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!
Yeah, fuck you man, is what Ronin thinks about both Angry soup and the bouncers trying to call the cops on him. They've no idea who the fuck they're dealing with (is what he tells himself) but from the outside, an irate Irishman wrapped in leather is probably precisely the sort of guy who belongs in a squad car. And so with a very friendly arm around him, he weaves his way off down the street, tossing a lazy salute over his shoulder to the crowd.
It's a nice stroll, actually, and Ronin is leaning against Bandcamp probably a little more than would normally be necessary, and he lists off to one side when he's released. His lips part to say something - thanks or that would be a good mammary or is that a guitar in your hand or are you just happy to see me - but then there are a gaggle of scantily clad fans that the musician doesn't want to go home with.
The look on Ronin's face suggests that the other man is fucking insane, and he almost points to where one of the girls' nipples pop out from her chest like god damned headlights. Almost. "Uh... yeah..." is what he says instead, much to the disappointed awwwwws of all.
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
Remi is all too aware of the nearly nip slip. He notices too how one of the girls is trying to subtly hike up her skirt as she lingers behind the others, while her friend is tugging the v of her shirt farther down. Per l'amor del cazzo. 'Come and find me tomorrow. We can talk then.' Remi says with a wink, silently praying that he isn't about to be followed home.
Walking with Hallway suddenly seems more awkward than any walk of shame ever has, and it's with a reluctant clearing of his throat that he decides to try small-talk on for size. "Irish, huh?" Glancing at Ronin out of the corner of his eye, thinking better of it and looking ahead lest he be pulled in by the man's wobbly gait and blue eyes. "No wonder I couldn't understand a single thing you said the other night."
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Bandcamp's hoping they aren't followed home. Ronin is hoping precisely the opposite, but off they go into the big wide world without women fawning all over them. More fool them. Stifling the urge to ask the other man what the fuck is wrong with you, instead he straightens up enough to try his hand at walking in a straight line. "Aye, what of it?" he snaps, before clearing his throat. "Sorry - most of my brain's still in that parking lot." Huffing out a deep breath, he flashes a smile at the other man. "And you're what - French?"
Is he kidding? Or does he honestly not know? It could be either. "If I'd known you wouldn't understand it, I'd not have bothered with my wit and charm," he remarks, pulling out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes and offering one out to bandcamp. "Name ain't Peter, by the way. It's Ronin - like those wandering samurai in Japan." He wishes he was joking.
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
"Quale cervello?" The musician mutters under his breath, before stutter-stepping as Ronin guesses at his own nationality. "French." Rolling his eyes and not dignifying the guess with a response, it's only the offered cigarette that draws Remi back in. "Oh is that what that was?" He wonders of this apparent wit and charm. Was he taken in by it, regardless of how thickly their accents clashed that night? Absolutely. Was he going to let this man know, having just called him french? Fuck you.
Ronin. Remi's eyes take in the man's hard jawline which already threatens to turn purple thanks to Angry Soup, the biker leathers, and was that the shine of a dog tag around his neck? "Wow." He's too tired to fake sounding impressed. "Edgy." It isn't Ronin's fault he's been named as such, but there is something vaguely wandering fighter about him. Especially the no-master, part. The musician doesn't offer his own name. It had been his show the wandering samurai had come to, hadn't it?
Having believed his own lie that Peter Ronin was coming home with him, Remi thinks nothing of the way he unlocks the outer door to a rundown apartment complex. Shuffling up a few flights of stairs which smell of stained carpet and urine, eventually, they come to a door as unassuming as any other. Unlocking it reveals either exactly what you'd expect, or precisely the opposite.
It's a studio apartment meaning that basically everything Remi owns is on display, from his unmade bed, couch and chair that looked like they were pulled off the street (they were), to the baby grand piano that sits off in the corner and looks like it's worth enough to pay for the entire building, and then some. There are two guitars hung on the wall along with a violin, and a trumpet that is perched on top of the stove. Most notably are the bits of paper everywhere; lyrics and half-finished songs can be found on nearly every surface, with a few of the walls serving as notepads too. On the couch is what looks like the lumpiest blanket in the world, but is actually a dozing wolfhound. As the two enter though, the massive creature lifts his head appraising them with lazy golden eyes.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
"Wow," Ronin drawls right back at the musician, raising his eyebrows at him, "French." It's not his finest response, but then again he's drunk and his head is ringing from having been belted about by Angry Soup. Honestly, not even Ronin is aware that he's actually being taken home before they're there, in front of the apartment complex. "Oh," he says as he wanders in after the other man, wrinkling his nose at the smell that's both pungent and familiar.
