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!
The lighthouse shrine is perhaps his favorite, despite having yet to call Safrin down at its side. Today the waves are rough against the cliffs, and the stairs give metallic creaks as he ascends their spiraling lengths. Perhaps it's the rough weather or the colder afternoon, but whatever the reason, as Harper reaches the open air of the top, nearly every spare inch is infested with Hels. They stare at him with unimpressed beady eyes and only shuffle along the railing when he waves his hands at them to try and shoo them off into the open air.
The shrine is covered in their excrement, and Harper frowns severely at the lingering creatures. With a bird form of his own he can't exactly blame them - but he does all the same. "Come on now, git!" he grumbles at them, shoving one off the railing where it catches itself with its wings and squawks at him indignantly, re-alighting upon the railing further down much to Harper's frustration.
The Sword still had no intention of motioning towards a shrine of Safrin’s with anything other than apologies, regrets, and promises to do better. To right the wrongs. To blend straight back into their mistakes, and alter the course. And while they had things in motion, it still didn’t sit right to wonder, to presume; so he marched diligently up and around the stairs with artifacts and offers in hand, and nothing else.
But he could hear a semblance of noises surrounding, pervading through the threshold. It seemed someone else had already claimed the altar and sanctuary, and the soldier very nearly turned around, back the way he came. He could always continue the pardoning tour later.
Except he paused at the way the voice resounded, and the squawking that seemed to follow suit. Brows furrowing, he gave forth a collective sigh, before continuing upwards, placing the items back into his bag.
Whatever he expected while ascending the winding path – it wasn’t the depicted image waiting for him at the top. A hoard of Hels, clearly taking ownership of the sanctum, had rampaged through, and had been for some time, if the droppings were any evidence. He recognized the grumbling figure from long, long before, but still layered it as a question as he leaned against the railing, blinking against the haphazard display. “Harper?” Muffling another snort, because some part of this whole thing made him want to laugh, he jutted his jaw towards the irritating creatures. “Do you want some help?”
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
On the other hand, as Harper hears someone else advancing up the metal stairs, he is both relieved and intrigued. Far more accepting of socialization than the man that emerges from the depths of the lighthouse, looking far too large for the space. Delight overtakes Harper's genial features, recalling days of sparring when he had visited Kiada in Halo what feels like ages ago. Irritation dissolves like mist beneath the sun as his name is spoken, pleased that such a formidable and honorable man remembered the likes of Harper.
"Deimos! It's been ages, how are you?" He's halfway to making his way towards the Sword when the offer is made, and Harper's wandering attention is brought sharply back to the problem at hand. Turning to squint at the birds, he gives an exasperated huff of a laugh. "I'd love some help. I don't want to hurt them, but they've only got half a brain between all of them anyway, and it's tempting even if they didn't intentionally ruin the shrine." A problem for after they accomplish forcing the birds to depart. "They're quite unimpressed by me, and I don't blame them." Laughing as he gestures to himself. Fit, yes, but still just a man who doesn't have the heart to hurt them.
Deimos remembered Harper as an affable, amiable sort, and despite the fluctuations of change, time, and seasons long since gone, it seemed those aspects remained instilled in the younger man. He permitted the hint, the ghost, of a smile at the corners of his mouth, eyes reeling from bird to bird, nest to nest, and finally back to the Attuned. “I am all right. And yourself?” Other than being harassed by birds, of course.
Altruistic too, it seemed, with the matters at hand. The Sword wouldn’t have hesitated to bludgeon, set aflame, or drain their lives – but there were probably better, easier, and not as lethal forms of pressuring the Hels out of their newfound kingdom. “I can compel them away,” by means of suggestion, considering the open windows, and the rest of the smaller proportions. The rest of his notions remained largely unsaid, such as blasting them away with magic. “And then Safrin would probably appreciate this place being cleaned up.” Gaze glancing downward, then upwards, at the general vicinity of the mess, before glancing back to Harper, waiting for the accord and agreement, or any other motions.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
It's a good thing Harper is used to reading such subtleties the body permits even unwittingly, as his own smile widens and warms impossibly further to see Deimos' answering geniality. "Good, though usually any visit to a shrine means we're on one end of the emotional spectrum hm?" Chuckling slightly mirthlessly at the veracity of it. The Gods were oft sought out in times of emotional height, whether that was despair with a need for guidance, or jubilation with a desire to share. Fealty present regardless of which side the pendulum swung to.
