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!
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
The Sword was used to goading and inciting, stoking an incendiary fire through bloodshed or antics. This fell well within the latter, but the notions and motions were the same – challenge spurred through veins and pulsing through machinations, drawn into a Cheshire grin tucked cheekily upon his face. Glancing back over his shoulder to watch her spiral and then pop back up like a drowned rat, the snicker embedded further, pleased and content with himself.
The sarcasm volleyed back only increased the arch of his brow – until he too was immersed in catlike, feline precision, narrowing his eyes thereafter. He muffled another laugh, swallowing it down for a hooded gaze and piercing stare.
And a complete lack of modesty.
“Certainly,” came on a rumble deep in his chest, daring, emboldened, audacious. Her telekinesis might have been tugging and insistent, but he was still the brazen, impudent one. The shorts were stripped off efficiently, even held aloft for her to see, all encompassed with a now what declaration on his features.
Made all the more ridiculous as Belial came down and snatched them out of his grasp – whirling around above, leaving Deimos to do nothing more than shrug his shoulders.
His Cheshire grin is a familiar thing, leveled at her frequently in their years of knowing each other, but the expression that it melts into is one she’s never seen before; hooded eyes and an intense stare that stuns her in place like a startled prey animal, brain going uselessly blank. Clearly she made a mistake somewhere, but it’s not until he brazenly pulls off his shorts on his own that it becomes clear where.
As he waves the shorts above the water, Evie splutters slightly, cheeks hot and flushed from ear to ear but still shaking her head in fond exasperation. Okay, so he’s not nearly as prudish as she’d assumed, of course he has to make it harder for her to win. Just keep your thoughts pure, Wordsworth, she commands herself firmly.
Belial’s intervention breaks her internal struggle, leaving her laughing so hard she has to extend a hand to brace against the rocky ledge of the pool, the other arm wrapped around her stomach. Eyes bright and tear-lined with mirth, Evie tries to catch her breath, which she can only manage after forcing herself not to look up - because every time she does, and sees a Belial with the shorts triumphantly held in his mouth, she loses it again. Wading deeper out towards Deimos, Evie laughs and pulls on his hair tie again. “Do you concede?” she asks loftily, lips curling in a smirk. Tense and ready for him to decide to either give her the win, or make his move - while naked at that.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
Belial’s triumph rang over the ceiling and ramparts of the Breath, colliding and volleying with stone (Zuriel couldn’t bring herself to look over, pretending like she has no part in anything to do with this troupe of fools). And then center stage, an intermingling of concessions that threatened to loom even larger; though the Sword held no form of retreat, evasion, or withdrawal. The same smirk embedded and finessed into his features, hands intermingling with the water, as if a looming threat of another crashing blow were imminent. Her inquiry inspired a deep snort; as if losing his shorts to a peryton would make him admit any defeat. “No.”
His hair tie was tugged away too, leaving loose, wet locks to drape back over his shoulders and down his neck. Small feats and gestures – they could be easily recreated with one strand of incantations, but he’d give her those tiny moments.
Unmoving, he stared her down, gaze still hooded, head tilted vaguely, a few breaths away. A vague huff rumbled through his chest, before another declaration of his magic immersed and emerged, intentionally releasing droplets and cascades of water over her head, much like her own personal raincloud. Then a whisper amidst the deluge to follow. “Do you?”
The cascade of wet hair down his shoulders shouldn’t look unfairly practiced and poised compared to her own long strands clinging to every curve of her shoulders and spine, but Evie is coming to the frustrating realization that Deimos’ composure is unfortunately legendary. It only emphasizes her disadvantage as someone who has an abysmal poker face in comparison.
It shouldn’t surprise her that he doesn’t concede defeat, now that she knows his own nudity is no bother. Even so, standing so close she is keenly aware of how she has to tilt her head to look up at him, and she’s torn between an unfair awareness of how out of her depth she is, and a constant striving stubbornness that insists if she just doesn’t back down…
The deluge makes her shoulders rise and bow inward, wetting her hair impossibly further and clinging to auburn lashes, dripping off the bridge of her nose and the Cupid’s bow of her lips. They smile slowly. Blinking against the droplets to meet his hooded stare challengingly, hands poised on her waist. “Never,” she whispers in mimicked undertone, meeting his dramatics head on. “Refreshing, really.” Mischief dances like lights in her eyes, wishing she had better options for revenge. Instead she shifts the rock beneath his feet, just enough to try and get him to stumble forward to bring him into the rain cloud and douse him in his own medicine. “Why don’t you join me?”
