From Attuned to Ascended to Ancient, Kiada Njovu-Reyes has been reborn several times throughout her short life, but her fighting spirit has never once been diminished. With beauty, grace and a quick wit, Kiada is the whole package wrapped in an infectious smile. Recent endeavours have found her in the heart of the Hollowed Grounds, aiding the region and bettering it for her new Ancient kin, and whatever she does next, we know it's sure to pack a punch.
Congratulations, Kiada!
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 sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The contemplative silence followed, maneuvering like a wraith, a ghost, on the edges of his lungs, on the marrow of his bones. It was usually an element he corresponded too well, absorbing the sights, the sounds, keenly observing; but he didn’t like the way this one was strung together, haphazard, like waiting for another onslaught to fall. Perhaps her nods simply gave way so the quiet would persist, and he looked away, back down the row of chambers, choosing right, until it opened to a wider venture in the Burrows – some lizards slinking along the sides, then scurrying at their entry.
The question marked for him almost broke him out of the apprehension curling around his spine – a snort following through. “I always had,” he murmured. “I wanted to protect my loved ones.” The people he had left. And it’d been from a tender, young, early age that he’d asked for the shield and the might and the blade in the palms of his emboldened hands, offering to guard his land, his home, and then the community within it. But those stories were eternally bound to not remain victorious – he could’ve had all the power in the world and it wouldn’t have saved everyone and everything. Valuable life lessons that still hovered around him today, intermingling as specters and beacons.
As one who didn’t bother with subtle powers; because despite any stealthy prowess he’d managed to obtain, the man was far too monolithic to be hidden and tucked away, he tilted his head, curious and vague. “Have you met Mildew? She is a demigod in the swamps. Likes to deal with fortunes too.” He’d asked, out of good humor, about their reaches in Halo before then, when he’d been banished and exiled and adrift with plots and machinations in his head, but no way to grasp them. “Though she used cards.” Not kills.
His features didn’t seem to indicate anything other than brief speculation – as the Sword was just the sort of individual who believed he carved his own destiny – but inquisitive enough to humor her just the same. He wouldn’t be sacrificing any of the meat over his shoulder, but Belial might’ve snagged at another for them. With a single gesture to the peryton, the companion eagerly set aside his mangled crow, and unfurled his wings, setting off to pierce at the lizards who’d opted to stay, unfortunately, behind. With an arch of his brow once more, the General’s rumbles echoed against the columns and pillars. “And how do you see such things?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
The past tense strides between his words like an extra pair of footprints on a trail, hinting at untold regrets and unforgotten people. Her own stride falters faintly as curiosity weighs in her feet, but she does not press him. A face such as his, hard and guarded and astute, did not come from a life of ease. On the other hand, Chaele had known what it was to be sheltered, cherished, defended-- complacent, if only in the beginning. This life of scars and survival is one she had chosen over that one, not something that required any sacrifice except the grief of the family she left behind. Nothing had been thrust upon her, nothing undeserved.
“I am familiar with the divination rites of tarot and palm, of bone and flame. But I am most practiced with intestines,” she explains, head dipping downward in examination of Belial’s latest hunt. Blithe fangs sink into scaled flesh as beady little eyes fade from panic to the nothingness of a quick death. “It is said that a hunter imparts a piece of themself into each kill, which is imprinted on bones and viscera alike. I look for symbols in the veining, patterns in moisture, the texture of the contents, and such.” It is messy business, both in the manipulation of cold, slick innards and in the reading of vague, cryptic fortunes. But Chaele speaks without pretense or caution, supposing that it was hardly the bloodiest activity Deimos had heard of.
She steps toward the discarded crow then, watching Belial to see if he would object to her reaching for the bloody carcass. The haruspex intends only that it not be left behind, knowing little about the companion’s practical sense of stewardship. Lacking the strength in her injured arm to hoist it over her shoulder however, she would begin to drag it behind. She continues, “I do not meet with the divine if I can help it, but I have heard the name before. I imagine her divinations are more accurate than mine, but...” She looses a breath that resembles a laugh, or maybe she is simply growing weary from the walk. “We all start somewhere.”
