cheekbone and his ribs are bruised to fuck, probably, but (and this is the most important bit) there's no blood on his white t-shirt yet. Motor oil certainly, but no blood.
Someone calls something and Ronin doesn't have a chance to ask who the fuck Peter is before there's a hand seizing around his jacket that he's trying hard to shrug off as he's hauled backwards. "Do you fucking mi-- oh." He's just about directed a fiery blue glare over his shoulder when he recognises (mostly) some very pretty green eyes with dilated pupils, and his struggles fade back.
"Hey," he says vaguely. "Yeah. Good to... yeah, a'right." His accent is thicker like this (drunk? fighting? who fucking knows?) but it's understandable at least, and he stumbles back from Angry Soup who is still laying, dazed and bleeding on the ground. "Lead the way."
It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses, So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
Who wouldn't want those eyes looking up at them, the blue of which made all the more vibrant thanks to the red on his cheeks and lips. 'Show's over. Second time you've heard me say that tonight.' Remi chuckles to the crowd, slipping what he hopes looks like a friendly arm around Hallway. Wanting more blood than that the crowd grumbles as they disperse, but the bouncers give the musician a nod that says uh huh as they see right through his bullshit. But if there's no fight there's no waiting around for the cops which means they can head home.
As soon as they round the corner Remi immediately releases Hallway, already wondering whether this was a bad idea. No sooner has he, the words, Okay well..bye then? on his lips, do a gaggle of fans appear behind them. With too-tight tank tops and easily a hands-worth of space between the end of their shirts and the top of their jeans, they demand to know where the after-party is, and is it alright if they come along with a few friends? 'Oh, uh..' Fuck if that doesn't sound like the last thing he wants to do right now.
"Sorry to disappoint i miei amori, but Peter and I were just going to back to mine to catch up. Isn't that right Pete."
Say yes, you bastard.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
