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!
anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself
He’s promised it would be a short trip. One out to the Climb, having taken the portal to Torchline and flown the rest of the way – it was impossible to take the tunnels from Halo this time of year and truthfully? If he could avoid any instance of snow, he’s more than willing to go. So he takes his little jars and bundles, clutching them in the talons of his dragon shift, and slips away toward Frey’s Breath with the intention of retrieving water.
It's difficult, of course, much of the way is still underground, through a wonky cave system that Sunjata hasn’t had to navigate all that much. But he gets started, shifting back into himself and carrying the bag of supplies along his shoulder, still half man half dragon if only to help shield his skin from any wayward lava spouts from heading down the wrong tunnel.
“Ah,” he finally says once he’s breached the tunnel system and sees the heat rising from the water within, “there you are.” It’s to no one, of course. Once upon a time a griffin would have accompanied him, but that time had long since passed – even if he still feels the hole she left in his soul each and every day from her passing.
Horned and winged, the Flood steps through the rolling mist toward the bank of the hot springs, setting his bag on the damp side and crouching, wings flaring to keep from dragging too much as he lowers himself toward the bag to grab yet another one of his many jars for collection.
and you don't want no help, oh well that's the story to tell
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
The other creature at the spring has little protection from its heat, no scales or horns or companions to bide the long journey through the Burrows. But it has been well worth it, for the same reason as many who traverse the massive volcano in pursuit of its healing waters. Chaele is already submerged, wearing only the runic scars that have been carved into every inch of their body. It is a place of relaxation and rejuvenation, but so too is it a test of endurance, once the water inevitably gets hot enough.
They welcome the challenge, soaking in timeless solitude and absorbing the essence of the mountain. But then heavy eyelids stir at the sound of approaching feet, nostrils flaring at the scent of sweat and sage and cut wood.
If Sunjata does not notice the heavy pack or the stag skull that rests beside it, he might still see the small assortment of obsidian shards, salamander spines, and mallow seeds that encircle a flickering red candle. It is a shrine of sorts, created in honor of this ritual bath, but the water ripples against that edge of the pool as Chaele moves away from it. They peer at the stranger’s activity from a distance, and as they speak it is clear that they have taken his words personally. “What do you want?”
For the first time in a long time their face is unmasked; as they glimpse the strange shape in the mist, they dip their nose beneath the water in a makeshift veil.
anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself
Oh he doesn’t realize that he isn’t alone – the shock of it the second he hears their voice feels more akin to the lightning that had danced up his spine so long ago in Torchline. He straightens immediately, gaze narrowing to slits as he scans the mist and fog, the bank, before it falls upon the skull and a satchel, before following the ripples of the water toward a somewhat veiled face. His own isn’t quite as veiled. Most of his face visible aside from the shining black armored plates that he wears around his neck and chest like a turtleneck, his face framed by a couple sets of curled horns.
The slit steel drifts momentarily back toward the spines and obsidian shards, the way it somewhat resembles a shrine – a space he’s been frequenting more and more lately. As for the unknown person in the mists and warmth of Frey’s Breath, Sunjata tries to figure out whether they’re asking him what he wants from them or whether they’re some kind of spirit, drawn to this place time and time again.
“Nothing from you. A bit of water for Frey, that’s all.” His accented voice rumbles out, snagging on some of the vowels, punctuated on some of the consonants. He doesn’t take any steps further to encroach on their space, just draws a glass jar from the pack at his side, waving a tattooed arm glinting with a ring of a crescent moon as he draws up some of the warm steaming water to slip into the jar, keeping mostly to himself unless otherwise acknowledged.
and you don't want no help, oh well that's the story to tell
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
They watch the strange shape of him warily and, for a spare moment between the parting mists, the dark pools of their eyes meet his searching steel. Quickly they retreat back toward their things, before they can even fathom what it was they saw; at the very least, he was something that can easily kill them if he has reason to.
