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!
Moments; they would have instances sparsely thrown and hastened out into the world, in between good days, bad days, political leanings, outreaches to turn into nothing, cataclysms vanquished in the snow, insurrections brewing outside walls. And he’d been told so many times over to take what he could, to leave aside the vehement potential, to not sink into the traps and snares of machinations, to place things for another day, another time, another place. To savor what they already had.
So he took a calm evening, where the frigid wind wasn’t too sharp, when the soldiers had been sent home, or to their designated duties of guarding the walls – not to rehash events. Not to brim and brood. Not to gnash their teeth into pieces and frustrations. Sentiments of amusements instead, what they already had so little of.
He’d already taken one of the braziers and elongated it into a brilliant fire, settling it in the middle of chairs. The Valkyrie’s had been granted pillows and blankets for her comfort; the Sword didn’t much care, and was content with his furs out in the middle of the training grounds – beneath stars and snow and the knoll of his climbing wall that still remained. A gathering of food had been stored beside each seat too; marshmallows, chocolate, crackers, intentions of s’mores with long metal tines instead of sticks; merely waiting until the appropriate time, winding along the intervals of snow. His companions were strewn about, Zuriel picking through pieces of wildlife managing to burst through frigidity, Belial launching from the walls and gliding downwards. The General himself close to the flames, permitted this idle ease for however long they could grasp it.
you are such a soft and messy thing, nobody knows how to take care of you
Where there are sweets to be consumed, Hotaru is surely not far behind. Her weakness for such things are a well-guarded secret, but well-guarded is scarcely applicable to Deimos at all when it comes to most things having to do with the Valkyrie. As if hunting out the scent, Hotaru arrives on silent feet made all the more so by feline predilections. A pleased hum not unlike a purr curls in her chest as she happily - and awkwardly, considering her rather huge belly - descends onto the pillows and blankets the Sword had accumulated for her. Through the bond the warmth of her love for him is like a lazy ocean, ebbing and flowing with each beat of her heart. These moments are stolen infrequently, but cherished above all else.
Plucking the marshmallows up like a greedy vulture might a rotted carcass, eager fingers ply one from the bag to set atop the fire with little time to spare. Sharp, pale eyes watch in hawklike manner as nimble fingers rotate the stick to ensure a perfect golden brown that will suit her picky tastes. Only then does she seem willing to talk, like a hangry girlfriend finally being given food. "Now, consider this: pickles. I know it's a horrible crime, but my stomach thinks it would be a fine addition to these s'mores." If only they had them on hand...Hotaru would certainly take the leap on test driving that particular combo.
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.
There was a retort laden behind his teeth, buried somewhere in the crosswires and crossfires of his cranium, but he shook it instead, grabbing hold of the long metal tine and shoving a marshmallow upon its top. Half-inclined to shove hers out of the way by mere mischief alone, he instead strove to simply remain content in their idle space – comfort, ease, no walls, no fortifications, no titles, no triumphs; just lingering in the peace and solidarity. Once she’d perfected hers, he placed his near the flames, rotating it gradually, accordingly, with a practiced grace to the munitions, permitting the control of the fire to contort it to a vivid golden brown.
And then inclining it towards his mouth, rather than committing to s’mores just yet.
But at her suggestion, he visibly grimaced, nose wrinkling, reeling back further into his chair, feet propped up on the edges of another unlit brazier. “No.” Visibly unimpressed with the notion, he ate the marshmallow, satisfied without the bizarre combination of sweet and…pickle abominations. “That is disgusting.” Then he laughed, teasing and taunting. “Your poor taste is showing again.”
you are such a soft and messy thing, nobody knows how to take care of you
His own perfectionism in his marshmallow matches hers, and she spares an unladlylike snort of amusement under her breath to see it. It is so telling of their personalities that it can be nothing short of humorous. The need for perfection, control; the refusal to accept anything but the exact satisfaction for their tastes. Except Hotaru is already halfway through her own concoction by time Deimos’ has touched the flame, practically savaging the little dessert sandwich. As such his rebuff has her snickering crumbs, graceless and messy in ways she only ever is with him.
Swallowing and thumbing away stray sticky threads, Hotaru casts an amused glance his way. “Hey, blame the baby, not me. They’re adamant it sounds delicious.” She’s merely the unfortunate victim, the vessel for their desires. Or so she’ll defend herself with. “They’ll be born in Leafchange I think,” she notes blithely, glancing about at the long shadows. Already it is turning colder. “I’ve been speaking to them a lot. Maybe we should tell a spooky story, since they’ll be children of the season.” Pale irises glitter with mischief, eager to hear a tale spun by the normally reticent man.
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.
He grabbed hold of another, stabbing it upon the tines as he might’ve done ages ago to enemies, ensuring it held fast, while he bent it towards the flames, rotating gracefully. A diligent and dangerous poise to his perfections, to his dastardly wake, and even in the eyeroll as Hotaru gave her child blame. His eyes flickered back down to the embers and cinders, to the ash already rumbling through, to the bottom of the brazier, to the way worlds and seasons shifted. Leafchange. Leafchange brought faith in souls departed. In the crinkling of colder air, in the promise of winter, in the shades of ends and beginnings. Suiting, perhaps, that new life could be brought within those sanctions – over and over and over again.
If he had any misgivings about it, he said nothing.
The Sword’s eyes lifted once he’d finished the second marshmallow and its gilded filaments, leaning back into his chair, feet still propped, still at ease; spine not rigid, the earth not poised to strike them down now. At her suggestion, he did rally a snort. “A spooky story.” What a way to start off into the void – on echoes and fringes of horror. “I can do my best,” which may not be much, both of them knowing his propensity for concise layers.
But the deep rumble was there, coinciding with his memories, picking away at the lacquer long since instilled in lives worth living. “There was once a realm in the forest, beside the crashing waves. Cliffs that endured, mists in glades.” It only seemed fitting that he start with the Edge. “One day a gold dragon came to the people living there, demanding the land, despite claiming peace. For this kingdom was beheld by the moon, and she wanted it for herself.” A sigh, a twist and a turn from days gone by. “The people said no.”
And that hadn’t mattered either. “So the dragon invaded, and gave no armistice. She took and she took, until she had it all – the moon, the forest, the cliffs, and the waves.” Was it a story of scary twists and turns? No. But it was layered in warnings, and if they listened hard enough they might’ve seen fruition building behind the sentiments, another proportion meant for them. “And the people were forced out of their home.”
His head tilted, pretending as if the tale was over, reaching for a third marshmallow. Maybe there weren't ghosts laden in the tale; but they lived and breathed in his eyes, in his bones, in his wake.
