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!
Melita returned to familiarity soon after coming home – settling herself in a tree, bare foot and content, leaning against the trunk, and staring out over the abyss. One leg draped downward over the bough, dangling and maneuvering back and forth while she seethed and contemplated – probably both – still uncertain over some future movements. On what she was going to do next. Conspiring was never something she was particularly genius at – mostly considering they were foolish notions, and she opened up the letter she’d received again, reading it over a few times, smoothing out the crinkles, before closing it back up.
As she went to put it away in her bag, Fangorn rumbled, pointing his vines down below. Her eyes followed, flickering in the beams of the sun and the indicated direction. And there they were, some hordes of gathered pumpkins, grumbling and hissing along the ground, near the bridge. Were they picking at it? It was difficult to tell, and truth be told, maybe they didn’t know what they were doing either. Snorting, she sneered at them from above. “Come on guys, don’t you have anything better to do?”
He slinks along the jungle, more content here than he is in Torchline. He doesn't dare let himself get too far away but the hustle and bustle of the city is always just too much for him. There will likely be an influx of people when Longnight comes and he can taste people preparing for it already.
He's not sure what he's hunting for, just that he is hunting. An excuse to use his claws and fangs for something. To satisfy the predatory urges he's starting to have more often. Except he's about to smack one of the gourds when he hears someone speak, someone familiar. Golden eyes narrow to slits as he looks up at the girl up the tree, across the bridge. He almost hisses before he realizes who it is. He gives her something akin to a meow, or as close to that as a jaguar can make, before he's making his way onto the bridge. The nice thing about having four paws is the balance. Also if push comes to shove, he's got claws.
Predators were an accustomed sight; though the one that meows towards her was familiar. A relief, in a way, that she didn’t have to deal with both gourds and a strange jaguar, and she didn’t resist giving him a little wave, even if he couldn’t do so in return. “I’m not sure what they’re doing,” she indicated, pointing towards the hustle and bustle of the beasts, grabbing hold of her bow, of her arrows, sighing into the humid air. It was tiring, constantly being bombarded with things so innately drawn and attuned towards Fangorn, who she’d defend with her life. Inescapable little demons – it was too bad they’d decided to venture out from the Grounds at all.
Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head, suddenly aware of their actions. “Are they chewing on the bridge?” Which could be a larger issue – half of the planks didn’t look sturdy to begin with, and a few rounds of hissing, pointed teeth might send shards and proportions of it down.
And Locke was on said bridge. Not that he's really worried because he's entirely too confident in this skin. But it'll be fine. He slinks closer, trying to keep himself steady and only stepping where he's sure he'll be okay. Once he's to the grumbling hoard, he hisses, swiping at them but not trying to hit them. More just trying to shoo them away from the bridge.
One seems to notice him and decides trying to yeet the 200 pound cat off the bridge is more fun than yeeting the whole bridge. Vines wrap around his front paw and the gourd tries to pull him towards it. Locke hisses and tries to pull back but the bridge just isn't stable enough. He gives Melita a worried look before looking back at the gourd. Well this isn't good.
Melita watched from above, the slightest of frowns beginning to mar her features. Betwixt and between, all because of her affiliation with the animals themselves – but the creatures were being dangerous again, and the potential for Locke to suddenly be involved in their treachery and obnoxious efforts diminished the irritated semblances in the back of her mind.
Weapons readied, bow drawn, sigh heaved – the youth placed a training armament upon the strands; hoping, perhaps, the blunter edges may not be as painful for the cretins. “I’ll try to hit it!” She announced, in case Locke couldn’t get himself out of the vine-work, not intending for him to be mauled in the process. The youth took aim, drew a steady breath, and then permitted it to let fly – listening to the whirr of it in between the humid streaks of air.
With one paw pressed against the creature that's successfully ensnared him and his back legs as firmly secured on the bridge, Locke pushes. The gourd only tightens its grip before Melita's arrow hits it. It's not enough to kill the thing but it does startle it enough that Locke is able to get his paw away from it with a final tug. Another growl and Locke is done with the grumbly vegetables. He bunches his muscles and attempts his best jump to get over them. Jaguars are no snow leopards though and while he clears them for the most part, he finds himself all too close to them. He hisses, fangs bared and that seems to do it for some of them. He's so over this.