Instinct demands that they emerge, that they exchange private vulnerabilities for mutual vigilance. For all of their facial modesty, there is little to be done about the rest as they turn their back to him, a chorus of falling water splashing onto the hard igneous bank. The ornaments in their braided hair hang heavy in wetness, their form slick and flush with the heat of the spring. The first thing they don is the antlered mask, and only once it is secure does the tattered robe follow.
Like too many times before this one, curiosity claws its way through notions of safety. Barefoot and dripping, the not-spirit treads away from their shrine and belongings, moving slowly around the water’s bend and toward the horned creature. Their attention alternates between Sunjata’s scaled face and the jar in his hand, each shift accentuated in the long angle of their mask.
anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself
He isn’t sure where to begin, really, though he is careful to keep his gaze away from them – the slit steel focusing on the water he pulls on with his magic, slipping it into the jar with a bit of room to the top, before he lets it fall back into the mist. In this time, though, it’s allowed them to don their mask again, to catch his attention briefly as their question is aired in the space between them.
The Flood then moves to slip the cap onto the jar, figuring out the best way to respond. Did he mention the safe haven so swiftly? Or should he decide to explain to this stranger that he’s their demigod first? He swaps between them briefly before he tucks the jar of water into his pack, lifts his horned head back to Chaele as they approach, an easy sort of candidness crossing his face as he offers them a small crooked smile, one that tugs on the corners of his half Glasgow smile. “I’m creating a safe haven with them. It’s part of the ingredients they’ve asked for.”
There, easy, not too up front yet up front enough.
The closer they get, however, the more scars they’ll find carved into his skin. The one on his face, puckering up the side, the other that carves a line through his eyebrow, ones that meld into the scales along his neck to show pale carvings down each side of his jugular. And the hand that still hovers over the pack covered with pale veins of lightning scars.
He appraises them anew, however, sparing a slit glance toward the shards and skeletons briefly before it returns to them.
and you don't want no help, oh well that's the story to tell
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
Eyes like ash in soil narrow in consideration of him, head shifting slowly from one side to the other as they view him through the mask’s monocular eye holes. His scars are impressive, unspoken stories told in the lines of passion and pain and healing. They draw Chaele closer, curiouser, questions sorting themselves behind their teeth.
“Ingredients. Perhaps I should collect some for myself,” they muse, stalling. Their gaze drifts toward the water then, revealing scars of their own on a bared neck. Theirs are not made of harrowing mistakes or bloody regrets, but rather carved in runic shapes like so many raised tattoos. Calves and forearms wear the same, suggesting that he might have seen more if he had stolen a look previously.
Their voice is light, more probing than polemic, as they finally decide on their questions. “Is Frey not invested in a particular outcome of the war? Will this haven protect some and not others?” The flat of their mask angles defiantly toward the demi-god, without entirely understanding what he is-- dead, brittle antlers juxtaposed with black, potent horns. “There is another who seeks to found an independent village. Perhaps even independent from the gods.”
anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself
They approach closer and there’s two halves of the Flood that fight with one another internally. The ones that want to show more of the scales and horns and wings - to create a barrier of his own making. The other, wanting to remain the same, to keep as many secrets to himself as he can. He appraises them anew, though, the runes etched into their skin just as the tattoos and scars mark his own. Each a different story, each a different meaning.
“It certainly has its benefits.” As an ingredient or not. The water had been enough to temporarily heal him from the fevers before he’d taken the Voice’s cure for it. A though that crosses his mind more often than he wants to admit.
Though they begin to probe and Sunjata’s scarred brow rises ever so slightly, hiding behind a curl of rogue wavy locks. “It protects all those that want to enter. They just… Can’t leave until it’s over. Hidden away in a neutral zone where magic, upgrades, shifts, and the like are nullified.” And yet, a bit of surprise to hear of another that wishes to have the same – his head cocking avianlike as the scales and armored plates shift with it, a shadow of his horns casting over them.
