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!
04-14-2021, 01:09 AM (This post was last modified: 04-28-2021, 05:11 PM by Wessex.)
WESSEX
the wraith
she tied you to her kitchen chair she broke your throne and she cut your hair
Casually perched atop the hedge, one leg draped over the edge, the other pulled up to her chest, the Wraith lingers atop this odd little microcosm of a maze. Locked doors, a fire still burning - for, what? - at least three hundred years? Or did someone recently come here and light it? Loki’s perched on one of her shoulders, tiny little lizard head slowly weaving back and forth as she tries to investigate in her own way.
Heedless of how the shrubbery should scrape and prickle the back of her legs, Wessex slides off the top of the wall and lands quietly in a crouch on the ground, as if this were some foe to be snuck up on, some place she was breaking into. The Wraith rises and circles the obsidian bowl warily, eyes narrowed, on alert for anything out of the ordinary.
tell me father, which to ask forgiveness for? what i am, or what i'm not?
Truthfully, he doesn’t know when he woke up. All he knows is that he feels like shit with the annoying warnings buzzing in his mind and the mangled, useless arm that hangs limply from his shoulder. The rest of it? He’s realized he’s in the Queens Gambit, pulled himself out of the roots of the hedges, and tried to find his way back out.
So he’s wandered.
And wandered.
And wandered —
And then he finds a bowl of flame with a stranger around it with a fucking dragon of all things, and he finds himself barking a humorless laugh rather than a hello, his good hand gripping at the branches of the hedge with as much anger and frustration as he can manage in this state. “It’s just a legend. Don’t waste your time with it.” He says, leveling his blue gaze on the Wraith. “Unless you’re into them in which case feel free to enjoy that fucking let down.”
tell me mother, which should i regret? what i became, or what i didn't?
she tied you to her kitchen chair she broke your throne and she cut your hair
With her focus elsewhere, the Wraith does something unusual. She stubs her toe.
“Fuck,” she says as she stumbles, because without pain, she has a much smaller reaction. Turning back to see what made her trip, there’s a corner of a something sticking out of the ground - metal. Seems to stick up as if there’s more. Loki lands and noses at it, curious and bold, so Wessex unsheathes her talons and begins to dig (unwieldy as they are, it’s better than her hands) until she uncovers a small box. It’s ‘locked,’ but with her current strength, that’s no real matter.
She breaks the lock easily, opens it, and finds a couple of items inside. Papers, a small knick-knack - they take her attention until a voice disturbs her and Loki fires off a small burst of energy in surprise.
Standing, she looks across the person who’s laughing at her and her jaw first drops, and then it turns into a fangs-bared snarl. The box and its contents snap shut. It must be a boggart - or something equally able to fuck with her. “That’s not yours.” she barks back. “I’ll kill you even if you’re wearing his face, fucker.”
tell me father, which to ask forgiveness for? what i am, or what i'm not?
Is there a part of him that relishes in the fact he’s surprised her, ruined as he is? Oh absolutely. Does it fade quickly when she bares her fangs at him and all Varus can do is flash an amused smirk.’ That’s not yours.’ Yeah, he knows the box she’s rifling through isn’t his. But she continues on and his brows furrow, head tilting to the side as he continues to grip onto the hedge with his good arm, the other hanging limply at his side.
“What the fuck are you on about?” He snaps back, baring his fangs back at her. Two can play at that game, after all. “This has been my face since I can remember. Who the fuck are you anyway?” His head tilts and he staggers a step into her space. A dark brow raises as he takes into consideration the things around them, the box she’d been finding, the dragon who’s proverbial feathers have been ruffled.
He finally takes a moment to look around around, and when his gaze settles back on her it’s with a hint of confusion. “Do I know you or something?”
tell me mother, which should i regret? what i became, or what i didn't?
she tied you to her kitchen chair she broke your throne and she cut your hair
She’s still grasping at the boggart theory, even when the man bares his own fangs at her - because this could be a particularly tricky one, trying to lure her into complacency before attacking.
“Aedion’s dead,” she snaps right back, flinging the box down and adjusting herself into a more prepared stance. Loki begins to circle overhead, trying to figure out what’s going on - what they’re fighting and why - because the other seems like an Ascended.
“He doesn’t scare me. So get your boggarty-ass back in the maze and leave me alone or come on, let’s get this over with.” Releasing her talons, the Wraith slides their metal edges against each other in a practiced, smooth, and rather satisfying shwing before waiting for the assumed boggart to attack.
“I’m the Voice’s demigod,” she says with the tiniest smirk, offering the creature its final warning.
tell me father, which to ask forgiveness for? what i am, or what i'm not?
“Who the fuck is Aedion?” Varus snaps back, settling back on his heels as he watches the display as it begins. She pulls out all the stops, calls him a boggart, which truthfully makes him laugh. If he were, why would his arm be fucked up? But before he has a full chance to respond she’s pulling out all the stops, getting into a fighting stance, throwing her… Hand blades? On display as if it might frighten him.