It sort of worked. Between a launch of leopard endeavors and her arrow, Locke had at least been released. But he was still surrounded, the little hoard closing in. It was unfortunate, because something told her he’d readily smash and maul them, perhaps if Fangorn wasn’t here. Regardless, she could at least continue assisting, especially from the angles, the height, she’d obtained.
“I can clear a path for you?” By way of suggestion – though figuring she wouldn’t get much of a response, the youth applied herself anyway. Notching another, she rallied, volleyed, sent one to the gourds, then another, and another, fast and sharp, relying on muscle memory and skill to hasten forth an escape route for the Attuned.
He grumbles a response to her question, watching as she starts her rain of arrows. It does the job, clearing a path for him, or enough of one at least. He hates this, all of it, for her. He wishes there was some better way to compel the little beasts away. But it looks like it's just murder on the table. But maybe gentle murder?
He makes it closer to the tree she's in but opts for one a bit further away. He manages to pull himself up it but not before kicking one of the gourds away. The little grumbling seems to have thinned at least. Maybe they'd get bored of their prey being in a tree. He shifts back, man again and significantly less comfortable in the branches.
"What do you suppose has them riled up so badly? Think they can feel the war?" Why wouldn't they? Surely something of this scale would affect even the little creatures.
The arrows seemed to have done some good; enough for Locke to make his way through, enough for the bridge to remain in place, enough for some semblance of peace amidst and amongst the bizarre interfolds. She tucked her arrows away, watching some ramble and amble off, snagging at Fangorn to be in her arms instead of her weapons, placing her chin on the top of his cranium while he grumbled something.
She only brought any further attention into the fold at Locke’s inquiry from his own tree, her brows furrowing beneath canopies and leaflets. “I don’t know. It hasn’t been this bad in a while. They usually stay in the Hollowed Grounds.” Then the youth shook her head, because there had been another instance. “Once before, when the blight was going strong, the Punking came out – full of the sickness, trying to get to the Greatwood. We had to get rid of it.” Was there another lurking? Or something worse?
He wonders how long it will take the beasties to ignore them or if they're filled with some kind of insatiable lust for blood. Maybe this is just revenge for all the pies they've been made into.. She puts her weapons away and he thinks she prefers it this way. Locke shifts his weight to face her properly, jaguar claws sinking into the tree to hold him steady, as the rest of him is human.
"Maybe there's a Punqueen out there or somethin'. How do they even.. Seeds?" The last part is mumbled as he watches them try to scramble up the trees the pair are in. They seem more plant than meat but magic is very much a thing. "Part of me wants to look around for the source but I'm not that invested. I'm sure it'll slow down once the snows come."
Fangorn continued to grumble to his constituents, but like in so many recent years past, they ignored him. Their vines snaked along tree roots, but couldn’t seem to fathom a way to reach the higher, lofting branches, so they were safe from any current onslaughts. Melita sighed through the leaves and fronds, watching them billow, twist, and turn; some of their own accord, some with the humid breeze. “Probably,” she answered a little hollowly to his first question; never really considering it.
But she nodded, uncertain if Locke could even see it from his whereabouts. “That’s usually how it happens.” The pumpkins retreated, back to wherever they roamed in all the other seasons, until the following autumn. Her eyes watched as some started to cease and desist already though, rolling off into deeper sections of the wood. “This might be our chance,” she laughed, hinting towards escape as she pointed in the direction the pumpkins weren’t occupying.
She doesn't really answer him and he doesn't really blame her for it either. It was a stupid question but still. He felt the need to share it out loud. Maybe Fangorn was looking for a girlfriend. Maybe a boyfriend? He's not sure how it works and Melita doesn't seem keen on informing him. Pumpkin mating rituals are the last thing he was expecting to be thinking about.
The orange fiends seem to have grown tired of the trio and that's the best he can hope for. They seem to drift away, called by something other than unreachable meals in the trees. He snaps his teeth at them anyway before giving Melita a wink.
Another moment passes and it seems like their chance is wide open. He waits for Melita to jump down before following. The pair manage their grand escape, back to what they were doing.