They head upstairs and he dabs at his split lip with the back of his hand, seeming somewhat put out by the studio apartment - not that there's anything wrong with it, but... it hardly seems rockstar. "Good thing we didn't invite them back for an after-party," he mumbles. "I doubt we'd all fit, between you, me and the dog. This a step before your penthouse?" he wonders.
04-13-2021, 06:36 PM (This post was last modified: 04-13-2021, 06:42 PM by Remi.)
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
"You're making me wish I hadn't sent them away." Remi grumbles, locking the door behind them. The dog, thoroughly non-plussed, decides to go back to sleep leaving Ronin just the chair, bed, or piano bench for seating. 'Also, fuck you. Your options were this, or sleeping it off in the drunk tank." Were those his only options? "Besides, I'm living out my humble-rockstar beginnings, obviously. Have to stay relatable." Mhmm. That's why he lived like this.
"Drink?" It's rhetorical mostly given that Remi is already trying to find two cups. It's then that his phone rings, and seeing the name on the screen means he can't ignore it. Anytime he does, Vai ends up sending a hoard of hippies to check on him, and honestly, he just can't tonight. So with the phone held to his hear with his shoulder, Remi mixes the drinks and tries to convince the queen of the hemp squad that he's fine. "Ciao. Sì, no, è andata bene .... ok, è andata beNiSsImO... No, non posso, c'è qualcuno qui ... No, non così ... no ... chiamo tu domani. Lo so. Ti amo anch'io." Setting his phone down and shrugging out of his jacket, revealing his born to grill shirt, he returns holding out a glass for Ronin. There are fingerprints on it, it was probably last rinsed rather than washed, and holds something clear that smells earthy and strong.
"Cheers."
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
"Why did you?" Ronin wonders, moving to perch on the piano bench, wincing as he sinks down and his ribs protest the matter. "Also, fuck you." For no other reason than it's better than letting the other man get the last word. "Humble rockstar beginnings, mm? I'd say you're climbing the ladder, with a crowd like that. Bras thrown at you and everything."
But then Bandcamp's phone rings, and Ronin is left to nurse the brewing headache from where he's had his skull rung like a bell, tilting his head to hear the language play through the air. He snaps his fingers, suddenly, seeming triumphant. "Italian," he says, sounding almost relieved about it, like whatever was bothering him is over now.
He shrugs out of his leather jacket as well, revealing the oil streaked t-shirt and the glint (the other man was correct) of dogtags. When Ronin looks up, it's to see a drink coming his way - one that he accepts eagerly, caring not one iota for the state of the glass. "Cheers." He knocks it back, then hisses in a breath at the sting it brings to the cut on his lip.
"Anyone fun?" he asks, fishing around in his pocket at last for his phone. There's a beautiful spiderweb on the front from the fight earlier (fuck, shit, fuck) but it still works, thankfully. Peering at the message from the man before him, he smirks as much as he's able. "Oh? What makes you say 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
It's with eyes suddenly sharp that Remi watches Ronin sit on the piano bench. Softening slightly with a chuckle, he can't help but look a little proud of himself. "Well, lucky you then. You can say you knew me when." Just..not as hey that guy gave me a handjob in the back of a bar, once.
"Italian." Remi confirms with a warm amusement that seems to scare away some of his weariness. "Looks like you didn't leave every brain cell in that parking lot after all." Sitting on the windowsill next to the piano, the dim glow of the city beyond just hazy reflections because of how dirty the outside of the window is, Remi shakes his head. "Family friend." He replies, frowning as Hallway downs his drink all in one go. Apparently they were drinking. That, or Hallway was trying to get out as quickly as he could.
"Say what?" Because Remi has of course assumed the message on Ronin's screen is from the bartender or some equally bodacious babe. In lieu of that, he drains his glass too. Better to be that guy I had one drink with once rather than sloppy handjob guy, at least.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
"How privileged must I be," Ronin drawls, smiling as best he's able and raising his empty glass as if to cheers the other man again. "When I see you on the cover of Rolling Stone, I'll be able to point and say I knew you." He snorts, though whether that's at the idea that Remi will ever make it to a magazine cover, or whether Ronin would be the type to gush over the fact that he used to know someone famous... it could go either way, honestly.
"Oof, such a sharp tongue. I liked it better when you were French," he says with a smirk, setting down the glass on the bench beside him and rolling his shoulders, as if to try and tell which parts of him are going to be bruised in the morning. "They sound nice," he says of the family friend, because what the fuck else can you say when you've had no idea what's been said?
