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!
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
Duties and responsibilities had been a part of his entire life – for multiple ends and reaches. Taking these opportunities, even so slight, gave a restless entity, but he’d finally seen and understood, after seasons and years and cycles, that they couldn’t keep giving, couldn’t keep sacrificing, without some boundaries of their own. To take the time to heal, to mend, to assuage, to soothe, their own battered and broken remnants – otherwise they’d be useless husks and shells, empty vessels, when they’d worked so hard to overcome. And he didn’t want to slide back into constant self-sacrifice, not when they’d all just done the same in repetitive strikes against monsters and mayhem.
So he permitted a laugh, even if it throttled his ribcage, as they sequestered themselves amongst the tub, content in the comfort of her existence and the balm of the water rising over skin and muscles, sinew and flesh and bone. “Music to my ears,” and he wrinkled his nose, one hand threading through her hair as she doused the pitcher over the ichor and banshee stained locks, untangling and unraveling while the water set about alleviating.
The question was a safe one, and he didn’t have to swallow down traces of bile or regret at the answer. “From the Old Gods side? Yes.” Noah, Remi, Ronin, Maeve, Delphia, and himself, winding their way from place to place. “I cannot say the same for the Ascended.”
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
His hands have ever been both nimble and unerringly gentle, and a hum of simple pleasure vibrates quiet in her throat as he begins to untangle her hair. Similarly restless and wanting only to touch him, to remind herself of his continued existence, Evie reaches for the soap he prefers and lathers it between her palms before gently running both bar and hand over the bared expanse of his closest leg. It feels good to tend to him in ways other than magical, to care and be cared for. Her grin at his teasing is ducked against her own shoulder, but the brightness of her expression is unmistakable. “Memorize it, because I hope I’ll never have to say it again,” is her playful rebuttal, quiet in deference to the acoustics of the bathroom.
The smile slides slowly away. Evie is unendingly grateful that the Old God champions survived, but privately she mourns Wessex, if only a little bit. So few native Grounders existed anymore. The Theskyras had been nearly as old as the Wordsworths. Just another bright light extinguished by The Voice. It may do no good to pray quietly for her then, but Evie does it anyway. “Then it’s nearly a miracle. Regardless of everything else, that’s something to celebrate.” Not a single cohort, champion, or friend lost to the Draig. It seems too impossible to believe. Though it leaves her wondering…what of the Ascended who had not journeyed to the Draig? Evie doesn’t ask if only because it feels too close to asking what happened on that mountain, and she’s not willing to put Deimos through that yet.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
In each brush of his fingers, he hoped some of his gratitude, acknowledgment, of her sacrifices, of her abilities, of her might, of her hope and life were instilled, rejuvenated, revitalized. Cherished components and compassionate blends, where affection rooted deep within and lived to tell another story, pressed into gradual lines of copper and crimson, watching as banshee ichor no longer took hold and instead, the rest of her fire chiseled through. She wouldn’t be able to see the smile encompassed along his lips, but it grew and unwound just the same, eyes tracing over silvern lines and fortitude. Something else to mull over, rather than grief, rather than anguish, rather than sink himself further below the surface – heres and nows and the presence of the present.
Even if her humor caused him to snort, for teeth to nip slightly at the curve of her ear. And though the temptation to splash water along where she lathered his leg came in its usual folly, he resisted the urge; simply ghosting a breath over her shoulder as he unwound another tangled thread, snagged at the shampoo bottle nearby.
The statement gave him pause too – brows furrowing slightly, rolling his shoulders to alleviate another residual ache. They hadn’t been a celebratory sort; wounded and tired and exhausted, each going their own way when the time came to disperse – the deeds done. Those air of calculations and machinations never quite left him, and so he unfurled another response made entirely in suspicion and experience. “I am not sure everything is entirely over. In all our years here, the Voice has always had something else up her sleeve.”
