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!
The statement elicited a sharp crack of laughter, whipping through the kitchen on a single echo before dissipating – enough for Belial to raise his head and hoot something in return. Deimos had never carried the air of innocence well, not with mischief and menace embedded too deeply in his features. But still, he tried, his voice a perfected rumble as his smile deepened at her threat. “I do not understand your meaning,” save for all the other individuals scattered amongst his life who’d wanted to do the same. A roguish tilt to his head exemplified the same faux harmlessness, which probably only escalated the notions of devilry.
Her whisper caused some proportions of his boyish juvenility to diminish, but not by much, instigating the arch of his brow as her expression altered very swiftly. Maybe too quickly, because he’d known how to avoid things too, but instead of prying, he let it settle. They could meander and wade through monster distinctions if she wanted, but he could feel his own measure of evasion storming its way through his chest. “It was a thing. By the falls in the Climb. When we were all sick and trying to find a cure,” and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, refused to bend and bow his head to the Voice’s restoratives. “It is still there, I imagine.” He doubted she’d be the type to go looking for it – but there was a cautious narrowing of his eyes thereafter – probably a warning. The Sword made sure not to mention the hordes of others he’d faced: sea panthers, Krakens larger than Remi, a basilisk that could turn others to stone…
Purposefully guiding the discussion back to cookies and maintaining his irritating presence, his eyes went to the bowl. “Are you done mixing-,” though he never finished the inquiry, because there was an egg cracked above his head, slowly slinking down, down, down. The only reaction was another wrinkle to his nose, because the sensation of it had been cold. “All right. Deserved that,” he could admit, before bluntly calculating another maneuver.
She could have her laughter; pitches of it resounding along the parlor. He’d just get his too.
Content with the notions, the silent decree of his Air and Water machinations unfurled – both taking the main portions of egg goo out of his hair (though the tresses would have to be washed soon; no way to alleviate that notion) and flinging it upon hers. Purposefully avoiding the flour, the counter, or the bowl.
His laughter softens her, taming the lick of fire from the ever-simmering coals inside that yearn to have her prove herself, to surprise and overcome. With him they are more juvenile urges, but Evie has never outgrown looking at a cliff and rolling up her sleeves to find a way to climb it. Even though she is quite aware Deimos would crush her in just about every arena, it did nothing to stop the bratty insolence inside from urging her to try. Still, she ignores him pointedly, forcing her gaze down to their ingredients even as her lips stretch in a grin.
“And I thought my life was fit for novels, yours doesn’t even sound real,” she chuckles helplessly, because how else is she supposed to react? He doesn’t seem real sometimes too, heroic and dauntless and unbendable as he is. Evie is privileged to see beneath that veneer to this, below; the blue shock of his eyes going wide, the trail of egg white down his hair and to his forehead, the cute wrinkle in the bridge of his nose. Evie holds her breath until her cheeks go pink, because it’s the only defense she has against the laughter that boils in her chest. She’s no actress, though, and even her enforced silence can’t conceal the tremble of her shoulders and the sparkle of mirth in her eyes. Only once he admits to deserving it does she begin to laugh - which means it’s short lived, because she shrieks know surprise a moment later when her weapon of choice is suddenly lifted seamlessly off his head and turned into a projectile aimed for her own.
Ducking sideways does little to save her, in fact it makes it inarguably worse as the egg smears across her cheek and the top of her ear before catching in her hair. “No!” is yelped belatedly, a denial that has no worth. The bowl only needs the flour added by portions, and so she abandons it to thrust her hands into the flour near him before lunging towards him, forsaking all magic for the chance to smear her hands over his neck and chest to coat him in the flour, laughing all the while.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
He didn’t quite have the rebuttal for that particular statement, save for another snort. There were some portions he’d relive over and over, and others that he’d never want to be immersed within again. Eventually he summoned up something from the lamentable urges, dashing them away with an easygoing roll of his eyes, instantly boyish and chaotic once more. “Says the landshark rider.” Teasing factions leapt to other degrees and decrees, purposefully irritating and obnoxious, and given the circumstances, it seemed to settle into the ways of moment quite well. “Maybe they will write a story about you.” Thereafter, as if he were sketching, he began to outline and trace the aforementioned creature in the flour, with a miniature stick figure Evie on top, arms opened wide.