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword had run his blade through far too many adversaries and enemies, and buried too many of his friends’ bodies, to even flinch at the notions of intestines. Reading them, however, was a different contemplation altogether, and his brow remained in the arched, curious, and somewhat baffled disposition, eyes narrowing, head tilting, so he appeared every aspect the inquiring predator. Pondering, perhaps, just how many pieces of himself he’d left behind in the people, monsters, and things he’d demolished for the sanctity of others. Or in the broader scope of vengeance.
Belial returned quickly, offering the lizard to the shaman, likely for her intense divination purposes, in exchange for his mangled crow back. Snagging at it, and stuffing it back between his fangs, he stayed beside Deimos’ boots, laying himself down on the stone floor while he plucked at more feathers.
“Understandable,” he finally ventured in aspects towards the deities, considering how the vast majority felt about the distinction of magic. “It took me a long time to meet any of them.” As for Mildew’s accuracy, he could only indulge in the faintest of grins. “She searched for potential.” In accordance with choices, with strength and determination, and in patience. There’d been no need for his brutal power – not now, anyway. Somehow he doubted entrails could embellish the same.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Another glint of a grin takes form on her mangled mouth, perhaps seen only by the creature whose eyeline sits so much lower than hers. She drops the gore crow gladly into Belial’s restless fangs, amused by his enthusiasm, then accepts the slain lizard in turn. Its warm blood seeps onto her hand as she examines it, feeling gently at the abdomen with her thumb.
“I have never read an animal’s fortune,” she mentions, as if telling a joke. Then she looks between the two quarries and, taking a cue from the seated peryton, guides her own bird onto the ground. The lizard’s tail is clenched between her teeth as she rummages through her bag, leaving a trickle or two of dark blood to soak into her bodice until she can find some twine to tie it to the strap. As she does so, she adds, “But I have never met an animal such as that one.”
Chaele’s toes point down the path, eager to see the end of it, but she does not pick up her quarry until either of the others move to continue. “Potential,” she repeats, her inquisitive pitch shifted sharp by the topic of the divine. “My readings do not presume a definite future, either. They are often riddling, and require interpretation. Nothing is written, after all. Who could have predicted one of us would meet a god?”
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
“He will likely be pleased by whatever he hears,” by way of another wry grin, settling just in one corner; eyes watching, scrutinizing as ever, until it appeared she had everything adjusted and ready. Then he began to move once more, strides entirely certain, seeking out the ferocity of the wind billowing from outside cavern walls. Belial bound upwards once more, chirping, though it was somewhat muffled by the crow in his mouth, launching into another ebullient display.
Nothing is written indeed; and the snort was muffled within his chest, very quiet, and not enough to echo off the chambers. He often wondered if the vagueness was merely a way to say everything was up to inferences and analysis at later junctures; a safekeeping of accuracy and definition in case other details went awry. “Not I,” he admitted; considering any time before, when he’d begged and pleaded and kneeled in front of altars with his head bowed and his soul tearing out of his chest, had been in acts of desperation. When things were no longer in his control. When he’d craved for another to become well, or when one of his own had been lost.
But the Sword hadn’t done that then – not when he’d stood in front of Safrin’s shrine and asked for more strength. “And not until I wanted to Attune.” There was a shrug of his shoulders, and then a jutting of his jawline towards another bend. “We should be at the end just around the corner.” In case she yearned to snag anything else in the interim.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
The droll tone in his voice does not go unnoticed, though perhaps the noise of a laugh does. His skepticism is defensible enough; what Chaele will never admit out loud is that what she has learned about prognostication is moreso a matter of hope than of truth, that the day her foretelling is more than an enigmatic guess is a day in the future. Whatever her limitations, the Abandoned cannot imagine following any other path.