It doesn’t. Nor does it when she says she’s a Voice’s demigod, bring a bark of laughter from Aedion as he remains still, weak due to his stasis and his arm and unbeknownst to him, 300 years of rotting away under a few tree roots.
“Good for you, sweetheart.” He drawls with a roll of his eyes. “I’m not a boggart though. Ascended, just like you” A dark brow raises as he regards her, using his good arm to lift the mangled broken one to wave it at her. “Got stuck under a hedge in Queen’s Gambit and I’d just like to fucking go home.” A surprisingly bright blue gaze continues to stare at Wessex, soldier to soldier, not intimidated or worried in the slightest.
After all, as far as he knows, it’s only been a couple of weeks maximum since he’d gotten trapped. As far as he knows, they’re on the same side. “So you can put your knife hands away and I’d be content getting the fuck out of here back to the Grounds.”
tell me mother, which should i regret? what i became, or what i didn't?
she tied you to her kitchen chair she broke your throne and she cut your hair
“A friend,” she answers shortly and settling into that impossibly still state of being they know so well.
Listening, she begrudgingly acknowledges to herself that he has a point about the mangled arm, but it doesn’t turn the spidey-senses off. “Maybe so, but you’ve still got a dead Outlander’s face and I can’t just let something suspicious like that into my home.” The very land she’s sworn to protect, yadda yadd yadda.
An idea comes to mind, and she re-sheathes her claws, opting instead to toss the man a small hunting pulled from a boot. Jerking her chin a little towards him, Wessex commands quietly, “Cut yourself.”
Prove yourself.
And if everything is as he says it is, they can figure it out the face thing later. “Then I’ll take you to the Grounds and point you towards our medic.” And if he doesn't want to, he can find his own way back, useless arm and all.
tell me father, which to ask forgiveness for? what i am, or what i'm not?
“A dead Outlander?” This does surprise him a bit, truthfully. “I was born here. The fuck are you on about with that Outlander shit?” He can’t help the edge of a bite in his tone. But she still puts those knives away and he stares at her with an unmoving, unblinking blue gaze. He watches the knife as it’s tossed his way, sighing and bending down to pick it up, gripping it with a hand that is well practiced with weaponry, flipping it in the air so the blade twists toward where he might be able to cut himself with it.
And then he grips the handle and slices it along his bicep of the ruined arm. Opalescent liquid begins to drip from it, pouring down his arm. All the while he stares at Wessex expectantly. “There. Happy now?” He asks before he charges ahead with his words. “Like I said, been stuck under a hedge for a while. I’d like to keep as much fluid as I can until I see a shrine again.” He tosses the knife at her feet, watching it land blade first into the grasses with the handle pointed toward her, as his good hand lifts to cover the wound to try and conserve as much fluid as he can.
“Can we go now?” His head tilts, taking a step closer to Wessex.
tell me mother, which should i regret? what i became, or what i didn't?
she tied you to her kitchen chair she broke your throne and she cut your hair
Watching impassively as he obeys, Wessex finally nods. “Mostly,” she concedes, bending to wipe the knife on the grass and then sheath it in her boot again. “Still doesn’t explain how you look exactly like him, but you aren’t the first one to wake up after three hundred years, so -”
So maybe something is happening. And maybe she should just accept that it is what it is, even if looking at him rouses some long-dead guilt and silence what-ifs. “If you’re weak, you can drink.” As she walks towards him, she rather impulsively offers her wrist, perhaps trying to make up for cutting him (ah, but it was necessary, wasn’t it? No one has fluid like they do). It’s amiable enough, matter-of-fact, sure that he knows what will come of biting and truly not caring all that much.
At this point, a bite is a bite. Survival, pure and simple.
tell me father, which to ask forgiveness for? what i am, or what i'm not?
He still has no clue who Aedion is, but he’d simply compare it to the idea that good looks crop up more than once through the worlds, but he doesn’t know what Aedion looks like – doesn’t know that it looks like he’s stolen his face. All he knows is that he’s been stuck for a while, his arm is mangled, and he’s a bit pissed off at getting stuck in Queen’s Gambit of all places for however long it was. “Three hundred years?” He questions with a tilt of his head – he’ll get the full story from Isla later, but for now he’s still under some quiet assumption it’s only been a few months.
Time was hard to tell when one was Ascended and had also been in stasis a while.
She picks up the blade and the rest of the items are forgotten as he steps closer to her and she meets the distance with him, Varus pausing and letting his gaze drop to the outstretched wrist. He’s a soldier and he’s certainly the type that doesn’t miss up an opportunity – especially when he’s become as weak as he has (for quite possibly three hundred years as she’s said).
“Thanks.” He says with a sigh, reaching out with his good arm to grip her wrist – surprisingly light compared to the harder exterior they both seem to have – and he wastes little time in lifting her wrist to his lips, and sinking his fangs in deep.
tell me mother, which should i regret? what i became, or what i didn't?
she tied you to her kitchen chair she broke your throne and she cut your hair
“Three hundred and twelve, to be precise,” she confirms with a faint smile. Those twelve - no, those last four have made a bigger difference than she ever could have dreamed of.