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
Stubborn seemed to have met obstinate, until his gaze was no longer hooded, but narrowed and pinpointed in the enticement of provocation. No end or bend in sight, he remained ever poised, waiting for a reaction to tip the scales in his favor, for victory to be sealed, for triumph to glean in boyish calculations –
His jaw snapped back together when the dramatics persisted, unfurling a vague snort as she didn’t relent beneath the contained downpour. He could see the mischief but not the inclinations lined within, not until the rock maneuvered under his feet, with no time to correct it.
Escorting him in a pitched motion; stumbling and fumbling forward. Careful not to crash into her in whatever control and proportion could be mustered in all his reticent dignity, the water rained down over him too – a bit colder than expected. An instinctual shudder and undulation rippled through muscles and corded through scars, another indignant huff of his breath expanding through his chest. It was a bizarre combination of temperatures, he could later surmise, between the cool notions of the makeshift cloud and the Breath’s lull and pool. It pulsed and pervaded over flesh and skin, going down the ridges of his brow and nose, settling into his beard.
“You were right. Very refreshing,” he uttered, standing tall, proud, and distinguished beneath droplets and cascades, as if this were nothing to him at all. “Could stay here for hours.”
Battles of will shouldn’t be so fun in retrospect. For a day meant to be a mini vacation, they’re undoubtedly both picking incredibly strange ways to spend it. Evie finds she doesn’t mind at all. This was their version of fun, and so long as they had the springs to themselves, they could indulge in their tomfoolery as long as they wanted. Even if she gets the distinct feeling that despite all the water involved, she’s playing with fire. More than aware that Deimos has an entire repertoire of magic to terrorize her with, and she only has her creativity.
Her laughter is hushed and soft as he stumbles forward until they’re nearly chest to chest, watching through smiling eyes as he shudders all over, skin acclimating to the colder droplets above the surface. Only to roll her eyes heavenwards with a disbelieving huff of laughter when even that was not enough to make him concede. Evie is forced to tilt her head farther back with how close they stand now, and the hands previously on her hips fold in front of her chest, water pooling cold in the valley of her breasts and the folds of her forearms while her waist down was hot with steam and bubbling water. “You’re impossible,” she chides, but she’s biting down on her bottom lip to try in vain to conceal her smile, looking up at him through lashes gone auburn with rain. “But I’m all out of ideas I’m afraid.” Aside from disastrous ideas that flicker at the edges of her thoughts, enticed out by proximity and sentiment. “Truce?” she proposes, smiling coyly, aware of her wording and how it keeps her from having to declare her own forfeit. One hand emerging in the small space between them, an offering, even as her eyes never waver from his.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
A rogue smirk meandered in a slow stroll along his mouth, encouraged by the chiding, glancing down, down, and down, content in the devilry. Though they both stupidly shuddered beneath the potent raincloud, neither backed away either, carved mettle and backbones and resolute obstinance. And maybe that was how they’d survived all these damned years – through perseverance and stubborn tenacity, grit and fire and jaw clenching irritation – now utilized as a foundation for fun. Habits hard-earned and won.
Announcing she was out of ideas made the grin unfurl to show teeth, dimpling cheeks in a proud act of defiance (for he wasn’t), even as the hand extended. “That is what you said last time,” he uttered, the memory not so distant and he not so trusting, leaving her palm to remain under cascading droplets and cold ether while he calculated and considered. Suspicious to a fault, and for good reason. But, while Deimos was powerful, his cruelty, maliciousness, and abhorrence stayed reserved for those he despised, where he’d persist and chase and rampage until they were ashes in the wind. That wasn’t the case here, and they both knew it.
A moment later, his calloused hand shook hers, before vanquishing the showers all together, permitting it to dissipate in a puff of air. Snorting, he tilted his head, and broke them apart, sinking his frame back into the heat of the water, and diving below again. He resurfaced a few breaths later, closer to the shallow pools and rocks, watching vaguely as Belial landed upon a larger outcropping by the ceiling…leaving his shorts to hang off a ledge.