The surge of laughter being replaced with a duck and a yelp left a snicker of satisfaction across his face – leaning along the counter to watch her flail around with the egg across her cheek, ear, and hair. He added that to his flour drawing as well, ignoring the way the yolk stuck fast to his forehead. He was well past the point of caring anyway, and it wasn’t as though it couldn’t be fixed with a quick shower.
Which meant he didn’t quite see the next onslaught coming until it was too late – caught and snared immediately by puffs and billows of the ivory powder over neck and chest. Like he’d stepped outside in the snow – half-tempted to shake like a dog and spray it everywhere. His eyes widened for a mere moment before narrowing into an obvious challenge, hand snagging at a fistful of the particles and grains, dropping some purposefully in the bowl, but most across his palms. Only then did he reach forward to place his hands firmly on her cheeks, and then let go, leaving white imprints and streaks and more rounds of impish rumbles.
The notion of having a story about her - little Evie Wordsworth, Abandoned and last of her line - is preposterous, but she can’t help the warmth in her expression and the small, pleased smile at the idea; and the drawing, as it begins to take shape in the flour, crude as it is. “Think it’ll encourage people to try and ride them? Melita asked to learn how, maybe we shouldn’t spread the word or people are going to start losing limbs.” There’s a fondness and mirth to her tone, happy to let him steer the conversation sideways, sensing it needs to be done but admittedly uncertain why. Not that Evie is the type to pry; if he wants to focus on her instead, she’s happy to be the butt of the joke.
Temporarily, of course. Evie deeply and truly believes in the spirit of revenge.
Undoubtedly it’s surprise that gives her the opening to his chest, but she grind like a hellion as the ivory shapes of her fingers spread upward onto his neck and clavicle. She’s too up close to evade when she sees him reaching for the flour in turn, but it doesn’t stop her trying to backpedal; laughter hitching into a hiccup of startled noise as she runs straight into the counter with her right hip. “Don’t-!” she tries to threaten through laughter, but it’s useless. Cringing playfully away from his hands does nothing but smear the flour further when it hits her skin, blanching her pink cheeks and sprinkling over her freckles in the shape of his large hands.
Her own come to brace against his front in useless attempt to push him backwards; even without the strength disparity between them, Evie’s arms are useless jello with the force of her laughter. Determined not to give up yet she reaches blindly for the flour he’d been drawing in with one hand, the other catching in his shirt to keep him close so he can’t back away, scooping the powder in her free hand only to shove it upward between their bodies towards his chin and cheek - and the plentiful hair it has opportunity to catch in there.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
Already well gifted in the art of diversion and deflection, he persisted and continued with the tactical measures; figuring, perhaps, that she didn’t mind. The Cheshire grin remained as he copied the flour drawing into a cookie cutter form, amusing himself. He knew the baking wouldn’t be able to hold the mold quite as well, but not much stopped him when in juvenile pursuits, tilting his head as he listened to her, the smile dimpling the corner of one cheek. “Sounds like another good business angle for you though,” though he wasn’t certain about reattaching limbs. Tones and intonations were sarcastic and facetious, for they both knew how desperately he protected those he cherished, but sometimes couldn’t pass up the opportunity for devilry. “Set up a second apothecary in the middle of the desert, give lessons, mend the ones who did not do well.” The Sword rolled his shoulders in a shrug, and then placed the figure back amongst the others.
The next onslaught was probably deserved, but he hadn’t expected his shirt and her hands to be the one that bound him from escape. There’d been potential in utilizing his strength to pull and drag her with him until she let go, however, the flour would’ve likely marred him just the same. The manner of calculations going through his mind didn’t much matter in the end, as a put-upon sad tilt to his whisper rumbled low in his chest. “Aww, not the beard,” - the white powder filtered into darker strands, and he gave an audible sigh as the streaks persisted further along his jawline and cheeks.
With a mind never quite done scheming, he glanced downward at their proximity, then to the flour – piercing eyes gazing over her features with an air of consideration, concentration honed as he dipped and tilted his head towards hers –
And then saw Belial, from the corner of his eye, hovering over the bowl.