“A lot has happened. A lot. In fact, we’ve come full circle and there’s probably another war brewing. So you’ve reanimated just in time.” While Wessex might be keeping her tone light and conversational, there is a deep-seeded kernel of truth to what she’s saying. They do need every Ascended they can get, every ally, every fighter. If it’s just a numbers game, she’s fairly sure they’re going to lose, if only because they’re not a cohesive fighting unit.
This one, at least, seems less spacey than Aamu. Maybe he’ll have more information.
But first things first - and to be honest, she’s a little surprised he accepts her offer of fluid, but there’s no taking it back now. Nodding to indicate permission, she hums reflexively after he sinks his fangs into her forearm, clenching her fists and closing her eyes as the feel-good fluids begin to flow. He’ll find power and strength within her, a myriad of magical options to choose from, including healing himself, if he wishes, but more importantly - the tell-tale signs of a fellow soldier (in case the previous ten minutes wasn’t enough of a clue).
As for the Wraith, well it’s been so long since she’s bitten (and been bitten) that there’s an unexpected weakness in the knees rising up through her legs as pleasure continues to mount.
tell me father, which to ask forgiveness for? what i am, or what i'm not?
“Fuck.” Varus mutters, clenching his jaw for a second as he lets it hit, shaking his head as Wessex mentions they’ve come full circle. And it’s a thought that has him not quite prepared to hear it out, not yet in the mind to understand what it all means, not with his ruined arm blaring warnings in his mind and the fact another war was looming on the horizon.
Which means they didn't win the last one.
“Oh good, just my luck.” Varus half groans, taking no time at all to step toward Wessex at the offered wrist. In a time of need like this, there’s little to be said when it comes to pleasantries before hand. They were both soldiers, he assumes, and with it came requirements, came the need to do whatever it took to survive. The benefit to this? He supposes at least they’ll both feel pretty good after, it might round off his hard edges for the moment.
His fangs sink into her wrist and the grip he has on her arm grows tighter, euphoria sparking behind his eyes as it replenishes him just enough to feel like that first sip of cold water after a long day full of manual labor. He can feel the power that thrums in it as it settles within him, a low hum of appreciation and relief vibrates through him, and when he finally has the mind to pay attention and not drain her completely, does he shakily manage to step toward her, his arm moving from her wrist to wrap around her waist and pull her in close once he’s noticed her legs shaking.
He withdraws, head tilting back a fraction as he lets the fluid replenish where he has lost it, letting the power of it refuel him. “I’m Cal, by the way.” He offers her, surprisingly breathy despite not needing air to breathe.
tell me mother, which should i regret? what i became, or what i didn't?
she tied you to her kitchen chair she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And just like that, they’re unexpectedly close. She offers him a breathy grin in return, shaking ever so slightly in mild amusement as the ecstasy wears off and they’re just… them again.
“Wessex,” she replies. Then adds, after a brief pause (Aamu’s conversation lingering like the ghosts of her ancestors in the back of her mind), “Theskyra.” Her other names, her titles, none of them are that important and if he’s going to remain the Grounds, he’d hear of them anyway.
She pats his arm in thanks and then slowly slips out of his support. “Been awhile since anyone’s had a drink,” she explains. “Not so long as you, of course, but -” but it still surprised her with its intensity - though that intensity is a good thing, she thinks. Reminds her that she’s still alive.
Loki circles down to land on the Wraith’s shoulder, nosing her to check on those never-before-experienced feelings that drifted through to her towards their bond. And when Wessex has put a hand up to reassure her companion that everything is indeed alright, she turns her gaze to the man, curiously snuffling at the air in his direction.
“Come on, let’s get you into some better hands,” she says to Cal, turning towards the maze and pausing to consider if they should teleport or climb or find their way through it all.
tell me father, which to ask forgiveness for? what i am, or what i'm not?
Wessex, she says. Theskyra, she adds on. And through the lingering bits of pleasure that gleam through his blue gaze, there’s recognition – a crooked fanged smile forming on his face. “Ah. Makes sense.” He offers, finally pulling himself away from her as she pats his arm and there’s space between them now. She seems to be handling herself well enough – which for a Theskyra, he supposes is right on par for the course.
“I appreciate it.” He offers, his words dripping in gratitude. He isn’t sure how far he would’ve been able to make it to the shrine before collapsing again. This, though, plus what brims under his skin from drinking from her? He hasn’t felt that kind of power in a long time. He lets it sing through him, idly watching the dragon land on Wessex’s shoulders as he uses his good hand to offer the dragon a small wave when Loki looks at him.
Wessex turns toward the maze, though, and Varus watches her for a moment before peering through the rest of the area, running his tongue along his teeth as he considers it. “Got any fancy tricks of getting out of here? I can’t remember the way out.” The admission comes quietly, despite having no need to be afraid of backlash. He’s old and just came to after a few centuries.
tell me mother, which should i regret? what i became, or what i didn't?