It’s difficult to shut up the side of her brain that insists she not back down, rallying ideas that tread the boundaries of absurdity. How can she resist when he stares down at her with that smirk that lights embers in her veins, encouraging her to greater heights of juvenile mischief? Even his suspicion makes her grin unrepentantly, even as she shivers lightly beneath the cold of the rain that soaks them both.
“Did I? I don’t recall,” she remarks innocently, the fingers of her outstretched hand wriggling her fingers cheekily in an enticing manner. Already admitting she was out of ideas was enough of a loss on her part, any further and she’d stick out his playful torments for the remainder of their hours on stubbornness and spite alone.
Luckily he saves her from that fate by grasping her hand, and their truce is sealed. Evie squawks slightly as he turns and dives away, spraying her with droplets that are far warmer in comparison, almost scalding on her chilled upper half. He resurfaced a few feet away, and the Evergreen muffles her laughter upon noting his dilemma. Following behind, she clambers up out of the pool since he cannot and approaches Belial - and the shorts, where they’ve been deposited on a precarious outcropping. With a cheeky nudged of her earthen magic again, she slips them from their ledge, and catches the wet cloth as it plummets down. Turning, she wiggles them with a cheeky grin towards Deimos in the water. “I clearly picked the wrong time to strike our truce,” she laughs, approaching the edge with shorts in hand but not quite holding them out just yet.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
She wouldn’t be able to see the depths of his eyeroll as he turned away, gaze hastening towards the hanging swim trunks. There were hordes of options at his repertoire, the enchantments emboldened and leaping to the forefront of his veins – from air to water, and it would only take the wake of a breath to snag them back.
Instead, he gave over to sitting amongst the shallower notions, leaning against a massive rock as if he owned it, arms outstretched and indifferent, stare casually following Belial as the peryton flew over and around, completely amused with his own antics (a contribution to their follies). The heat of the springs pooled and pulsed, relaxing and guiding in its own way, and eventually the Sword merely watched cheeky grins and hands as they reached for the fabric; leisurely blinking, the slow, lazy manifestation of a grin returning to his mouth.
The same piercing juxtaposition of his sight segmented solely on her, the elements of reticence pervading along the surface. “I am not bothered.” Perhaps she was by his current state, but then again, the healer should’ve known better than to goad. He’d maintain the ceasefire, slightly honorable in the peace between melees, head tilting to view, witness, and wait, biding time and opportunities.
Bothered? Oh, no. Not in the least. Merely…out of practice. Which is why she rakes her eyes blatantly across Deimos’ arms, splayed out in kingly form across the lip of the pool. “I wouldn’t be either if I looked the way you did,” she comments forthrightly, moving to stand near his left hand. Evie knows she isn’t plain per se, confident enough in her appearance to think she’s pretty, but not much more. While she used to weaponize big blue eyes and freckled cheeks in her youth, her romantic endeavors had never amounted to much, so while she’s not precisely body shy, the bikini she’s wearing puts more skin on display than a man has seen in over ten years.
Gods, what a sad thing to think.
“Or, is it more of an occupational thing?” she asks idly as she lowers herself to dip her legs back into the pool, shorts still held hostage - or as hostage as they could be considering Deimos’ apathy - in her lap. Readjusting her hair now that it was loose, Evie tilts her head down to regard him curiously. “With communal showers for the soldiers and such. Because you don’t have the same body confidence as someone who sleeps around.” Because he doesn’t, frankly, and she knows it. Doubts anyone would be able to keep their mouths shut about it if they had the privilege, either because of shallow reasons such as his looks and status, or because others in Halo loves to make assumptions for the exact same reasons.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
Bemused, there was no blush adorning his cheeks this time with the forthright comments, just a residual arch to his brow, a Cheshire grin threatening the corners of his lips. If he’d wanted, he could reach out and grab, snake her right back into the pool, and while the temptation lingered, his hands remained still, composed, leisurely sprawled in his stretch amidst the rock and pool.
His brow arched at the next comment, and then the following one caused such a raucous laugh that it echoed from his chest and along his lungs, pervading the scenery in the warmth of another accord. “You think we have communal showers?” Waiting until the chuckles faded out of his throat, a few more curling around simply for the sake of it, he shook his head. “I would never let the barracks be so barbaric.”