“Is that so? Perhaps he would be interested in helping as well.” His own little way of probing them back, as if a silent way of asking who are they?
and you don't want no help, oh well that's the story to tell
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
His alien scales and monstrous appendages inspire a thrilling sort of fear in the pit of their stomach, the kind that dares you to peer over the edge of a cliff. He has been nothing but civil, but the possibility of his power is ever present, like the smell of oerwoud ferns. They lean on one foot and put the other slightly behind, prepared to flee as they fold their arms over a flimsy robe. “Perhaps you have heard of Darkeye. He hopes to harbor a few dozen refugees somewhere in the wilds. I have been tasked with making sure he does not disrupt what already lives there.” After introducing another so flippantly, it seems only necessary to add, “I am called Chaele.”
Their fingers squeeze faintly at their arms as they consider the implications of the half-dragon’s plans. It had been enough to argue with Darkeye about ecologies and encroachments, but it is an entirely different offense to oppress the natural abilities of those one presumes to protect. Chaele fails to entirely mask their displeasure as they retort, “Why nullify magic and the like? Is the only way to keep peace to render people powerless?”
anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself
As they fold their arms over their robe, Sunjata’s head cocks slightly to hear the name – his gaze taking on an almost faraway look for a few seconds as he tries to place the name, taking a bit longer than he’d like before it registers. “Ah. I have, as it turns out.” He murmurs, before drawing silent again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other once his jar of water is tucked away safely. The information of Darkeye’s plans are quite useful he finds, files away a thought to speak to the dwarf the second he arrives back in the Grounds again.
“Hello Chaele.” His accented voice rumbles, elongating the vowels of their name. “I’m Sunjata.” Also called the Flood, the Failure, Frey’s Chosen and Safrin’s Betrayer. He inclines his horned head toward them regardless, drawing up again only to glance away when their question is aired. He begins to move now, slowly at first to keep them from running, moving to crouch beside the edge of the springs, to run a hand in it as he considers the best answer to their question.
“It’s a concession in a way. The only way to ensure everyone’s neutral. The Old God followers don’t trust the New God followers, nor do the New God followers trust the Old God followers, and both are welcome in the haven. And just because one’s powerless doesn’t mean that things are peaceful.” He muses, casting a glance up at them now, his eyes returning to the normal rounded pupils of his own instead of the slit pupils of his draconic shift. “I’m an Outlander. Where I came from there weren’t any such things as magic or shifting. No gods, nothing but humans. We still ended up tearing each other apart.” A scaled shoulder rises and falls in a shrug with a heavy sigh.
and you don't want no help, oh well that's the story to tell
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
His name rings in the back of their mind the way all demigods’ do, riding the memories of distant tales distorted by rumor and time. Their hind foot lowers onto its heel as he nears, allowing their other to sweep quietly backward and out of the radius of his reach. But as his posture lowers and his pupils dilate into something somewhat more human, Chaele’s grip loosens on their arms.
The quiet pause that follows is filled with skepticism. The best hint at the shaman’s masked expression is the gentle tension of their jaw, only visible because of the Flood’s lower angle. They shake their head and reply, “Is it a haven for refugees, or a middle ground for hostile parties? If peace is truly impossible, a sanctuary is futile. If it is possible, then I see no reason in crippling your charges.”
Recollections of Darkeye’s propositions cross Chaele’s mind as Sunjata’s spring-wetted fingers draw their gaze. The wild woman had objected to many of the former’s ideas, and they are bound to become a similar thorn for the latter. “Where will it be, anyway?” is the next in their tangle of questions, like so many plants crowding a narrow path.
anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself
“Refugees and those that would be needless casualties in this war.” A war he whole heartedly doesn’t support. A war that his role has changed in so much so far. At the very least he doesn’t have to be forced into being Safrin’s Blade, likely to come face to face with his husband on the battlefield. Star crossed as they always were.