“You were answered... so that you could become something else?” She summarizes, her cynicism much less hidden than his. She carries no ill will for the Attuned, but perhaps the flat notes in her voice best insinuate that she does not consider their talents any superior to true magic. “I imagine the god who did it considered it an improvement. Does it limit your magic in any way?”
She follows along in step with him, content to match his pace and watch his companion prance around them. It will only be later, when she is skinning her seventh snow hare in preparation of a cloak suitable for the snowy environs beyond, that she will realize how satisfying it has been-- to meander through warm caverns, to prattle about divinations and unicorns, to be in the company of someone practical and powerful. For now, she can only feel the bloody lesson in her arm and the weight of the carcass on her shoulder. With a fatigued sigh she notes, “The end of one thing is the beginning of another.”
Her chin lifts a little as a whiff of something catches her senses. Perhaps it is the gentle sting of a distant cold, the promise of hard stone turning to soft soil ahead. Or perhaps it is something else entirely, some danger that she must prepare to flee from or else be hurt in vain again. Chaele’s grip tightens on the scaly talons at her shoulder, anticipating anything.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He detected something in the quip of her words, but uncertain which proportions they derived from, he could only follow the patterns and themes of how he’d lived in this world. “So that I may have more power and strength.” To protect, to shield, to defend, time and time again, and perhaps one of the few moments he’d ever asked for anything for himself. Not a single bout of shame lingered in his soul for the decision, and he carried himself a little higher then – spine straightening, demeanor solid and balanced. “It does not.” No limitations, no stifling, just an unfurling of dominion and predacious whims – flickering and flowing through the beat of his pulse. “Some of my shifts have their own.” The great hound’s fiery paws, or the thunderbird’s crackling finesse.
Belial’s exuberance became more enervated as they reached the aperture – the wind, bellowing and howling outside the obsidian walls was the first hint, and then the stark contrast of endless ivory appearing on the other side. Blinding at first, and then the length of the cold scoring across the edges of warmth, combining into a bizarre essence along the entryway. With a small grin lacquered along the edges of his mouth, only a light, teasing air meandered from the rumble of his tones. “A starting point, perhaps?” Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he maneuvered into far more familiarity, a monolith of the mountains, by pressing immediately into the snow, rounding the corner, and pulling out the sled he’d left behind.
Thereafter, he dragged it further into the entrance until the runners gave too many protests, piling his gore crow haul into its open back, and pulling out the furs from his bag, preparing for the thresholds of winter, rather than the molten area. Belial happily jumped within, throwing his own prey around until more feathers fell and flew. While the Sword roped some proportions down, and shooed the peryton off, he turned his head back over his shoulder, glancing between masks and the unknown. “Are you continuing on to Halo?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
Chaele has never considered the possibility of augmenting one’s power in such a way; animal forms have always seemed a bit like the poor man’s magic. As his neck straightens for the pride of it, hers bends in contemplation. She does not know the desperate circumstances of his blessing, so she takes him for ambitious. A good ally to have.
Even though the winds and cold were present to herald their new beginning, her hand rises to shield her eyes from the blinding white of the world beyond. The sun is high, the sky clear, and the tundra collecting silvery snow in the late days of Leafchange. As Deimos moves forward, Chaele pauses to breathe in the brisk air, to plan her next moves. “Perhaps,” is the honest answer to both questions. “First I must make camp and dress the bird. I cannot carry it much farther.”
A hand jumps up to catch a feather from Belial’s toy as it dances toward her, its pitch blackness glinting iridescent in the fresh light. The shaman pulls it beneath her mask, sniffing it with occult purpose, then tucks it away in her pack. With the same hand she begins to tug free a folded cloak, then tips her own crow to the ground to better fasten the tattered wool around her shoulders.
