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!
Long limbs pressed through the snow, though the crunch beneath his feet was inevitably drowned out by the wake of the crowd billowing around. He maneuvered more than once around milling gatherings, towering above constituents and citizens, then sliding by, his sights not set on particular notches or stalls. Perusing, as it were, occasionally with his chin raised, perhaps as if he were chasing an aroma down on the wind. Doglike; senses attuned and accustomed, catching another whiff, another whim, on an evening of distractions –
Eventually, making his way by the carousel and the sleighs, towards the hot cocoa stand. Maybe he’d traverse there first, then double-back around, intending to motion through the other kiosks (for food – he had half a notion there were funnel cakes somewhere nearby) and merchandise, intending to forge something similar for his fellow Halovians upon his return.
But there was inevitably a line, and he stood patiently along its throngs, listening, tilting his head, taking anything and everything in.
This is not the first day that Chaele has traversed the packed-snow paths to the Boondocks, to enjoy the festive energy from the safety of the treeline. Every time they do, they tie together a string effigy as they watch from afar; now, the forest is decorated with over a half-dozen of the little dreamcatcher dolls. But it is inevitable that Deimos catches their eye, like a bird between branches. And suddenly they find their feet drawing them close to the crowd.
Just as before, they have forgone their typical stag skull mask for the simple wooden circle crowned in holly and mint. It is less conspicuous, less cumbersome in the company of so many. Chaele hooks their unfinished talisman onto their wrist, holding it close as the noise of the festivities grows around them. Their steps grow shorter, their arms gaining an idle tension as they approach the queue with little regard for its priority.
“Deimos,” they greet, perhaps a little too loudly. It is rare they see someone they recognize in this place, much less someone who is supposed to be half way across the world. Their tongue twists in a shape that resembles an accusation, though the inquiry is honest enough. “What are you doing?”
His attention wandered; keen, piercing eyes scrutinizing individuals or stalls nearby, an observer since childhood – taking in sights, sounds, analyzing them for the threat level. He’d learned that even festivities such as these could become lethal and deadly, and more than once his gaze shifted to the outskirts, to the folds of darkness, beyond gaiety and merriment, and to what could linger in the shadows.
Or nearby, beckoning his name across the line.
His head tilted, following the decibels of brief familiarity, withholding any reaction until he could glance over his shoulder. Several others did the same, nosey and inquiring, but he ignored them, arch of his brow defining over the rest of the reticent features. “Chaele,” the Sword acknowledged with a nod, before moving forward, noticing his place in the queue had shortened.
Maybe they were both surprised to see one another – he wouldn’t have taken the masked (though that had changed too) shaman for a participant in such events. She seemed much more the type to thrive on the wilderness, fringes of civilization, than meander straight into its den – amidst the lights and splendor.
As for what he was doing? With a particular effect of boyish innocence, mouth lifting into a slight grin, he inclined his cranium towards the stand, gesturing in the direction of the stand. “Getting hot cocoa.” A pause, giving nothing else away, before following with the distinctive rumble of his tones again. “And yourself?”
His assumptions about their predilections are entirely correct: the tendencies for solitude and survivorship and open spaces. And while the bulk of their agitation is hidden behind the mask, still the fidgeting in their hands remains, and the alert turning of their head, and the wavering volumes of their voice. Chaele does not belong here.
The wild woman looks down at the unfinished effigy in their hand, the vague shape of a headless body made of knotted red thread. It is the most obvious answer to his reciprocating question, though perhaps not one that is best spoken among the ears of so many strangers. “It is a place of power,” is the answer that comes after a moment’s deliberation. “Though I could not say precisely what kind.”
At some point they had taken a place in line beside him, heedless of the grumbling protests behind. His levity has a steadying influence, inspiring their wandering gaze to slow toward the sweet smell that wafts from their destination. “Hot cocoa,” Chaele echoes curiously, looking up and down the gathered line. “It must be quite a commodity.”
There might have been a time before when he was restless amongst these folds of humanity too; years and years and years ago, he wouldn’t have even bothered to do anything but lurk in the shadows. Now, the only toils spiraling against his spine were memories of disasters, and the residual alert of a predator ready for destruction to uncoil all around him. His eyes went to the fidgeting, agitated movements, the effigy not quite done nestled in their hands.
A place of power – and his head tilted vaguely again, wandering further into the line, ignoring the grumbles as Chaele joined in his designated spot. His voice dropped to a low rumble, barely more than a deep whisper, as if away from irritated and exasperated ears. “Did you find the fire then?” Presuming, perhaps, the nestled flames in the heart of the Queen’s Gambit – where he’d launched and leapt over too.
Thereafter, his gaze lifted back to the booth, watching as the line slowly dwindled in front of them, proceeding like a moving monolith each time another departed. The statement made by the shaman caused another brief curl of his boyish grin, not out of malice or menace, but the small sentiments of amusement. “Have you ever tried it?”