Instead, he gets to hide away and hope that his husband makes it out the other side. “I imagine it’s more for safety than punishment.” Sunjata says with a small shrug, regarding them from his crouched position, partially shifting once more as those dragon wings appear, one curled around his back, the other with a bright pale scar cleaving through the joint of it dips into Frey’s water, some amount of relief crossing his face as he tries to figure out how to respond to them.
“In the Wilds somewhere. I’m imagining it’ll be King’s End. I’ve already worked some of the land and it should have everything we need.” He pauses, dipping the leathery wing a bit more, tilting himself in the process. “Would you be interested in helping, Chaele?” His steel gaze lifts back toward them, his scarred brow rising in question.
and you don't want no help, oh well that's the story to tell
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
A rune-carved hand snakes upward to rub at the back of their neck, scratching the itch of indecision. Chaele has already declared neutrality, citing a shaman’s loyalty to the wilds alone and an Abandoned’s distaste for gods in general. But it seems that such a position has doomed them to charity work, that there is always a side to take. “I certainly have no place in this war,” they muse, wetting their lips with the taste of old promises. This is something less than that, but it is not a refusal, either.
Chaele finds it strange to see this man kneeling before them, keen to the inherent power in his unfurled wings and left to wonder whether the crouch was intended as a comfort or a threat. They crave to return to the water and its healing heat, toes curling against the cold, slick ground. Watching the outstretched appendage distort in the ripples of its mirror image, they nod in agreement.
“I think King’s End is a perfect place to settle.” They had told Darkeye the same. “At least, harvesting the required resources will be the least impactful to the wildlife there.” Chaele’s head tilts to better meet Sunjata’s unshifted eye, uncertainty still present in the bend of their brow.
anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself
Perhaps he shouldn’t find their words amusing, but the mention of having no place in the war certainly has a small snort leaving the Flood. An agreement of sorts, that he too didn’t have a place in this war. “I had a place once.” He admits, flashing them a wink. “It’s basically how Frey got me to agree to being theirs.” A shoulder (and wing) rise and fall in a shrug, a small crooked smirk of amusement tugs on the twisted scar of his lip.
He notices somewhat the way they seem to peek back at the water now and again, but he makes no mention of telling them that they can get back in if it suits them. Instead, he simply peers up at the masked face, steel gaze scanning the skull over and over as he tries to make himself seem less of a threat. “I’m glad that you agree.” After all, he’d been Attuned long before he was a demigod, having a connection to the wildlife everywhere he went. It’s a sensation he’s nearly forgotten about now, but one that misses so sharply it’s like a sliver in his fingers he can’t pluck out, a stinging sharp pain for a few seconds before he forgets again.
“I need to get a few people together to help me work the land and make it into something that can host all that we require of it. Setting it up, as it were. Perhaps I might be able to speak to this Darkeye and get him to come along with?” Perhaps it would do well to have them both there at the same time.
and you don't want no help, oh well that's the story to tell
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
For a moment Chaele’s grip slackens on their own arms, hands nearly descending into the comfort of lowered guards. But there is too much they do not know, and too many reasons to trust. Instead they show a different sort of recognition by turning their back to him, stepping idly toward the little shrine farther down the bank.
“I will help, so that it cannot be said I doomed those who would have otherwise encroached on wild places.” Their head turns back somewhat, the bone ornaments in their braids chiming with the motion. “But I cannot agree to be harbored in such a place. Perhaps I am ignorant of what dangers this war promises, but I will not give my strength for mere safety.”
The ritual space arrives before their feet, and Chaele bends to greet it. They run their palm briefly over the flame, the wax beneath it sprawling slowly over the floor. After a moment’s consideration of it, a quiet that searches for the right words, they rise and turn more fully toward Sunjata. “You serve a herald in exchange for a place, a purpose you no longer have? Should you not defend the Old Gods?” Perhaps the thin curtain of mist drawn between the two gives them permission to be more presumptuous.
