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!
He could hear the rancor. It drummed in beats of resentment, causing his gaze to narrow, brows to furrow; not dangerous, not lethal, but certainly measured. Eventually, his eyes flickered away, pinpointing them on the cake. Thereafter, he lowered the mug for a moment, prying off another piece of the confection, not permitting himself to feel any residual irritation or indignation; he’d worked, he’d strived for those moments where he hadn’t been disregarded, spurned, or thought to be nothing – insignificant. He’d been molding that to his bones for each of his lives.
To be worthy of anything.
“It took a long time,” Deimos finally answered, once he’d swallowed cinnamon and sugar, his grin gone, diminished, faltered. Stages of begging, of pleading, for loved ones that wouldn’t return, for the safety of those he cherished, for the sanctity of people. In another world, he’d sneered at them – and here, where the very fabric of their existence was everywhere, the beast adapted. “There were many instances where I was ignored.” And without insistence from others, particularly the Shield, he may not have tried again – tending to those ferocious, begrudging lines, neither here nor there. “But I wanted to be better, stronger, and Safrin eventually saw it.” Heard it. Honed it.
The question gave him pause, cracked away at the attempts at nonchalance and masks – not a tangible one like Chaele’s – the habitual to his brow conforming back to the present. “No. They have my loyalty.” Along with many others – to places, to lands, to homes, to shelters in storms, to individuals who remained pressed against his soul.
He had told them something similar before, but his insistence in this moment quiets Chaele both inside and out. They cannot sympathize with the discipline of war or desperation of prayer, but they know what it is to lose someone dear, to want to become more than what is, to be grateful to those that made them what they are. Their sniping conceits have no place in this circumstance, which is supposed to be joyful and serene.
“Perhaps you will forgive my ignorance.” The words fall forth in a monotone, the closest this proud druidess might come to an apology. For all their auguries and haruspicies, Chaele cannot know whether they truly are destined for obscurity or doomed to the same divine loyalty. They do not envy Deimos the curse of his allegiance, nor the things he must have done to earn it. But neither do they like the grim shape of his mouth.
They pull the cocoa mug close, no longer stealing from the generously offered plate. When they speak again, there is a strangled sort of softness in their voice. “Will you tell me about her? Safrin.”
He'd begun to visibly retreat into himself – piece by piece, layer by layer – instilling the old foundations, the familiar ramparts, the walls upon walls upon walls, the quiet, residual silence taking over. It’d been a long time since he’d had to, for the Sword had been permitted his moments of vulnerability by friends and family – had come to find himself safe, instead of locked down. And had the subtle apology, the airing of regret, the stirring of ignorance, not settled into the air, he likely would’ve continued to press into those ancient, arcane wakes, where nothing could touch and wound and mar him. Not stone. Not steel. Not iron.
The grin didn’t make a reappearance, nor a subtle smile. The only breaking of the impassive, nonchalant mold was the vague tilting of his head, the inclination of canine, feline, and further predator attributes, surveying the table and cake, the mugs, rather than the merriment surrounding them. That already felt lost, and he wasn’t certain how to get it back. “You are forgiven,” came on hushed rumbles, though he didn’t glance back at masks. Deimos had long since understood the rancor – but nothing had ever been handed to him. Any and all efforts had been on determination and fire and brimstone.
He shouldn’t expected the inquiry, given how many others had sought his experience lately – perhaps with the war looming, the curiosity compelled, even from those who’d yet to be in a deity’s presence. Eventually, hands wrapped around his mug as if the enamel was a lifeline, his eyes pierced back to the shaman’s. “What do you want to know?”
They do not really want to know. They had long since decided on their opinion of the gods and had certainly made it clear to this loyal champion. And whatever grief or caution their offenses might have stirred in him, there is a certain comfort in seeing that dark, primal side. It is not swayed by setbacks or debts; it is hard, certain, predictable, impressive.
But, as Chaele has conceded too late, it is not right for this place.
So they lift their mask, take a stalling sip of dwindling cocoa, and sweep an upward palm like a shrug. A casual lilt rises a little too sharp in the reply, “I do not care about powers and defenses. But I have heard unfavorable things about Her. Manipulations, conceits, biases, debts. Perhaps I assumed your loyalty was... coerced.” The last word chokes out like a wince, stumbling forth before they can stop it. The question has become less about Safrin and more about Deimos himself, the sort of entity he would devote to. “But that is clearly not the case.”