“I might head east after that,” she contemplates, for hers is rarely a known destination. “Though this may be my last opportunity for a while, to explore the western reaches.” Sunlight reflects from the bright terrain and shines directly into the orbital holes of her mask as she squints northward, as if daring her to explore it.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
He listened while he worked, a tendency of attention and evaluation, as ropes were gathered and bags, prey, tied down along the sled’s parameters. The ambivalence caused him to snort, mostly because he was rarely a being immersed in vagueness and indecision, making an offering as he so casually, easily, did with many a stranger or familiar. “Well, I can take you through the tundra,” one hand patting over the sled, while he adjusted and flagged out one more tether and line for the front, to be dragged along the snow. She could either make camp along the way, in between pockets of ivory, amongst the Fangs, or within the Citadel itself. Whitebrim could offer some way of solace, if only because the cannibals were gone.
The wind howled and whipped around the entryway, and out of habit he lifted his gaze, his head, to its ferocity, enjoying the beat and pulse of its icy contortions, before pondering the topic further, nodding at her insinuation. “Deepfrost will have us cut off from using the portal.” Not that he yearned to any longer, not when his wings could stretch and unfurl and grant illustrious liberation, freedom; but the option remained for many other individuals. An almost teasing grin curled along the fringes of his mouth, somewhat Cheshire and juvenile, maybe in challenge, in jest, or to see just how far she’d wandered. “Have you ever been to the Draig?” With all its draconic reaches and dangerous, lethal dominions?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
“The Draig Cordillera?” She clarifies with a bitter huff, the truest laugh she has mustered yet. “No… I am curious, but not suicidal.” Then she rubs her tired shoulder, the bird remaining momentarily at her feet as she eyes its deposited brothers on the sled. If she takes his offer, it would likely mean visiting the city itself-- something that fills her with a sort of dread which defies logic but sates an old, cloying habit. Still, it would certainly be a lifted burden to make use of his sled, his protection, his experience.
Her attention shifts toward the area directly around them, in search of any spare grasses or blooms which may better serve her fresh wound than the volcanic soil that held them. It is perhaps an excuse to gather her thoughts, her choices, her intentions, but so too is it the shaman’s idle instinct to seek out what might be useful. A small elderbush sapling makes itself known and she bends to pluck up a sprig of it, twisting it between two fingers in quick contemplation. A decision is made at that moment, a wordless agreement which manifests in Chaele dragging her kill to Deimos’s sled and tying it on.
There is a suspicion at the tip of her tongue, all but confirmed by the way he inhaled the frigid air and contested her itinerant nature. When the words make it past her teeth, they are not doubtful. “Have you?”
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates
The huff inspired a broad widening of his grin, boyish again, and then a laugh that echoed and resounded through lungs and against walls. Amused by the sentiments, and that she was amongst those who stood for survival rather than bullheaded audacity (he’d like to know, somewhere in the reaches of this world, just how many had wandered into the midst and come back out alive), he solidified everything within the sled. Then watched as she made her decision – restraining this bout of amusement for a snort as the bird was tossed within its other slaughtered brethren.
Belial made a chirping noise and moved over, somehow regaining his seat in the Sword’s movements and distractions, leaving a space for Chaele to decide where to place herself. While the General narrowed his gaze at the peryton for a moment, the inquiry made its way back in a volley; leaving him to shake his head, brow casually arching at the sapling she’d managed to snag. Presuming it was for some healing measures, he let the curiosity dissipate into his rumbling tones. “No. I have seen enough dragons.” Enough horrors, enough terrors, enough friends dying, enough pieces of ignorance blending into trauma, enough sieges on a Citadel that hadn’t deserved it.
But then, the mischief clambered back once more, perhaps an indication, a warning, as he grabbed hold of the rope and began to tug it out of the entrance, half a joke making its way past his mouth. “Would you prefer a leisurely stroll or a run?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead The rising of the horns, ahead
His answer surprises her, but also impresses a certain practicality upon the man who she similarly supposed might be audacious. The minnow assumes the trout is king, until the eagle comes to roost.
