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!
It's been a while since she's actually moved like this. The concept of pushing her body isn't a new one, but she's been neglecting her muscles for a bit too long thanks to the monsoons and her injuries. Thankfully before Ronin left he gave her the all clear to use the training grounds in the Dragon's Nest as she saw fit. Which is where she finds herself now. Already sweat beads her brow as she tugs one is likely meant to be a hurdle for the track towards more tightly packed dirt. Her new pointe shoes are already dirty from the dust, but it doesn't matter.
Her body is warmed up from the exercises she's already done as she positions herself at the makeshift barre she's created, starting to go through her movements. Tendu front, tendu side, tendu back. Dégagé front, dégagé side, dégagé back. Grande battement front, grande battement side, grande battement back. Over and over and over again. She's not paying attention to anyone around her. Her focus solely on her movements and the familiar burn in her muscles as she puts them through their paces.
And now she’s in me always with me Tiny dancer in my hand
So you can let it be known I don't hold back, I hold my own
The white dragon perched high, fiery eyes pointed down at the woman. She hissed too quietly for most to hear, but Abraham could feel it in his bones as he stepped through the doors to the training grounds. The white queen was displeased at the newcomer's smell, of her stench filling her facility. Her tail whipped behind her with her annoyance, but she did not move. She knew better than to act on what she wanted -- and what she wanted was to filet this dancer.
Abraham couldn't help but come entertain himself with what had gotten Gwyneverre so worked up. He strode easily, shoulders squared, towards the dancing woman. He scrutinized her with mismatched eyes, when finally near enough to stop and observe perfectly. He crossed muscled arms around his solid chest and lifted his chin. Abraham did not need to hide anything, and it was perfectly clear what was going on here: judgement.
"Four." The word fell from his lips matter of factly, and he lifted a single dark eyebrow. The "out of ten" was implied.
Most of the Dragoons haven't bothered her. Why? It's simple really, they saw her with Ronin. She's his guest and as such, she has an air about her that reads 'do not bother'. Apparently Abraham didn't get that particular memo. Her movements didn't falter even as the hair on the back of her neck prickled, giving away that there were eyes on her. Both judgmental in their different ways. She drew in a breath, keeping her shoulders squared and her abdomen tight, "Curious... I don't remember asking anyone to count for me." Maeve drawled, sarcasm laced heavily into her words and perhaps if she bothered to turn around and look she might have reconsidered her attitude.
She hadn't and therefore she doesn't know that there is a mountain of a man behind her or a dragon that's incredibly interested in tearing her flesh from her freshly healed bones. Maeve moved into her next position. Demi plie in first, full plie in first, demi plie in second, full plie in second. She can still feel his eyes boring into her back, tracking her every movement like a snake waiting to strike. "Can I help you with something or do you just want to continue to stare?" Finally her head turned towards him, jaw sharp and a dark brow arched as green eyes cut his way.
And now she’s in me always with me Tiny dancer in my hand
So you can let it be known I don't hold back, I hold my own
Abraham had no fear. His interactions with this woman were not ones that would cause the Star to desire his demise. After all, Abraham was an excellent soldier. His skills were necessary and needed, even if he was dark and twisted and gruesome in his ways. Having a conversation with a woman, who did not truly belong here, did not seem punishable.
"I don't need anyone's permission to do what I please." Tone cold and sharp, every word he spoke was confident in absolute foundation. She continued on with her dancing, with her movements, and Abraham did not move. The stone man stood, mismatched eyes scrutinizing, as his dragon rumbled overhead. Gwyneverre snapped her tail back and forth, her wings pressed tightly against her sides. Smoke rolled from the corners of her mouth as she watched Abraham interact with the woman. Inside of the leviathan's mind, images flashed to him from the dragon. All of the images, though vague and distant, were all clear in showing her annoyance.
"I don't mind watching," the stone man's words slithered like a viper, "And that was better than the first time. Five."
The muscles in her jaw feathered as she looked straight ahead once more, trying hard to swallow down the sudden swell of irritation in her throat. The Madame took a breath, "Oh? Consent isn't a word that means anything to you then? Aren't you an absolute delight." She drawled, not bothering to temper down her tone, letting her words lash out sharply at him while somehow maintaining a cool superiority. Her eyes flicked up towards where the dragon was perched, billowing smoke from the corners of her mouth with narrowed eyes. Not one to be intimidated, she lifted her chin defiantly, intent to ignore the both of them.
