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!
i'll turn myself into a gun, because it's all i have, because i'm hungry and hollow
Anger buzzes uncomfortably in the cage of Nates ribs. Like it has no business being there, when there’s no blood to sing through him, no relief from biting his tongue or swinging a fist. Like it’s wrong for him to be so angry.
Somehow, it reminds him of his father. Reminds him of a mirror. Fists lifting when things go a little too off kilter, when kids run and play too loudly, when schemes get twisted, when the red and blue flashes through the front window. Nate feels skin that isn’t his, but that fits almost perfectly, wrap all around him.
This isn’t that. He isn’t a mirror, isn’t his father, and wishes that he could feel the fucking nausea that usually accompanied this train of thought. Just a little. Just so the ground under his feet feels real again. So his ears stop ringing and his eyes actually see the things in front of him.
Nate hasn’t been to the Slagveld yet. Hasn’t been to the Society. Maybe it looks bad, maybe he doesn’t give a shit. Somehow, he’d thought having his drama dragged all across town would be different, but this is a different town than the one he’d worried about, and he is angry.
Besides, whatever damage he’s doing to his reputation has to be mitigated by the stalls he’s helping to rebuild, hammering nails into wood like its half as satisfying as his fist into a face would be. Everyone else has been wise enough to leave him a wide berth, leaving him alone to hammer and stew.
I don't care who I might hurt along the way, I'm fuckin' sinking Into every word, I don't care if you're lyin' when I'm drinking
Bart doesn’t wear his anger the same way, but it simmers all the same. He isn’t attached to the Society the way Nate is, but he’d cursed himself to hell and back for not getting to the fire in time. Luckily it hadn’t had the chance to do much damage, but anything is too much. Then his brother went off and got involved with a giant chicken chase, Scarface seemingly vanished, and Bart was left with Kamaria and Melita in the fuck-off huge house. Not that he minded the squirt (either of them, though calling Mel that was usually an invitation to lose one of his fingers) but he’d been anxious for Nate to get his ass back home.
Except he isn’t. Home, that is.
It’s not surprising. Nate doesn’t do well with stewing or sitting. Always gotta pace, work, make shit. Bart gets it, he goes back and forth feeling that way himself, even if he’s just as capable of stewing alone in his room with some music and his pen. With no job and no hobby in Torchline though he’s definitely more prone to movement to deal with his aggravation.
Misery loves company though so he goes hunting for his brother. Though admittedly he hopes to help and not add another bump on the metaphorical angry log.
It’s clear upon arrival that most everyone is giving Nate a wide berth. He’s a veritable storm, and nobody wants to be pulled into the eye. Except Bart that is, who waltzes right up as of his brother isn’t eyeing the nail in the beam like it has personally wronged him. Twirling his own hammer (don’t ask whose it is because he just snagged it off a table) he sets up right next to Nate. “What’s goin’ on in that big head’a yours?” Spoken soft but gruff, hammering the nail into the wood with one swift hit and following up with a few more precise blows to sink it flush.
everything look worse at night - I think I'm overthinking
i'll turn myself into a gun, because it's all i have, because i'm hungry and hollow
There are only a handful of people brave or stupid enough to come near him when he’s like this, and fewer still who Nate would let stay so close. Bart slips into his space like a raindrop, like he fucking belongs there in the burgeoning storm, and its so easy, so casual, that Nate shifts, turning towards his brother with a kind of openness he offers no one else.
“M’fuckin’ angry.” Nate replies, not bothering to lower the heat in his voice. If there is one person who understands, who really and truly does, it’s Bart. He’ll be able to see the way Nate’s hands don’t actually stop moving, even if they do stop working. The way his jaw works and his grow just a touch distant, before snapping over to Bart for a breath. “Fuck off ‘bout my head, yers is bigger.” It’s sloppy, the attempt to shift focus, but it’s not really supposed to be anything more than an attempt. A plea to save this for a little later, to let him wallow and stew in this bright anger just a little longer.
A plea he knows Bart is going to resolutely ignore.