Compulsion is not something Harper has much knowledge of, but it definitely seems like it would help. "Can you compel this many?" he questions, not worried so much as curious as to the man's capabilities. That same hint and glimmer of militaristic intrigue that Deimos had already seen firsthand when they had sparred. "I can help scare them off regardless," he assures next, and winks with a boyish grin before his face is transforming to include a long, rough grey elephant's trunk. Waiting for Deimos' signal, he prepares to loudly trumpet at the irritating buzzards to scatter any that might escape the Sword's reach.
Deimos answered the first inquiry with a habitual arch of his brow and snort; for he didn’t know Harper well enough to delve into emotions, and rarely described them with those he trusted. “Perhaps,” was given in a rhetorical semblance, admitting to nothing at all with a haphazard sort of smirk that betrayed very little, save for the impression that he wouldn’t be sharing, or asking. Harper could have inclinations.
As for the second one, he shrugged his shoulders, quickly gazing and scrutinizing over the irritating flock. “I have not pushed any limits.” Maybe they’d see today. Hadn’t walked along those edges enough, not with Attuned proportions, and sometimes not even with Abandoned inklings. Sometimes, it felt like there’d been no end to his requests of the magic stored within – not like he’d been before – stronger, tougher, and far more determined now.
Though some sort of a startled laugh escaped him as Harper’s face elongated into a trunk and the trumpeting noise bellowed, echoed, and reverberated through the shrine. With widened eyes, he gazed directly at the other man with a shake of his head, before reeling back to what he was supposed to be doing.
An overt command drove through him within a moment, centered and squared on the Hels; piercing, cold, stark, driving, demanding, leaving no room for any quandaries or rebuttal. Leave.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Deimos is certainly not the first reticent soul he has ever encountered, and Harper merely grins at his elusive answer. He isn’t one to pry, and likely wouldn’t be inclined to share his own reasons for being here if the Sword felt inclined to ask. Instead, it’s easier to be absorbed with tasks and goals. To focus on what can be fixed in the here and now. Even if that’s just scaring away some pesky birds.
Deimos’ laughter makes him preen, and his trumpeting warbles a funny note as the man inside desires to laugh in a way the animal cannot translate. Between both attempts, the hels speed off in a squawking cloud that leaves downy feathers to litter the deck of the lighthouse. Shifting his face back, Harper laughs brightly, hands high on his hips in triumph. “Huzzah! Good job partner,” he jokes, throwing a wink at Deimos before jauntily spinning on his heel to survey the mess anew. “Problem is, cleaning supplies aren’t exactly a common offering for a shrine. Think there’s a janitors closet downstairs?”
Within a matter of moments that portion of the task was over – birds evading any other potential threat by giving into demands and noises. The Sword managed another snort as he glanced over the rest of the shrine and its disheveled expanse. Any cosmic balance of power, might, and starry sheen had been almost expertly misplaced by the gulls – in between downy feathers, droppings, and all manner of crustacean parts picked clean. “Even if there is,” which he highly doubted, permitting one more chuckle to loosen through his lungs, “I can just make us some.”
He considered what would be best for the moment, alternating between calculations, eternally deciphering and contemplating things over; even in simplistic venues. “Or I could blast it all with water.” High-powered, high pressured, ensuring some of the bigger proportions could be taken away and loosened off – maybe sent out the window to chase after the Hels – allowing them to get into the rest of the grime without issue. His piercing gaze slid back to Harper, an inclination to tilt his head, feline and canine simultaneously, awaiting the decision.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
The two men stand gazing over the wreckage caused by the intrinsic nature of pests, winged or not. What once was beautiful and untouchable has become a roost for the mundane, and that change in status heralds a worthy opponent of cleaning. Surprise alights on Harper’s features at Deimos’ revelation, intrigued by the idea of such (seemingly) menial magic. He is still, even after years of living in Caido, adjusting to magic not being a source of suffering and a sign of a blackened soul. “You can? That’s incredible, how does it work?” There’s a sad lack of connection in this world between science and magic, which leaves the modern man adrift most days, but it does nothing to dim his curiosity.
He is honored to have the man consider his own input at all, given the respect he holds for the former General, and it’s clear in the sunny smile that distracts from straightened shoulders. “I’m sure you have fantastic control, but maybe only for the floors and railings? I feel like Safrin would appreciate a more delicate touch for the shrine itself.” A twist of mischief and humor curls in the corner of Harper’s mouth as he envisions Safrin’s (terrifying) dismay over them doing the magical equivalent of powerwashing her shrine free of bird shit.