Except he spoke again, his words slipping down her spine much like tar, viscous and thick enough to make her skin crawl. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, teeth clenched so hard she thought she might break a tooth. Normally it wouldn't bother her. She wasn't ashamed of her body. Not even close. People looked at her all the time. It was how he said it that had her on edge. The feeling of his eyes running over her bare skin. There was plenty of it on display. Pale and smooth, a few beauty marks marring her otherwise unblemished skin. The shorts she wore did nothing to hide her legs and the tank top was sheer at best, tied up just beneath her breasts as to not impair her movements. She felt she might as well been nude for the way his eyes roved across her from head to toe, cataloguing every breath, twitch, and shift.
"What could a Neanderthal like you know about ballet?" Maeve snapped, not giving any weight to his comment on her form. The routine she was executing was flawless. There was nothing to be desired for corrections. Even still, she went deeper into her plies, stretching out the muscles of her inner thighs. Finally, she stopped, straightening up and turning to face him full on. Her cheeks were flushed prettily and wisps of hair falling from the messy bun her dark curls were thrown up in. Green eyes blazed as her jaw set and she looked up at him, unimpressed.
And now she’s in me always with me Tiny dancer in my hand
So you can let it be known I don't hold back, I hold my own
Gwyneverre wanted the woman to know the depth of her displeasure about being in this training ground without a dragon, without doing soldier's work, making the place fill with the stench of weakness. The smoke billowing from her mouth and the growl that reverberated ceaselessly from her were not intentions of intimidation -- no, they were merely acts of frustration and annoyance.
White dragons were known to be dramatic.
With every breathe that Maeve took, Abraham could tell that he had truly gotten under her skin. Had he been a different man, he might have smiled at the satisfaction he felt from this interaction. She was proving to be a fun little mouse caught in his cat trap, snapping her teeth at him with venom lacing every word. It was almost musical to his ears. Mismatched eyes travelled over her frame once more, the fact that she was hardly clothed not lost on him. If she would take herself in public looking as she did, then Abraham had every right to look.
He paid no mind to the statement she made about consent. There was no room for guilt or moral within this man's chest, and he took what he wanted when he wanted without asking. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back and chuckled -- it was dark and dismissive, as if she could disappear at any second and the brute truly would not care. Gwyn would have been delighted if that were true. "Other than what I have seen street performers do? Very little." He was honest, but the way he worded his sentence was meant to show where he truly thought the value of what she was doing was. But, the dragoon did know of body mechanics and balance and strength. Even if his judgement, his rating, was a lie intended to play with the woman.
If Maeve was able to send her own emotions along the bond to Gwyneverre, she would have let the dragon know that she didn't give a flying fuck about what she thought of her presence here. No, she was not a dragoon nor did she have a dragon, but she was not weak. The Madame had endured more in her short life than either of them likely realized and that life did not make for a weak girl.
Little she might be, but she was not meek like a mouse that Abraham seemed to equate her to. Maeve had teeth and claws and venom that she was not afraid to use. Especially against self centered, entitled, and presumptuous men. Men like him. He didn't bother to hide the way he let mismatched eyes roam over her body leisurely, drinking in pale skin, long limbs, and toned muscle hidden beneath soft curves. That only made her dislike him more. Her nostrils flared as she drew in a breath, chest heaving slightly from her previous efforts as her heartrate started to race for an entirely different reason.
Indignant rage bubbled up hotly in her belly, mixing with the venomous words that seemed to gather on the tip of her tongue at his comment. Street performers? The chuckle only served to cause her hackles to raise further and if the Madame had been Attuned then she likely would have bared her teeth at him. Hell, she might still bare her teeth. Motherfucker. "Given that I have yet to see a street performer able to do what I do, I'd argue you know fuck all." Maeve snapped, words sharp as she lashed out at him with her tongue, narrowing her eyes as she took a step forward. Clearly she wasn't deterred by the sheer size of him. It didn't matter to her that he was a foot taller than her. That he could likely toss her to the side like it was nothing.
She was pissed.
"Not even you could do what I do." She hissed, jabbing her finger into his chest and not flinching when she was met by a solid wall of muscle. Maeve left barely a few inches of space between them, chest heaving as she lifted her chin defiantly to hold his mismatched gaze, fire dancing in her own green irises.
And now she’s in me always with me Tiny dancer in my hand