Licking his lips, Nate shifts, and finally drives the nail he’s playing with into the wood, not caring about the marks he leaves behind. “S’all fucked up.” He offers without prompting, chest heaving for all the good it does him. His eye finds his brother again, brows furrowed. “Miss fuckin’ blackin’ out t’deal with shit.”
I don't care who I might hurt along the way, I'm fuckin' sinking Into every word, I don't care if you're lyin' when I'm drinking
Nate opens up to him like the underbelly of a particularly pissed off porcupine. Vulnerable only to him, with spines cast out against any who could hope to intrude. Bart eases closer, gauging the distance Nate needs by the shadows on his face, the feathering in his jaw. Some things stay the same, even when everything else feels impossibly different. The fire that rages in his brother's voice is one that can't burn Bartholomew, more like the sun's distant rays than the scalding flames they would be to anyone else. They are both men of coal, burned-through and capable of fostering the tiniest spark as an ember of a grudge, and in the space between his ribs Bart feels that fire spread between them as if seeking an additional host.
"Yeah, 'd be pretty fuckin' surprised if ye weren't," he agrees, tone dark in contrast to the sparking arcs of Nate's. The comment about his cranium prompts a snort. "See? Now I know yer angry, cuz ya wouldn't have such a lame ass comeback otherwise." His hand lifts to sink a nail with a precise blow into the beam he had chosen next to Nate, just as reluctant to be idle. And yes, completely willing to pretend to be blind and deaf if it means pulling Nate from the mire of his anger and into something more productive than even this.
"Aight, so ya can't drink. Can't sleep. What do Ascended do then? Vampire some poor maiden's neck in the alley behind a dingy bar? Cuz I can ask yer hubby for a skirt if I need to do some roleplay." Though he knows little about the bite, Bart knows what he's proposing is shocking enough to hopefully get some sort of disgusted reaction from his twin. Ripping out an old nail that had been warped by the damage on the beach, Bart grabs the beam it had been holding as it falls, and holds it in place as he moves to the side in plain directing of Nate to nail it back while he props it at the right height. As he does - Nate isn't angry or stupid enough to deny Bart - he sharply changes the subject to give his brother's mind something new to chew on, like a junkyard dog whose tire is on its last legs and needs a new one before it scales the chainlink fence.
"So uh, been thinkin'. Maybe I can help fix up the Society, and uh...work there, ya think? Put my nursin' to good use." Distraction it may be, it's similarly vulnerable, and while he doubts Nate will tell him no he's not quite used to nepotism as a whole.
everything look worse at night - I think I'm overthinking
i'll turn myself into a gun, because it's all i have, because i'm hungry and hollow
It is absolutely impossible to keep feeding the bright, angry, addicting spark of rage with Bart, his very presence adding a measure of control that had been out of reach for Nate alone. There's something about having another set of shoulders ready and waiting to shoulder the emotional burdens he can't even begin to explain. Something that makes them tamer, because he's already understood. One last belch of thick smoke comes out in the sneer that screws up the ascended's face in response to the snort. "Fuck off, maybe I'm just tryin' t'not make you cry anymore."
Nate lets his brother know exactly what he thinks of the cursed words that have just left him, a groan of "Cazzo Madre di Dio, yer depraved." The curse drops from him so easily, so naturally, as if it doesn't immediately bring to mind memories of being swatted around the head by an irate and offended grandparent. A hand lifts to touch between his teeth almost gingerly, the sharp tip of his canine poking into his thumb. "S'not some Nosferatu thing y'fuckin' skid." Much as it might irritate him, he cannot deny Bart, hands snapping to attention with a nail and hammer to reaffix the board.
Just as he's about to explain in detail what's wrong with the suggestion, Bart tosses him a scrap, something he can't help but fixate on. It's not just the thought, but everything that surrounds it. The one good eye Nate has right now focuses on his brother, taking in everything, the pinch between his brow, and the twist in his lips, and just like that something in him calms. "Think that sounds like a good idea." He offers back after a moment, something approaching a smile dragging itself out of the grave and onto Nate's face.
If nothing else, Nate is distracted away from his own shit for the afternoon, every passing minute lightening him more and more until they finally reach a critical mass of bullshit back and forth, work a distant memory as the twins riff about better days in another world, names and memories thrown back and forth.