He arched a brow at the inquiry; forgetting, perhaps, that others had come from worlds not quite exposed. He might’ve believed Harper to be amongst the many who’d seen the nature of incantations and enchantments spread out – but the presumption proved false. Another low chuckle rumbled through. “I can create a multitude of things. I picture them in my mind,” and then, for dual purposes of display and future use, the soldier’s eyes flickered to the floor. From there, he extended both hands, permitting them to flicker, to flare, in gold and gilded filaments, as the images from his machinations conducted quickly, efficiently, into buckets and mops. Filled with water, for better measures. There he ceased, stepping back, pondering over the next set of suggestions.
Deimos did have fantastic control, and he arched a brow at the indication, muffling another smirk. “Fine,” by way of a wrinkled nose and slight pout, as if source of his amusements was being fettered off in dismay.
Turning away, slightly, to employ that composure towards the railings – a streamline of the element immediately rendered upon the stained, feathery proportions, intending to blast the proportions clean.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Magic is familiar, yes, but you also don't usually get to ask questions of those trying to kill you with it. Admittedly there had been the odd few narcissists willing, but none as demonstrative and blase about it as Deimos. Harper watches, enchanted, as items surface from seemingly nothing. Desperately trying to scientifically explain that which he knows defies the entire basis of the genre. "Amazing!" he breathes, never so intrigued by a mop before but finding himself stroking the handle like it was made of gold. "What are the limitations?" Was a source material required, like alchemy?
He grins sheepishly at the man's definitely-not-a-pout, though he ogles at the waterworks for a long moment before forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Gently picking up the offerings to clean each one individually, dunking those that can be submerged into the water and sadly discarding what is withered or cannot be saved. Then it is only a matter of cleaning the alter beneath, which he does reverently by hand, humming a nonsensical tune while Deimos powerblasts everything inches away, completely outshining his meager efforts without breaking a sweat (or his cool guy aura).
A signature arch to his brow at the conjecture, with a light grin forming in the corners of his mouth. “Seems to be based around elements. Or whatever other magic someone contains.” Where he’d mastered proportions of fire, water, earth, and air, others might have constituents with animals – like Loren once displayed – capable of processing differential assortments of the creative incantations. For a long time they’d been confused; since the adornments had split off, grown weaker, and then returned with a vehement force. Alterations and changes in the world certainly weren’t unordinary, and this had been easily overcome.
While Harper tends to the reverential sanctions, the soldier washed over the rest of the railings, content with the process. When it was all whisked away on a rush of air, and maybe residue streamed directly out the window (towards some unsuspecting, lingering Hels oops), Deimos tended to the floors. More power, more precision, more might came along some of the more encrusted portions, starting towards the stairs and working himself backwards towards where the offerings were assembled – intentionally leaving Harper’s area untouched from the maelstroms.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Ah, so some mix of chemistry and alchemy then. It's endlessly fascinating, and though he does not at all regret being tied to Safrin, Harper can't help but spare a moment to be envious of such magical feats. "Amazing. Again," he chuckles, because it's not often he's reduced to repetition considering his otherwise verbose nature. Science may not have been his forte back home, but crime scene analysis required a more than rudimentary understanding of it, and he knows this particular train of thought is going to keep him awake trying to find connections that don't exist.
Deimos' efforts are distracting as such, but Harper finds a steady rhythm in cleaning the alter by hand. It means he is much slower of course, but the man finds himself praying as he does so. More of an internal sharing of thoughts and events than requests, but it helps him feel closer to Safrin that way.
Standing, Harper hops over the center railing without a second thought. He has leapt from buildings twice the height of the lighthouse with only grapnels. Though this time it's easy to take wing mid-descent, fluttering about on the lower level to find an adequate rag that is plucked in dark talons and brought back to the pinnacle. No streaks allowed here, no sir. Harper transforms back easy as you please, drying off the beaded water on the altar before deeming it perfect and putting the prior offerings back with a reverent hand. "I'd hate to keep them from roosting, but do you think there's a way we can block the inside? I believe it's usually glass, though I wonder if it shattered when the volcano erupted." Or if it had ever existed at all.
His brow arched slightly as he watched Harper practically vault over the railing – figuring he’d hear some manic crashing at the other end of the movement. When there was no echo or residual collision, his brows furrowed suspiciously. Ceasing the water intervals, he waited some churning of movement again, and when the other man returned with no explanation, the Sword was left to ponder the entire thing. Bizarre. Perhaps he’d shifted midway, and that would account for the lack of impact.
Kept away from the inquiry settling on his tongue, the soldier rallied on the other topic. “I can make some.” He paused momentarily, considering the options. “Though Safrin would likely prefer some adorned with her features and elements, hm?” Quirking half a grin, he crouched downward, beginning the creative process, waiting for Harper’s input.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