“I have not,” they answer after a moment’s hesitation, apparently realizing that his expression can only be amiable. There are some luxuries that the wild woman knows from a lifetime ago, their Torcher tongue having tasted brazed ramphire steak and rich oceanside wine. But there has never been an occasion for a heated drink like this one. Another beat passes, and they offer a tight but humble huff of a laugh. “It seems that will soon be remedied.”
Their arms have lowered to their sides, bent just enough to pretend they aren’t stiff as a board. It is easy for attentions to wander, amid the joyful exchanges and the elegant decorations and the bright, sanguine faces. So too do the motions of their mask seem to gesture to the festival at large.
“I did visit the Eye. I discovered much there, but its power is not the same. Do you not feel it? The power of revelry, and prosperity, and ignorance, and bliss. It is like a shield. Or a veil. It is in all of these lives, connected by threads of merry intention.” A sardonic smile spreads the timbre of their voice as they add, “It is sickening.”
Frosted boots move forward idly, taking the place of those who vacated the space before them. Only then does Chaele realize that they are next in line.
A vague huff of laughter left his lips, before distractions occurred in being next in line – eyes glancing at the availability and options, snagging at a mint and chocolate concoction, paying his respects to the worker, and sliding out of the way for Chaele to make their selection. Content with the mug in his hands, he arched his brow, pondering a multitude of things in his habitual silence, though he hadn’t expected the torrent of facetiousness to snag and sneer at the festivities.
Once they were out of earshot, and he’d had a moment to sip at his drink, the General considered the notions. “It may be one of the last few events people can enjoy.” The ominous declaration of two years was almost up, and the horizon was daunting, dimming, for those who’d be forced to face the escalation of war. Some wouldn’t participate. Some would heal. Some would gather and strive and try, and many may yet die.
Recalling Fiat Lux, he began moving again, nose to the air again. “You do not have to stay.” Since the shaman didn’t seem to enjoy it – given the statements. Deimos wasn’t going to steal away anyone’s joviality this evening. As an afterthought, or way of explanation in the swift movement of his limbs, he added another rumble. “I am going to find a funnel cake.”
The nuances of the hot cocoa selection are beyond them, familiar scents coalescing in their nose in strange combinations. They hesitate at the stall long enough for a cleared throat to signal impatience somewhere in their vicinity; with a frown they pick up a cup that sits beside a few nutmeg seeds on display. With quick steps they follow after Deimos, spiced steam clouding their limited vision as they inhale it.
It takes two hands to take a sip-- one to hold the drink and one to lift the mask. Cracked lips are revealed to sample the beverage carefully, surrendering a pleased smile as the taste washes down their throat. It is almost enough to make them forget notions of war.
But then Deimos is off again, and just as the shaman was forced to follow his guidance in those hot obsidian corridors, so too do they find themself lost without his path. It does not matter that they are uncomfortable, that the auras are stifling and the noise is overbearing, when each discomfort can curiosities have yet to be satisfied and challenges have yet to be overcome. “You think that the war will be inescapable?” Chaele is less concerned with eavesdroppers and sensitive subjects. “Even in the wild places?”
Another eager draw of the cocoa finds its way to their tongue, much more desirable than they had anticipated. This costs hardly even a beat as Chaele adds to their string of questions, “It this some sort of tradition, hot cocoa and funnel cake?”
“It depends,” he rumbled, shrugging his shoulders, taking another sip with one hand as he marched in pursuit of dessert. “Some want to create a neutral area. But how long can it last?” Given his experiences on the battlefields – he knew better. There were always domino effects, twists and turns that effected and impacted the world far more than just isolated lands. Kingdoms falling, crushed under the weight of another. Sovereigns collapsing, making way for another. Lands surging, persisting, remaining, despite the agonizing brutality hailing at their doors. But this was one more embedded into gods and deities – the chess pieces motioning across boards at a rapid, unrelenting pace.
Or maybe it was because he knew where he’d be – immersed right in the threads and daises, striving to ensure others weren’t dragged to their demise.
The Sword paused momentarily in the hunt to gaze down the sweeping turns of kiosks and stalls, before spotting the one he’d chased after; a smaller line forming at the booth. At the question, he glanced back at the shaman, shaking his head, allowing for a short bark of laughter. “No. I just want one.” Leaving Chaele the option of meandering along, more than welcome to follow once more, the General hastened towards the next set of queues, permitting himself, like so many here, an opportunity for amusements.
More than one plan to devise a refuge from the war has been spoken into Chaele’s ears, and they too are one of those who presume to stand in neutrality. But neither is this the first time that they have become aware of the naivety in the attempt, of the deadly sharp edge that divides both sides of the war. “Ants bring their larvae to high ground when a flood is coming,” they mention between eager sips of cocoa, softening the ominous tone in their words. “But that makes it easier for the birds to have their feast.”
Soon enough the pair are standing in another line. Chaele tries to imagine the shape of the so-called funnel cakes, leaning to peer toward the stall as they inhale the sweet scent. Their mind drifts quickly back toward thoughts of conflict and its avoidance, but the words are caught before they can make it past their teeth. Instead the restless mage wets their lips and looks around at the nearby stalls. “Perhaps I need some glass and fabric, before I leave,” they reason, since there cannot possibly be a better reason to stay.