Ever the listener, he strung and stung himself back into silence, watching, waiting, surveying from behind his own mug, the cake left undisturbed in its small remnants and remains. He was being analyzed far more than Safrin – for his choices, for his paths, for his sojourns, and found the shaman’s indifference, if not acidic response, only sharpened his nonchalance. What could have been cordial conversation on anything else had surged into this, and the gruff tones resonated in their measures. “No. It was not coerced.” He’d heard them too – about Sunjata and his foolishness, impulsive notions, and stupefying tendencies. About Ronin, and the messes around those chaotic moments.
Perhaps the greater question was not why he’d gone to a god – the Sword had already made that abundantly clear along multiple occasions, but the choice of the deity. He sipped at the cocoa again, settling into the cooling flavor rather than other sentiments (like a surge of exasperation or irritation); the mettle and resolve iron in his jaw, working together in the cluster of calculations. “And if we all had those same experiences, I doubt anyone would meet with them.” A tiny grin managed to reappear in the corner of his mouth, as if trying to find some humor in the way this earth pierced and maneuvered. “Though I am certain they would be loath to admit it, the deities are just as complex, if not more so, than normal people.” Caught by whims and mercurial exploits, by betrayals and treacheries, by innocence and light, by power and dominion. None of them were black and white.
His eyes left the shaman, the upraised mask, and the table, looming briefly over the festivities, before rounding out once more – giving time to the order in his words. He didn’t want to bring up Amalia – unwilling to stir those emotions and munitions again, not when she was gone and the edges of her influence only remained as some vivid reminder of pain. “Safrin can also be kind, patient, and forgiving. Has granted me advice that I needed to hear, often more than once, to truly sink in.”
Normal people. It seems like a strange distinction, especially if a man like Deimos would count himself among them. Chaele turns the mug quietly between their hands as they listen, wondering if they have credited him with more prestige than he could reasonably claim. Could it be that these gods are the same, that they simply contain powers and eternities that would complicate any given mortal? It would make sense that they should stoop as low as war to settle their differences.
Whatever discomfort or defense might have been inspired in the Sword, the shaman much enjoys this turn away from so-called cordial conversation. And even the slightest hint of a grin is enough to give her permission to wade further through the reeds of instigation. “My mother was kind, in her way. She gave good advice, but she never gave it twice. If you did not do things the way she liked, she would let you know it. Ours was a house of obedience.”
Only then do they look toward Deimos, trying to catch his wandering eye from behind a now lopsided mask. With whatever point they were trying to prove now made, Chaele relents, “But there is something to be said for someone who wants nothing but the best for the people they are trying to protect. Perhaps that is what she, and you, and Safrin have in common.” If Chaele believes what the Ascended say about cracks in the foundations of incumbent powers, they do not say it out loud. Instead they simply tilt their head, righting their mask beneath the weight of their curiosity.
The turn of conversation, into more personal affects, caused a vague tilt of his head. He hadn’t thought the shaman willing to share such information – more accustomed to the masked derision, to the veiled bitterness, to the lofty heights of other influences. He permitted the smile along his mouth to remain, the amusements tucked behind his mug, swallowing down another sip while they discussed. The notions were uncanny, and a laugh flickered through, a low rumble settling around his lungs and ribs. “My mother was very similar.” Not without her own brand of compassion, but certainly stern. Perhaps she had good reason to be, given everything, and the way their lives had unfolded. “Though I like to think I gave her a challenge.” The smile grew a little more juvenile, a peek of boyish mischief and indulgence; a childhood borne of unwinding along the sea and chasing gulls, brazen and wild and bold.
Comfortable again, he snagged at the remains of the funnel cake, an arch to his brow at the considerations thereafter. “Maybe,” was another utterance after swallowing down the last bits of cinnamon, brushing his hands off from powdered sugar. But he’d never be one to even begin to explain Safrin’s motivations – wouldn’t think himself qualified to do so. Deimos had his and his alone.
Drawn to silence for a moment, he only persisted in prying because Chaele had done the same, and turnabout was fair play. “And what are your goals?” Beyond staying out of it, away from even the areas of neutrality.
Only when his hand reaches out for the cake between the two do Chaele’s shoulders lower, like a resting of haunches. They had not realized how the winds of this man’s mood could sway them, and are not entirely fond of the realization. But such gusts must be expected on the seas of sincerity, especially when such waters are so unfamiliar to this eremitic wild woman. Their own mug is lifted in gratification, its cooling contents pressed against mangled lips as the mask shirks its purpose yet again.
