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!
05-11-2021, 12:06 AM (This post was last modified: 06-01-2021, 05:25 PM by Hotaru.)
For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, Whom evermore I follow wistfully
Here she is. Back in Torchline once more, for a longer period of time than she’s distinctly comfortable with. Despite being a child of ice and snow, the summer warmth has grown on her in her time living here, and she doubts her affairs will ever be fully tied up here. There will always be a need to return once in a while. At least she’s not alone; Deimos, for all his reticence and suspicion over this being a vacation, had ensured she’d not returned to face her demons alone. He is more than she will ever deserve.
Still, there are moments of solitude to be had. Deimos is never far of course, but this section still remains unknown to her. The heat is still somewhat stifling despite the heavy rain, which is warm against her skin. Atlas remains staunchly in the grasses far from the shore, though he keeps an eye on his bonded from a distance. Hotaru meanwhile is standing like a mannequin propped up and forgotten in the sand, her long hair plastered to her spine and clothes soaked through. Not that she’s wearing a whole ton with the persistent heat.
Then all at once she comes alive, wet hair flying about as she spins in circles like a little kid, bare feet kicking up wet sand as she tilts her head back to the skies and grins as the rain kisses her face. It’s a good distraction from the thoughts inside her head even if only for a moment.
through waters yet uncharted
HOTARU
Hotaru has a passive magic that makes her glow with an internal golden light; it makes her appear youthful and her hair seems to look like moving sunlight. Can only subtly illuminate dark spaces.
The rain poured and she remained utterly indifferent, accustomed to the heavy alterations in climate, in the way the sultry air clung to her skin, in the manifestations of clouds upon clouds and no ample relief in sight. No hood drawn, nothing other than the fiery emblem of her hair and the quiver on her back, standing and stretching across the Isles with every manner of some unkempt ember. Fangorn grumbled alongside, and they marched diligently into the earth, barefoot and brazen.
Movement from the corner of her eye caught her unaware for a moment, and she had half an inclination to trace one finger near her bracelet, let the bow become embodied and slice through the air with a singular motion. Except recognition fluttered and flickered instead, and she was left to stand some distance away, remembering the blonde hues of a woman who’d taught her self-defense and knife arrays. “Hotaru?” She called over the wake – uncertain, unsure, if the fellow warrior would want her there; after all, she’d be a hazy figment of a memory, or an unspoken tie to Sunjata, Nate, and everything else that had occurred. Why her name echoed as a question was another manner entirely – pondering lightly if Hotaru had lost her mind in the ongoing showers.
For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, Whom evermore I follow wistfully
Atlas is the radar that pings the arrival of the wildfire girl into his bonded’s awareness. Mid-spin she slows, wet hair flying and caressing her neck and collarbones as the strands try in vain to continue their motion. Melita’s hair is not so vibrant when slick and wet against her crown, but her face is unmistakeable. Afternoons spent sparring, mornings passing each other in the kitchen with sleep-heavy greetings. She is as much family to Hotaru as to the men she has parted from, and she has no need to worry about her welcome.
“Melita,” she calls back, and gestures with one fine-boned hand for the girl to join her even as her own feet carry her a little closer. “It’s been...a hell of a season, huh? Just blowing off some steam if you want to join me.” An offering, free off obligation to talk about things when neither of them are the type. Action instead of rumination.
through waters yet uncharted
HOTARU
Hotaru has a passive magic that makes her glow with an internal golden light; it makes her appear youthful and her hair seems to look like moving sunlight. Can only subtly illuminate dark spaces.
Not unwelcome, but invited; and the honeybee sighed with some measure of relief. She wasn’t to be dissuaded or forgotten about in the aftermath of so much drama and trauma, entirely uncertain where to place herself in the midst except to yell and scream at them all. Endings and beginnings and endings again, revolving modicums that seemed to spin out of place, round and round and round until the patterns and junctures didn’t make sense anymore.
She nodded, slowly at first, until the gestures of hesitancy were replaced, worn away, by the unfurling strands of her mischief and juvenile tendencies, where they could be instigating fixtures instead of bending and bleeding away. No questions asked. No inspirations drawn. She presumed, figured, Hotaru wouldn’t want that anyway. She’d already known what had been lost, gained, and thrown apart.
“Yeah,” by way of recollection and dismay – but she refused to be the heavy cloak under the rain. Instead, she bunched, launched, and landed, feet first into the puddle, soaking in the deranged pinnacles. “That always makes me feel better,” she laughed, quickly, efficiently, as the water collapsed under her weight into something fresh and anew, scattered remnants of barely mustered power and demolition.
For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, Whom evermore I follow wistfully
No, the girl is not to be forgotten. Never, and certainly not by Ru. She is the collector of all young lost souls, of spitfire girls and headstrong women alike. There would always be space beneath her wing for Melita. These are words that will never pass her lips, but they are vows she will prove with actions. With invitations and open arms.
Hotaru startles back with a laugh that comes bright and unexpected from the startlement created by Melita's spring and the water that sprayed beneath her feet as a cause of it. "Oh?" A devilish curl of her lips beckons and warns in tandem as she springs forward feet first into the fringes of the same puddle Melita had chosen, intending to soak the youth with the spray of her own impact. Teeth flash between curled lips in the oppressive grey of their surroundings, a fire of youthful play in her own maternal gaze before she is turning and streaking down the beach and away from Melita's range of retaliation.
through waters yet uncharted
HOTARU
Hotaru has a passive magic that makes her glow with an internal golden light; it makes her appear youthful and her hair seems to look like moving sunlight. Can only subtly illuminate dark spaces.
Melita didn’t want to be forgotten: but sometimes that was how life was. Sometimes there were too many things and she had nowhere to go – segmented and forced into vitriol that pounded at her veins and demanded answers. Sometimes she forged another path entirely. Sometimes she forgot what that was. And sometimes the youth just wanted a rest from the constant agony, noise, and anarchy that filtered and flickered around her.
She presumed Hotaru wanted that too.
Which was why she pushed nothing but the puddle underneath her feet, swarming into its eaves and cascades with effervescent zeal. A squeal emitted as it poured and doused upon her, and she didn’t care, effortless and with the amount of zest and fervor she invoked in everyday life. Melita had full intentions of escalating, of dipping low and sweeping her arm through the puddle, into a rally, a turn, of the spray to incense and spark against the older woman –
But then she was gone, and the youth could only howl in laughter, before streaking afterwards, hands cupped around a smaller sanction, intending to loosen and splash it over the wilderness, the Valkyrie.