The notion of dragons intrigues her, inspires her to look toward the sky as if there might be some reptilian shadow to intimidate them. What she notices instead is the descent of the sun: still bright in the cloudless late afternoon, but threatening an inevitable night in these harsh lands. Her reply is spoken upward, her similarly carved neck and chin fluttering beneath the shadow of her mask. “I should think there is not much leisurely about Halo’s reaches.” Nor about most places outside city walls. That is what drew her to the wilds-- not the danger or the adversity, but the challenge that made one feel as if they deserved to live.
As the sled slips from dark soil to soft ice, Chaele finally notices the space that has been made for her atop it. In truth she had begun to prepare for her own exertion, calculating the time it might take for her to tire beside this monolithic acquaintance. It is a rare but satisfying feeling to step onto the little platform, the opulence of a sedentary journey pulling a slight grin over her concealed lips. She slides her elderbush herb into her pack and tucks her skirts beneath herself. “But if you intend to reach the city before dark, it may be best to make haste.”
“Depends,” he mustered with another grin, cheeky and juvenile, before an indistinct roll of his shoulders. If one was strong enough, capable enough, there were certainties more than risks; but Deimos still didn’t take the potentials for granted. Too many instances with ursurs, with dragons, with other roaming beasts, had ensured wisdom permitted, persisted, and rang through with modicums of wiles and might.
The acceptance of a swift nature was really all he needed anyway – the Cheshire glint along his mouth was probably the best served warning for impending actions. “Best hang on then,” and Belial chirped, excited perhaps, for the upcoming motions. Steering the sled away from the overhang of the Climb, and fully back out into the snow, he took one long inhalation of air, and shifted, changed, altered entirely.
Hound nature prevailed within an instant later – massive, powerful, and potent, paws pressed into the ice, into the rime, into the tracings of tracks and behemoths. Stygian and obsidian fur coaxed and enticed at the ferocity of the wind, but even it couldn’t haunt and loom; no sooner had he stretched his limbs defiantly into the wake of the earth again, did he grasp the rope with his teeth. No harness. No trappings. Just his potency and prowess.
Immediately barreling – the speed swift, certain, and sure, limbs extending into great stride, completely unhampered by the prey, person, or peryton in the sled, sliding right behind him. Freedom, liberation, some reverence upon the way he chased down the ramparts of the world – clear and defined, his outline vivid and stark against the endless ivory.
04-27-2022, 12:56 AM (This post was last modified: 04-27-2022, 12:57 AM by Chaele.)
in tenebris est veritas.
Calloused fingers, already clenched around whatever rope or edge she could find as a handhold, tighten further as she witnesses his change. Whatever words she had to reply are lost with the puff of white air that sighs from her mouth, somehow both incredulous and impressed. The hairs on the back of her neck rise with the electricity of anticipation and she offers a glance to Belial, as if to confirm what she is seeing.
Reverence is the word for it. Chaele has her own misguided views about the gods and their worth, but she cannot deny the allure of the wilderness, the sharp smell of the snow, the surge of teeth bared down and ropes pulled taut. The land itself seems to whistle in her ears like so many hymns, her eyes running wildly over the rushing world in earnest prayer.
“Will we make it in time?” She cries over the gale, though whether he heard her or could even reply is a question on her mind. Her chin rises as she raises her voice, which causes her mask to slip, its antlers buffeted by the winds that stream harshly in the hound’s wake. Chaele catches it and attempts to hold it for a time, but the need to secure herself onto the sled is too great; she is forced to remove it and stow it quickly away. Her braided hair is then free to fly out behind her, clattering with so many herbs and stones and teeth, while her face is exposed to the elements for the first time in a long time. Whatever ritual modesty the mask upholds will surely be honored by Deimos’s forward-facing task-- perhaps he will not see how the runes on her arms and throat continue up her face, a deep split in her lip stretched pink with a thrilled grin.
