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!
It has been five years to the day since Valeri’s death, since the wind-whipping, blood-spraying, throat-aching, heart-rending moment that took the light from his eyes. His bones never were laid to rest, at least not in any of the ways he might have liked, so this is the place where he must be remembered. This place, with its flowers and its benches and its wretched elegance, held the mourning energies of so many who had passed through it before. So it is the place she must go, with her little offering for him, to add her energy to the rest of them, to give this place its meaning and so give Chaele hers.
The sky is dark and close, clouds hanging low as they hold on to the last blue light of evening. The rain has already fallen and threatens to again– all the better, despite the mud on her boots and the puddles in her path, if it means that she might be left alone to her grief. The totem in her hand hangs from a bright blue string, his favorite color. It is made of an old set of divination cards, his favorite ritual, in the crude shape of a moth, his favorite animal. And though his favorite tree does not grow in this area, she will find a place to hang it.
But first she finds something strange on the ground. She is far from the road, for they both preferred such places, and had only looked down to see her footing. At first supposing it to be some sort of interesting growth from the wet soil, she reaches for the reddish strands and attempts to lift them… but they have a unique texture that can only be one thing.
This was a hasty burial. The grave is shallow enough that the rain has already washed away its upper layer, and it doesn’t take long for Chaele to unearth the days-old face and bust of a fae woman’s corpse. The skin is bloated and greenish, a nest of young insects feasting on the hole in the shattered chest. A brief glance around reveals the dagger that might have done it, which she uses like a spade to clear away the rest of the earth. The shaman winces and tips her mask up atop her head to get a better look, bare hands moving liberally over the body in examination of it.
A staff. A shawl. Perhaps a purse. But this is more than items of material value. It is a body slain in violence, holding some grief or anger or fear that Chaele will never know. There is power in such a thing: in the roused heart, the metabolizing maggots, the fateful entrails, the cursed bones. It is a rare find, and not one she will take for granted. With a deep inhale of the rain-soaked air, she sets to harvesting what she can.
And a distant storm rumbles in the distance, like a warning.
Loki finds the pair - the shaman and the corpse - and if Wessex had to hazard a guess, it’s because of the smell of the flesh that’s starting to turn. The days must still be warm enough out here to allow a body to begin to decompose. The air still smells like a crisp Leafchange day to her, but she knows that others aren’t so lucky to have a dulled sense of smell in times like these.
Finding the other busy with something in the ground, Wessex isn’t even aware that she’s dealing with a body at first, having thought that Loki might have just found another person out here. She’s good like that. Half hound and half dragon, it seems, the ebony-scaled companion is her most valued partner. So it makes sense that Wessex calls out brightly to the other, “Hello!” as she approaches. It’s hard to mistake that mask and antlers for anyone other than one of the people she’d seen helping with the Spire.
As the demigod comes closer, she’s able to make out the shallow hole and a glimpse of a hand. A handful of painful scenarios come to mind, and all she can think is, please don’t let it be Ascended. She’s had just about enough family death as she can take right now.
“What are you doing?” she asks, this time, far less enthusiastically.
She first looks up at the familiar sound of massive, flapping wings, immediately lowering her mask from where it had been perched on the top of her head. The dragon, its strength and power and casual deadliness, casts a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach-- but not as much as the demi-god does. Chaele watches Wessex approach with tension in her shoulders, knowing full well how she must look kneeling beside this rotting corpse.
The shawl has been removed and folded, despite that it is already covered in mud and blood. To one side sits the staff and dagger; to the other are a series of small vials that hold collected fingernails, hairs, and maggots. She makes no attempt to hide them, though does set the hand she had almost dismembered back into the mud. There is a hunting knife in her hand, a thin line of blood on its edge.
“She was murdered, and buried shallowly,” the shaman answers, any further greeting escaping her in that compromising moment. She stretches a long, iridescent wing from beneath the body, unwittingly assuaging Wessex’s fears as she considers what part of the appendage might be the most useful to take. Or perhaps she is simply occupying her eyes so that she has little reason to meet the Wraith’s. “I am making use of her. And then I will bury her properly.”
Loki spirals down around the pair, silent other than the whistling of the wind around her body. Her attention isn’t currently on the shaman, but that doesn’t mean it’s can’t quickly be. She lands with a light thump on the frost-hard ground, little nose working in overtime to decipher everything about the scene. Wessex is only a couple steps behind her, brow furrowed into concern - and doing her best not to jump to conclusions. The demigod is more than familiar with people making shitty assumptions about her, and these days she strives to avoid being that kidn of hypocrite.