Quickly, uncertain if Evie had been hauled along with his swift movements, he snagged at the container before the peryton could knock it to the floor, or taste test for himself. “No,” was a deeper rumble, and the companion seemed put out, pouting listlessly as he descended once more.
He snorted, then looked around at the mess, muffling the laughter. “Okay, a truce. For now.”
“Your faith in my abilities is incredible,” she chuckles softly, knowing the dramatics will only live in their daydreams. The dramatics that continue on into the real world are far more fun to focus on anyway; lost limbs and landshark rodeos are somehow not nearly as humorous and diverting as slapping flour on each other like children in a mud puddle.
She isn’t expecting his whisper to be so defeated and accepting of his fate, and her cheeks deepen into shades of red as she laughs helplessly, attacking hand sliding from his cheek to his shoulder to join the one still fisted in his shirt in an effort to keep her standing as the laughter shakes through her body. Everything smells like flour - even his natural scent is hidden beneath it, and the egg and sugar mix can’t even entice her from where it’s buried beneath the powder that has surely made its way into her nose. Blue eyes made bright with joy peer up as his tilt down, and the intensity of his gaze forces air into her lungs so fast they seize and stutter to a stop. Simultaneously warring with the natural urge to smile and go still, trusting him in her personal space regardless of what he intended to do in it, and the knowledge that his revenge is surely on the immediate horizon.
Evie squawks as he unexpectedly lunges for the counter, effectively squishing her against it as he plucks the bowl from behind her. Craning her head around and spotting what he had - Belial, looking chastened but unrepentant - the Evergreen makes an ‘oops’ face and belatedly relinquishes Deimos’ shirt. The rumble of his laughter is the last thing her fingertips feel as they depart, and her own joins freely as her now unencumbered hands rise to swipe uselessly at flour and egg on her cheeks. “Truce it is,” she agrees, even if she can’t tamper down the grin on her face fueled by fulfilled mischief and fun. “Are we going to need more flour to be able to fold it in?” She’d wait for him to grab it if necessary, but her hand is already reaching for the utensil in the bowl, ready to begin mixing and churning anew.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
The Sword did have faith and confidence in her capabilities, so no denial followed. “Of course,” as if they’d always been hers. And though her steadfast determination would likely settle into an actual apothecary, and not some landshark ranch out in the middle of a harsh desert, it all meant the same in the end. That was how they lived, from resolution to resolution, with a little revolution tossed in between. Sometimes it was toppling dictators. Sometimes it was flour.
With a simultaneous ceasefire and tenuous treaty, figures slid away from one another, resigned and released back to their own thresholds and bulwarks. For a moment, he could only stand there, the mighty General covered in egg and flour from the top of his monolithic height to his chest, surveying the landscape of the former battle scene. Glancing into the bowl, and then placing his sights back upon the counter, he heaved a sigh, though it didn’t lack humor either. “Yes.” The poor attempt at earlier ventures had garnered very little into the container – most had ended up on them, or the floor, or the work surface.
He maneuvered around then, snagging the flour bag out of the cabinets. Giving her a side-glance, he tucked it safely against himself, before pouring the right amount into the bowl. And then some more by the cookie cutters, for later purposes, rather than tossing it back into the melee. For now.
So while she stirred the mixture, he snagged at the greased pans nearby – checking over the oven as well, and brought them over for eventual food. Belial slunk off, head down but not meaning it at all, along the line of kitchen meeting dining room, waiting for another opportunity.
07-29-2022, 06:20 PM (This post was last modified: 07-29-2022, 06:25 PM by Evie.)
EVIE
Evie has to bite her lip hard to keep from losing it all over again at the sight of Deimos - hulking, muscled, fights-leviathans-for-fun Deimos - holding a flour bag protectively to his side so she won’t pop it all over him. Cookies seem so much less fun than the little war they had created, but her sweet tooth reminds her that in due time there will be rewards for her focus and restraint.