It is, perhaps, a stalling tactic. His question is not an easy one to answer, but neither had theirs been. Chaele wants to pry further into the other vague statements, to stack other questions and clarifications onto his tested generosities, but there is something to be said for the matching of scales. “I serve the land,” they eventually decide on, setting the mug back onto the table and clutching it between both hands. “The wild places. For all the cities that have carved them up and all the people that have exploited them, I hope to be one that protects them from destruction. Because when the rest falls to ruin, the land that remains deserves to flourish.”
The sort of mind that thought it could avoid the influence of the gods is perhaps the same that presumes to guess at their intentions. “Perhaps this is Rae’s domain. But I wonder what they will sacrifice in the name of this war.”
A notation of understanding flickered in his piercing gaze, the head tilt lending into his comfort about the subject matter. He’d been stalwart, nefarious, and anything in between when he’d guarded the Basin – perhaps more towards the mountains than the people. But that had altered and changed with time, though the comprehension lingered, shifting mildly into his small smile as Chaele described the lands being carved. Exploited. An inquiry flared in his mind, but he bit it back for the moment, taking hold of his mug again and watching the shaman over the rim. “A noble act,” he offered instead, considering, contemplating, the machinations already framing other words and whispers he’d heard. “How do you feel about the neutral portions coming to stay amongst the Wilds then?” Uncertain if they were amongst the fold of wanting no one to settle there – the lands entirely, openly free.
Another sip of the warm concoction, before the question hovered behind his teeth, and then rallied over his tongue. “And how will you protect all of them?” From the lava pits of the Climb, the dangerous aspects of the Draig, the Oerwoud’s precious resources in their humid flare, the King’s End fields, burrowed and borrowed in their mourning abyss, to the winding deserts of Hak Etme? Maybe this had been a life lesson echoing from his own fringes and reaches – experiences and memories, incapable of reaching, reaching, reaching for every single wounded patriot, but striving just the same.
At the last comment, he offered a light chuckle. “They do have a way of remaining,” in many aspects – the escape from the deities and their intricacies a difficult, careful balance. “Perhaps they wait, and then recreate.”
Chaele nods at the mention of neutral portions, a quick sort of gesture which both accepts and suggests. “I have dissuaded them from settling in places where they would be disruptive. No waters will be diverted in the Feverlands, no trees felled in the Oerwoud. King’s End will suit their needs, and its spirits will protect it from their expansion.”
The cup, though only half finished, is set aside with a gentle scraping of ceramic on wood. It is no longer steaming, its warmth lost to the cold air or maybe the evaporating tension between them. Chaele’s hands instead find the edge of the table itself, the splintering patina on the weathered planks. It is a corpse they are touching, dressed for use just like the bones in the talisman on their chest. There is no need to protect the living from death, as long as that death serves a purpose. Perhaps it is fitting that such a man as Deimos should think of service in terms of protection.
“The land can protect itself. It has existed before me and will persist after me. It is my duty to simply see to its interests. To do what I can to keep it whole, as all pieces of the whole do. Perhaps my role is to be its diplomat.” Their voice falls flat with the last few syllables, a sort of disdain masked in honor and pride. Then their hands fall from the table and they avert their gaze, eyeing the stalls which contain their needed items as they inject their words with that same old drollery. “In which case it is surely doomed.”
06-25-2022, 03:19 AM (This post was last modified: 06-29-2022, 04:55 PM by Deimos.)
Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
There were intricate contradictions layered between – protection, but then not, service, but then taking it back. A lack of confidence, perhaps, amidst the folds of sanctity and sanctuary. A presumption made based on the heels of his own experiences and growth, in those infinitesimal instances where nothing seemed like enough. He took one final sip of his drink, the warmth remaining likely due to carefully honed incantations instilled, before arching his brow, glancing pointedly back at the shaman. “Yet, it sounds like you have already made some progress.” Persuaded and dissuaded from damage fraught upon waters diverted, eroded, or trees knocked down along jungle lines – King’s End chosen for its fertile fields and plentiful soil.
A consultation with Frey might have been in their best interests too, but considering the Abandoned proportions, one he knew well, the words didn’t make it past his initial machinations. There they would sit, and still, while he rose, taking hold of the funnel cake’s plate, the mugs, one empty, the other left half-finished, intending to carry them over to where others of their ilk were collected. He paused in his movements, contemplating the best way to move onward. “Trying is better than nothing at all.” For how many had been bystanders and passersby in these boundaries drawn along the way?
The General shrugged, maneuvering away from the table, extending invitations as he went. “I am heading towards the kiosks,” jutting his jaw towards the lines of market stalls – naturally nosey and curious about other wares he could snag for friends and family. “You are welcome to join me.”