It’s a lot to take in: the vials, the body parts, the decomposing fae, and an active scavenging. Wessex gives herself a moment to take it all in (fae and all, which isn’t at all what the demigod expects) and finds nothing amiss (she isn’t really looking for a reason to doubt - it doesn’t matter, so long as the body isn’t Ascended). In fact, the Wraith squats down beside the shaman, taking a closer look at the body and wondering if she, too, ought to ‘make us of it.’
After all, no one had any problems taking fluid from Ascended for all kinds of nefarious purposes. What harm could a fae bone - a wing - or something else do? “I see. What do you use it all for?” she murmurs, indicating what the other has already collected.
The thunder rolls again: a distant, futile objection to what some might consider a desecration. It chills Chaele’s spine, but Wessex’s cautious interest is a small comfort. The shaman peers through one of the stag skull’s monocular eye holes, meeting the general’s gaze for the first time. A gentle bend of relief can be seen in her brow, punctuated by an appraising pause.
“Ritual magic,” is the short answer. As she speaks, she lowers the hunting knife to the limp wing and begins to slice the membrane away from the bone. Sticky, stagnant blood stains the edges of the filmy flesh, which is not as malleable as Chaele might have guessed. “Fae integuments, hair and nails, are said to have protective qualities. Bones and entrails are always good for divination rites. Not to mention, a heart of the slain is a rare ingredient in...” A beat passes, a hesitation reeling the final word back and exchanging it for another. “...spells.”
Resolving to roll the wing into a bundle, she glances to the other items at her side. She cannot describe their use, nor does she have any reason other than bare, crude instinct to think that they are of any value. With a sigh, she turns toward Wessex and Loki. “Maybe you can help me bury her, soon. I do not exactly have the means.”
Through her many dealings with the Voice and the repercussions of others’ dealings with the Old Gods, Wessex knows there’s truth in what the shaman says. She nods, knowingly, but remains silent for a moment as the various bits and pieces are named and dissected according to their value. The heart? That piques her interest, though she clearly has no use for it herself.
“Many have done the same with Ascended,” she says finally, lips thinning out into acceptance of the hard truth, and all the things she couldn’t control over the years. Now she has to think like a General and consider what might be best for her people. This dead Fae (vaguely familiar, but the bloat and decomposition obscures any definite identification) might be a gift horse. She should take advantage of it. The Wraith is nothing, if not practical.
“Right then, a proper burial after this.” she says, perhaps a little too eager and grim. Reaching down for one of the knives in her boot, she adjusts herself into a more comfortable position and starts to cut into one of the arms at the elbow. “And a bone for me, too. We’ve never been introduced. I’m Wessex - any of her clothes bloody?” With a wrench, the forearm comes off, and her eyes finally fall to the staff.
Chaele bears no pity for the harvesting of anyone, Ascended or not, but she does pause to watch the minute changes in Wessex’s face as she seems to express a sort of muted resentment. Noting the offense, the shaman mutters mostly to herself, “I expect the same to be done to me, when the time comes.”
Then her attention is drawn to the elaborately bejeweled staff. It is clearly valuable beyond the wealth of its gems, something powerful in its smell or its aura that the wild woman cannot quite place. A part of her wants to keep it, to examine it, to hoard it away with the rest of her growing collection. But the moment demands diplomacy-- after all, how many others would have joined her in her harvest?
“I do not know, but you are welcome to it, Wessex. I am called Chaele.” She holds the staff out over the dismantled body. Her own dagger resting in the mud for now, Chaele flinches slightly as a single raindrop falls on her outstretched arm. “Most of the clothes are partially rotted, though the shoes might be salvageable. The shawl will need to be cleaned, but I removed it because it is strangely warm to the touch.”
Raising a brow at the shaman’s statement, Wessex realizes just how far from everyday reality her situation is now. “Huh. I expect myself to be blown up, depending on where I die,” she says with a lightness, despite the dark topic. And it is very dark, what with the thunder rolling in and bones and body parts in various hands.
Wessex will be a weapon even after she’s gone. It’s only fitting.
Taking the offered staff, the Wraith sets the forearm down and takes a closer look. Wiping away some dirt with her sleeve, it quickly becomes apparent how decked out the piece is. It looks familiar, but she can’t quite place it (after all, it’s been years since she’s been to the Whispershore). Still, as Chaele said, there is power in things and they had to come from somewhere. If it all came from the Greatwood, it might be of use.
“That’s odd. Perhaps it’s something from Halo. I know they like to have their weatherproof and warm things. I assume that’ll be useful to you?” Because if not… she has some Grounders who could use a new something for Deepfrost. That thought remains unsaid, however, and she just looks across at the hidden person, expectantly.