She hums softly as she folds in the flour by small cupfuls, awash in an array of memories no more detailed than abstract colors; so often had she spent her best days in someone else’s kitchen that the individual moments no longer stood apart. It eases her heart in a way she didn’t expect. In fact, coming into this, she’d been afraid of the weight of memories and the grief they could sow in her. But as she listens to Deimos shuffling pans and setting the oven, as she watches Belial’s dramatic exit and her own hands shaping the mixture into proper dough, Evie finds this has unequivocally already asserted itself as one of the best days she’s had in years.
Flouring her hands she begins to roll the dough into balls between her palms, laying them on the counter and rolling each one with a pin to be cut into with the various shapes and scenes Deimos had crafted. And if she leaves some dough in the bowl? Well, clearly they just underestimated their batch. “I think we should treat ourselves while we select our shapes and start cutting.” It’ll be hard not to do an entire batch worth of her riding a landshark honestly, but if she can restrain herself once why not again? The relaxed happiness is apparent as she picks up the bowl to hold against her chest with one arm, the other dipping the mixing spoon into the dough to obtain a fair amount - and then holding it out between them in offering, intending to feed it to the Sword. “And we can eat the edges from the molds too!” Unselfconscious about her childlike eagerness to consume as much raw dough as they can reason away.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
Narrowed eyes watched, suspiciously, until he’d placed the flour back into the cabinets, safe for another melee. Giving her a wide berth, he settled himself around the counter again, purposefully not falling back into significant memories in a particular bakery, and instead forcefully pushing himself ahead, into new, distinct recollections for future thresholds. Flour coated his hands again, though he made no move to flick any of it back into the scene, and instead picked up a few of the cookie cutters – namely the banshees and ningos to start, snagging at the portions of dough Evie had already flattened.
A calm system to ease his seditious, incendiary urges, taking away the restlessness and permitting him to muffle some rounds of laughter as he placed the outlined ivory birds into the mixture, and then moved them onto the waiting pan. By the time he’d gone through several others, leaving Evie the Landshark Rider one last, he’d done fairly well with not losing his attention span or goading her into some other game. But this cutter was longer than all the others, given its exemplary depiction, and so when he lifted it, the top fell completely off. “Darn. Lost your head.” Which he promptly picked up and ate with a cheeky grin, putting the rest of it upon the basin so it looked like a headless horseman display.
He raised his gaze from the task at her prompt though, because they’d treated themselves earlier to sheer stupidity, but he wasn’t going to claim they didn’t deserve additional diversions. The Sword’s eyes tapered once more when she guarded the bowl, and then flickered downward at the offered spoon.
Looking at it like there was a snare involved, he simply created his own, and then blatantly reached over the counter for the bowl, fingers tugging at the boundaries.
With the rhythm they set he does most of the cutting and she the rolling, but she doesn’t mind in the least. The shapes she desires find themselves created regardless; mostly landsharks, of course, since the one depicting herself is unfairly hoarded on his side of the counter. Which makes sense when he goes to use it and the tenuous tip of her doughy head is dismembered. Gasping in outrage she reaches for the shark’s tail fin, ripping it free once it’s placed down and popping it into her own mouth. “Oops, guess you’ll have to redo it,” she comments innocently, her tone entirely at odds with her sharp grin.
Which, admittedly, probably doesn’t inspire confidence in him even as she genuinely offers him the doughy spoon. Playful offense flickers across her face as his eyes narrow and his hand reaches past her sugary olive branch, and so she dances backwards out of his reach, dropping the spoon back inside the bowl so she can wrap both arms possessively around it. “I’m hurt! If you don’t trust me, no dough for you,” she declares imperiously, nose rising with a sniff of feigned disdain. And then, just to emphasize the point, she scoops a bit out with her thumb and pops it into her mouth, uttering a soft moan of appreciation for the taste - and the secondary pleasure of having denied the same for Deimos n
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
But he didn’t redo it, leaving the bizarre looking cookie, now with a headless rider and a landshark with no fin, sitting on the tin. “No. I do not think I will.” Shrugging his shoulders in a purposefully seditious roll, he grabbed the pan once it was filled, and placed it within the oven, calculating the time and setting it along an hourglass nearby.