The Sword made no mention of how many he worried for – but it might’ve been there, in the furrowing of his brows. Written in the lines of otherwise impassive features, experience drawn just as often as his blade; the nature of impending falls and stumbles, desecration and demise. Maybe that was why he’d spent his time ensuring his own knew the weight of armaments, the tactics of covert operations, or hastened towards defenses amongst Citadel walls.
The conversation could've been disjointed over warm mugs of hot cocoa, but unavoidable now, even along steaming plumes ghosting into the evening, or in throngs of people. “And where will you stand?” Among the larvae? The birds? Deimos could hazard his own estimations on Chaele’s stance, however, there would be no need if the answer was readily given.
The promises of funnel cake kept him from conforming to an unyielding, unbending monolith again – content, with some manner of bemused grin – when the exchange was made, and he could snag at the confection. Perusing the booths nearby, he doused the layers of fried dough and powdered sugar with a necessary lacquer of cinnamon, before proceeding to a table. Plates were conjured for both of their benefits – if Chaele wanted to try any, an open invitation – before he sat with drink and food, tearing away portions and sharing the dessert.
Glancing upwards at the proclamation, his head swung to the left, jaw jutting towards the direction. “Saw some over there, next to the games.”
Their gaze follows his toward the games, attention caught by tossed rings and spun wheels before it can find any semblance of required errands. A private grin, and not an entirely condescending one, pushes at the corners of their eyes as they slide into the seat across from Deimos. Setting the mug beside their fresh plate, Chaele tugs off their gloves in consideration of the funnel cake.
“In Torchline they would put honey on something like this,” they mention idly, presuming to pinch a piece of pastry from the plate. The twisted shape is pulled taut, snowing cinnamon and sugar onto the smaller plate between their elbows. Inevitably it breaks in two, and Chaele finally slides one piece beneath their mask.
Of course it is delicious, in a way that makes their dark eyes roll with incredulity. Such luxuries are easy temptations, reminders of the complacencies and comforts that the shaman has worked so hard to set aside. It is almost a relief to talk of war, to concede the weakness of revelry by undermining it with something that feels important. “I can presume to be nothing but an ant,” they chat, dipping the other piece of cake into some cocoa. “I have sworn to help with the so-called neutral area, though I will not stay in it. I want nothing to do with bickering gods, even if violence may find me as easily as any flood.”
Thumbing the mask up, they pop the wetted strand between their molars. “And where will you stand?”
Missing the grins and hidden amusements, the General occupied himself with the pieces of funnel cake; content to let the powdered sugar fall in displaced proportions along the table – some making it inevitably to his nose. Head tilting vaguely at the other ways in which to enrich the treat – honey, apparently – his eyes scanned the booth they’d just left, but not seeing any. “Next time, then,” he muttered amusedly, the juvenile grin matching.
Chaele’s presumptions of being nothing more than an ant caused the slightest raise of his brow, but nothing more. He could surmise, imagine, many felt that way – untouched, out of the scope and range, trying their best to duck their heads down and survive. Deimos had never been such an individual; raised on battlefields, knowing his efforts would be worth something, even if it was a mere motion, a ripple effect.
Not giving consideration into dipping the dough into his cocoa, the flavors would be a bizarre combination, he sipped at the warm drink as the shaman talked, allowing his silence to pervade for moments longer. “Darkeye and Sunjata have spoken about a neutral area,” and while Deimos couldn’t offer much more than a ‘good luck’ proclamation to the former and sneer to the latter, it would benefit many. “Understandable,” given the Abandoned blood, and any past experiences. Years before, the Sword would’ve been the same – not bothering to acknowledge a tempest between gods and deities, allowing that to filter and flicker away.
Except, now, being who he was, altered and bound and changed just as much as the rest of the world, his place was once more with a blade in hand. Hunting down relics. Garnering defenses for mountains. Arming, strengthening, trying to ensure those in his world persevered. “With the Old Gods,” he acknowledged behind his mug – as raptorial and predacious as any bird.
The pieces of funnel cake move in an idle rhythm from plate to mouth, each bite too little to satisfy the craving it inspires. The mask is tipped absently upward to accommodate, unveiling mangled lips in the shape of mild amusement. They falter faintly in response to his declared allegiance, lacking the habit of affectation. Chaele’s head tilts downward to get a better view of his expression, dark eyes meeting those soldierly blues.
“Because they answered you?” The Abandoned guesses, and not without a touch of genetic bitterness. Perhaps Chaele would have similar fealties, if they had been given such power as Deimos’s, but neither had they suffered from the same desperation and devotion that might have earned it. Hand pausing in its incessant feeding, it occurs to them that he had once confessed to gaining strength in the name of loved ones and their protection.
Chaele will claim to feel protective of the wilds themselves, of the wide open spaces that had escaped the tyranny of settlement and obligation. But they do not know what it is to truly defend, to know the faces of the weary and the diligent and swear to keep them from harm. They reach slowly for another fragment of the dwindling dessert, a failed attempt at nonchalance. “Do you owe them a debt?”