Chaele’s bloody hands remain outstretched for a lingering moment, fingers curling absently as she contemplates Wessex’s prophecy for herself. Blown up-- it does not sound like a metaphor, though the shaman cannot imagine how such things could be known literally. Another drip of rain distracts her from these thoughts of fatality and her arms fall to the cold body before her.
Her mask, on the other hand, is directed toward the shawl. “Yes… I will take it,” she replies with as much solemnity as she can muster, though for now she leaves it where it is folded. Instead her hands are busied with a cut beneath the rib cage, which slices through the diaphragm as the knife is guided deeper within. Blindly, Chaele finds the arteries and pericardium that hold the heart in place. With a squelching of coagulated blood, she frees the organ and pulls it beneath her chin. A deep inhale reveals it to smell no different than that of any beast, but the exhale is satisfied nonetheless.
“Do you fear it?” is the natural, if not probing, question that follows. Chaele sets her prize into a box about the size of the one she had brought to the Spire so many weeks ago, then reaches a slick hand toward the lifeless face of the fae woman. Cradling the muddy cheek, she contemplates the differences between the lives and deaths of Fae and Abandoned and Demigod. Whether by murder or disease or, apparently, violent explosion, it is easy to wonder about one’s own demise. “Death.”
With the shawl and the staff neatly split up and no real need for any additional fae parts, Wessex sits back on her heels and waits for Chaele to finish her dissections. Loki is far more interested in the heart than the demigod is, because coagulated as the blood is, it’s still blood. Her nostrils flare and her head weaves back and forth in a serpentine motion, trying to inch closer and perhaps make off with what looks like a snack. Her bonded is aware of her antics, raising a brow and murmuring a warning , “Loki…” to the dragon.
And though they are heart and soul, Wessex is half-parent and half-companion to the dragon. Her warnings are taken seriously. With a snort and a sqauck, the dragon halts and looks elsewhere, as if she wouldn’t dream of doing what she was just doing. The Wraith chuckles to herself, though the sound is swallowed by the low rumble of thunder again, and she looks to the sky with a tight-lipped frown. Pulled back down by the question, her answer is immediate - she doeesn’t need to think about it.
“No. I’ve died before. I know what’s waiting for me - and who.” Wistfully, she does nothing to try and hide the nostalgic tone that seems to take root in her heart just then. “And whenever I die for good, I’ll have earned my rest. What I fear is what’ll happen to my siblings and my people once I’m gone. If I die too early, or in the midst of war - who will keep them safe?”
"The safety of loved ones is a debt that can never be repaid," Chaele agrees, the pained absence of her own debts perhaps apparent in the way her wet hands pause in their diligent work. The last of the harvesting completed, the shaman places her hand on the box that encloses the heart. Protectively, perhaps, as the great scaled beast wriggles hungrily nearer and recoils stubbornly in the next moment. It is worth more to her rituals than anything else in that little collection, and the realization passes through another hesitating beat.
She gestures to the cloak and coins and other belongings. “You should take it. For yourself, or for them. I will burn the body when the weather passes, take the ashes to the Greatwood.”
Wessex hums an agreement as her head gently nods up and down. There’s little she wouldn’t do to ensure her family’s safety, even when it threatens to bring her to brink of all her moral and physical boundaries. Sitting back on her heels to give the dragon another warning glance, the demigod is surprised by the Shaman’s offer and hesitates a moment - after all, it was the stranger’s immediate find, not hers. Still, who is she to say no? Anything might be a potential boon in their fight. “If you’re sure…” the Wraith asks, giving plenty of time for the other to change her mind before reaching over to add the cloak to the staff.
“Thanks. I’m not good around fire, so - I’ll leave that to you. But if you ever need anything, come to the Grounds and let them know I owe you a favor. They’ll get you whatever you need.” She starts to push herself up from the muddy ground, bringing the staff and the weird cloak thing with her. “Come on Loki, let’s get home before it rains.” The companion leaps over the corpse and wraps herself, cat-style, around her bonded’s legs, before the demigod teleports them back to the Grounds.
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Wessex has taken the following from Nepthele's body, with permission from both Brit and Cith.
Type: Dark | Style: Other | Level: Basic
Ludo's Rags | A shawl made of pitch dark, lightweight material. The wearer will not feel cold or the effects of the cold, regardless of the temperature. You look spooky.
Type: Grey | Style: Offensive | Level: Basic
Greatwood Staff | A staff carved from one of the Mathair's branches, bejewelled with precious gems from the Whispershore and infused with Ascended fluid. When tapped twice in succession against a surface, basic Ascended upgrades are nullified within 5ft of the staff for 1 post. One use per thread.