The next problem that presented itself was this gatekeeping fiasco of guarding cookie dough. “It is not a matter of trust, but experience,” and his nose wrinkled again, barely moving the flour display still stuck to his skin. But that was all right, because the General always had another plan roaming somewhere in that devious and mischievous mind. He wasn’t even going to address the teasing measures she thought to concoct.
And in a matter of moments, utilized the Mastered Air components to finely pick up his wayward spoon, scoop some dough still stuck along the sides, and whisk it out before she could snag again. Permitting it to fly back to his hand, he placed the spoon and dough in his mouth without pomp and circumstance, but the juvenile grin amplified along the corner of his lips. “Delicious,” came with a devilish snicker.
His innocent rebuttal is far from it, but she narrows her eyes and leaves it. For now. She’ll get her hand on that cookie cutter soon enough, maybe for a second batch. Or maybe just to liberate from his kitchen and take to the inn with her to become part of her meager possessions. Either way, it’s far from over.
Any burgeoning excitement over the cookies entering the oven is whisked away by the swift, unexpected maneuvering around her feeble blockade. “Cheater!” she gasps, trying to swat at the spoon midair in a last ditch attempt to prevent him from obtaining his share. It’s futile of course, and her brow and nose wrinkle in a contorted pout. Stubbornly she shifts the opening of the bowl to press against her abdomen, willing to sacrifice the small bits clinging to the rim to the squishy death they suffer against her blouse. Now she couldn’t eat it, but neither could he. “Here I was being kind and offering you a bite, because we had a truce, and now neither of us gets anything. Happy now?” Spinning on her heel - and briefly pausing, realizing she has no plan and forced to concoct one on the spot - Evie smirks over her shoulder. “More for Belial then.” And like a naughty child caught with a purloined cookie who’s willing to risk it all, she runs for the living room.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of “cheating”. In Deimos’ mind it’d been anything but – not his fault he’d been taught to outmaneuver many an individual. The pout was worth the extra effort though, returning the favor with his boyish charm of a Cheshire grin at her gasping, squawking, and swatting to no avail.
He snorted at the next attempt though, foolishly not permitting either of them to have any. His snicker dissolved into something reticent and unimpressed, a cross between his archaic nonchalance and the look he often gave Sah or Talyson when they were being ridiculous. It didn’t even justify a vocal response.
Her dash to the living room would be short-lived by his long strides and swift countermeasures, intentionally snaking an arm around her abdomen as she fled into the separate confines. Ordinarily that might’ve been the end of it – some teasing notion in her ear, some brazen word to permit her to beg and plead for escape. But the Sword had other intentions, attempting to lift her clean over his shoulder, bowl and all, like a sack of flour (ha). “I do not think so.” Belial, for all his efforts, simply sat upright and wagged his deer tuft of a tail.
Admittedly his boyish, Cheshire grin melts her defenses, and given enough time (approximately a few minutes) she might have caved. But alas, she has a wonderful idea, and though it will surely end in disaster for her given her opponent that same need to try try try rears its head. Plus it would earn her points with Belial, so the risk is worth the potential reward.
Had he still been on the other side of the counter she might have had more than a few moments of success, but having just put cookies in the oven he’s far too close, and the swift sound of his feet following her makes her yelp an adrenaline-fueled laugh as she tries to dart to the living room. Deimos’ arm is unfairly similar to an iron band as it wraps around her waist in an instant, nearly stopping her dead in her tracks. At first she holds tighter to the bowl, thinking he’s aiming to take it from her, and it loses her precious time she could’ve spent trying to wriggle away. Next she knows she’s being plucked off her feet like she weighs as much as that flour bag (which is far more insulting than swoon-worthy in the moment), and her squeal ends in a huff of wheezed sound as she’s unceremoniously tossed over a broad shoulder, barely clinging to her ill-gotten goods.
Dangling over Deimos’ shoulder, struck dumb, she lightly slaps his back and tries to banish her stunned laughter in favor of a demanding tone. “Put me down, he deserves it more than you!” Grinning where he can’t see it, she wriggles her hips obnoxiously, and stretches her free hand towards Belial’s eager form. “Help me Belial, I’ll reward you!” While she can, still clinging to the bowl with one arm.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