The other sentiment caused his brows to furrow, eyes narrowing slightly. No, he didn’t possess the swagger of such a man – his confidence came from within, from comfort in his capabilities, from fortresses and power. “I am aware of what I look like and see no shame in it.” A tool, built for strength and fortification, for defense and machinations, for obliterating adversaries and dominating enemies. For intimidation and prowess, for strength and might, for enduring the way Caido implemented its chaos. Only the inward proportions of himself, beyond and below layers of muscle and brutality, were not laid bare for the rest of the world. “It was honed for protection.” A pause of consideration, head tilting vaguely. "But if you are uncomfortable, I will put them back on."
Unaware of the danger she’s in sitting within reach, she can only dramatically turn her head away, cheeks going pink with embarrassment at her assumption even as her lips twitch at the sound of his amusement. “Well - okay yes, I assumed so,” she admits sheepishly, grinning at him from above. Being from the Grounds, she’d expected that exact barbarism. Though he is a far better General than anything Zariah had employed, some things remained an assumed fact in her mind. “Plus who doesn’t secretly enjoy the idea of fit men and women showering in the same space? It’s too easy!” Her flustered defense is accompanied by a flare of her hands, always needing to be moving her body.
Deimos’ offer is sweet, even if he didn’t intend it to be so, and she relaxes further into the warm stone below her bare thighs, hands moving behind her to recline onto her palms. “No, it doesn’t bother me. Do I compare myself physically, or ruminate on my painfully long dry spell of seeing a man nude? Absolutely.” And here she winces at both, laughing softly. “But I’m a healer, I’ve seen plenty of naked bodies.” Many - most, honestly - far less visually appealing than Deimos. “I wish I had that level of confidence, admittedly.” Evie can’t imagine taking her bikini off - either part - even with the foam to cover her from sight. So maybe it’s a matter of self-consciousness over prudishness.
you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
Relegated back to teasing, plucking at seams and strands, the Sword’s grin turned more mischief-laden and boyish, conjuring further folds of laughter, though a bit muffled along the surface this time. “Is that a plotline from one of your books?” Another chuckle ensued, shaking his head, and then reminded of dripping locks, he created a duplicate hair tie (gods knew where the other one was now), manifesting another makeshift bun while she maneuvered.
He rolled his eyes – could’ve made a horde of comments. That she needn’t compare herself. That she had nothing to be ashamed of. That visual appeals differed greatly from person to person. But that was brushing aside other matters, and body image issues weren’t what they had concocted for the day. Matters of acceptance, perhaps. In the eaves of his own restlessness, he silently began stringing together droplets of water, watching them fall one by one like little stones, rising a few inches before plunging again – giving him moments to think and parse through layers and lacquer. The ensuing volley was a joke. “Do you want us to strip the injured down before we send them to you?” A cheeky grin flickered and rallied, but faded thereafter. Several other notions stuck to his teeth, but the only one to unfurl across his tongue was the deep rumble and small smile to follow. “What are you confident in?”
Freckles cheeks deepen in color even as she nods, a hand coming up to drag down her face in embarrassment, ending over her mouth to muffle a sheepish laugh. “Yes, I won’t lie at least one of them uses it as a plot.” But she smiles all the same, because she knew the day she’d told him about the romance books that he’d tease her for it eventually, and it feels good to laugh about it.
Watching his idle maneuvers, she moves her ankle to nudge at his ribs with the bridge of her foot in playful retaliation for his cheeky comment. “Unless that’s your way of trying to find me someone, I think the clothes best stay on.” Though the amusement is clear in her eyes, envisioning Deimos stripping down a comrade with brutish, efficient force just to send them out into the snow to her doorstep. The more serious nature of the next question is unexpected, and Evie hums in consideration as she rests her cheek on her propped shoulder. “My magic, now. Though it took some time. My mind - what I know of plants, tonics, toxins. My morals, if not my faith.” Shrugging lightly, she gives him a small smile. “Like you said, your figure is for protection. You know what it’s built for. Me? What I can do is all with my hands. That’s all I’m confident in, and so it’s what I do, what I want to do every day until I die.” Which is why they’re both such workaholics. Why they both needed this day of repose and relaxation. Looks, body confidence, that had all been put to the side in favor of focusing on what Evie could do for others.