Say what, goes the Italian, and Ronin wiggles his phone at him. "You said you were surprised I remembered. What makes you say that? I came to your gig, didn't I?"
04-13-2021, 07:17 PM (This post was last modified: 04-13-2021, 07:17 PM by Remi.)
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
"And I liked it better when you were called Peter." Remi retaliates with a sunny smile. 'Another, or...?' Whether the or was meant to give Ronin a way out, or an offer of other substances was left intentionally vague. Either way, Remi is sweeping the glass off of the piano bench, which looks to be one of the only intentionally clean surfaces in the entire place.
"Oh, well...you were a h—mess that night." Remi says with a cagey shrug, managing to swallow down the word hot. 'We both were.' He adds, with the appropriate inflection of ha-ha I'm not gay tacked on. It's because of how incredibly awkward Remi is in real life compared to his on-stage persona that he switches tactics, opting for a different sort of awkwardness. "So...what did you think?" He means of the show. Was that clear? He thinks it was clear.
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
"Another," Ronin confirms, wincing a bit to see the other man sweep away his glass so swiftly. "Sorry," he adds, obviously unaware of the piano's importance compared to the relative don't-give-a-fuck of the rest of the apartment. "Or what, though?" he inquires. "What was it anyway?" it had tasted good and it had cleaned out the cuts in his mouth, but fuck knows if Ronin is aware what it is he's getting wasted on.
Snorting confirmation about the two of them being a hot mess - because Ronin will say it, and mean it, even though Bandcamp is the first time a man has pulled his attention so successfully - he tilts his head as if to try and guess what he's meant to have thought anything about. Eventually it clicks, and he shrugs a bit.
"Good band with terrible music," he says apologetically. "Apart from that last song I heard, before I was thrown out. The one where the lights went down. That one had something."
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
Remi's smile is flustered because he wants to tell Ronin to stay the fuck away from his piano, but also because there's something really alluring about having him sit there. Sort of like when hot girls pick up guitars and strum half a chord and you can't help but give them a pass for it. Or you know, some other similarly straight-man sentiment. 'Drawer—' He replies, nodding toward the bedside table that's only a foot or so away from Ronin. Within he'll find this picture taped to the lid (thanks Isla), of a box containing all the drug paraphernalia needed to answer the question why was Remi's rent late last month.
'Old family recipe.' Remi calls from the kitchen, leaving the glasses and bringing the bottle instead (it's a mason jar). On it Vai has written something about living your best life in Romani.
Returning to his seat at the window as Hallway reviews the night, Remi frowns as he holds out the jar. He isn't wrong, and the recognition of it shows quite clearly on Remi's face. "Yeah..." He agrees with a bit of a sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Sunset Patrol probably isn't long for this world, to be honest. The rest of the band wants to do the stardom thing." Reaching out a hand for the drink (it's gin with additives from Vai that help prevent hangovers in the morning), Remi shrugs. "Fuck me for caring about the music."
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
"Drawer...?" Ronin reaches over to open the bedside drawer and the lid of the box, peering inside and scoffing. "Oh yeah, I'm edgy," he teases, closing the box and the drawer once again and sitting back without touching any of it. Not his thing - never has been, even before the army, but he doesn't begrudge anyone their vices. Still, as Bandcamp returns with his old family recipe, he can't help but scoff at the disparity between this man and the one he saw on stage. "You're a regular old weirdo, aren't you?" he says, reaching out to accept the jar.
He takes a sip from it, relishing the burn as it goes down this time instead of wincing at the pain in his mouth, before handing it across to the other man. "And you don't want to? Oh, to be able to see stardom and turn it down," he laments with an exaggerated sigh, though honestly, Ronin couldn't care less about fame. "So what then? You going solo, or finding a new band to roll with?"
04-13-2021, 07:57 PM (This post was last modified: 04-13-2021, 07:57 PM by Remi.)
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
'As opposed to..?' Ronin coming here had all but happened without his mind actually thinking about it, but now that it was, he could absolutely see how handjob-guy and sold-out-bar-guy were not entirely a match for don't-touch-my-expensive-piano-dad-pun-shirt-guy.
Taking a healthy sip of the mixture, fuck you COVID, Remi shakes his head with an immediacy that speaks of honesty. "Not even a little." Then, with a smirk he adds, "I'll take the money, though." He could just do with all the bullshit; the gym, the meal plans he's meant to follow, the drugs he's not meant to have.
"Don't know. I've been working on some new stuff so...I guess we'll see." With a vague nod he indicates the sheet music scattered over the piano, not much expecting Ronin to look at it. "So that's me then. What's your deal, aside from being a wandering Irish samurai."
ThE RoCkStAr
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