Not embarking further, because the certainty was made in furtive notions and the quiet of the bathroom, he tilted his head, aiming for other particulars, notions that weren’t quandaries. “I heard Cordelia and Noah were engaged before we left. May be a wedding soon.” Another prying for information – to see how the Shrike had faired in the war as well.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
Every notion is felt and heard as his hands tenderly unearth the fire beneath the ichor, in all ways. In the warmth of the steam and water she finds the heat of his affection, his admiration, his pride, to be far better at chasing away the cold. In turn she hopes he feels the same in the gentle press of her hands along his skin, washing away toil and sacrifice amidst grit and sweat. Even the nip of playful chastisement against her ear only makes her laugh something close to a giggle, feeling the bonds of fear and uncertainty falling away at last.
In empty revenge she squeezes his foot as she finishes with it, refraining from more energetic notions of tickling or splashing, and moves to his other leg. Never hurrying or brisk in her motions. Nearly luxuriating, as Deimos so surely deserves and which she is more than happy to provide.
Her own brow lowers and knots for merely a moment before she exhales slowly, and lets that worry go, out and away from her where it can’t take root yet. “I don’t think she would go down that easily either. But your victory alone is reason for celebration, even informally.” Though its undeniable Halo’s Wardens are for the Old Gods, a formal celebration seems strange, potentially overshadowing the efforts of the fighters with faith politics. Evie wants to celebrate them.
Though she hadn’t anticipated this kind of celebration, and she turns slightly to bare her surprised face. She is not particularly close with either individual, isn’t even sure how long they’ve been together, but good news is always good news regardless of her personal stake in it. “Last I know Cordelia was okay. She was hit once by the banshee and ran; there was a strange mist affecting my magic, so I was unable to heal her while she fled…” she bites her lip, hands pausing on his thigh, fingers flexing uncertainly. She wonders if it was her fault somehow; would the Shrike have come back, if Evie had not failed? “Halo is not taking it well. I hope it doesn’t impact their nuptials.” Regardless of how she feels about Cordelia’s departure, Evie would never wish ill-tidings on something so precious as a wedding.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
A content rumble pierced through plumes and fatigue, and though the inclination to strike back still lived and breathed in the back of his mind, he settled it down for other notions – their escape small and momentous, and not something he’d easily deploy away. Lathering the shampoo in between his hands, with some distinct smell of pine he’d picked up from a local shop, he layered it through the rest of her tresses, ensuring the rest of banshee significance no longer dignified any aspect of fire. Instead, it could be renewed with resilience and perseverance, and he took his time, carefully combing through with deft fingers, and then occasionally drifting a few bubbles together to place at the top of her head.
Narrowing his gaze, pinpointing it somewhere near shoulders and scars, then back to the tracings of elsewhere, he contemplated the notions further. Something in his chest didn’t allow for true victorious gloating; perhaps it was all the wounds left behind. Or people like Kiada, and wondering what would happen and shift and change now. “Maybe we celebrate survival then,” to honor their dead, for lives that sacrificed for the good of many, and then not obliterating their memory, but forging onward, shaping Halo for the better. And the rest that had made it too – stern and strong, stalwart and true.
The Sword snorted at the Evergreen’s face though at thoughts of weddings, but Deimos had lived amidst them during their exile, had persisted in teasing, and then knowing, understanding, when they finally came together. To hear of Cordelia’s results in the battle though altered the scheme of things though, as he combed through one last knot and gnarl, placing the shampoo deep within. “Because she ran?” The sudden act of cowardice seemed very unlike the woman; and to have strife with her own land caused a brief rankling of his spine – pondering over the uncertainties and complexities of a Natural’s order.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
The smell of pine makes her hum with a simplistic pleasure, closing her eyes to soak in the scent even as her hands continue along in their efforts through touch alone. They crinkle at the corners in amusement as crowns of bubbles are laden upon her head in gratuitous scoops, silver-laced shoulders shaking with stifled laughter. None of it moves too far from where it’s placed, so she peeks her eyes open eventually and - having run out of skin to clean until she turns - methodically begins to clean her own, brisker now. The care and attention reserved for him is already being returned, after all, if not by her own hand.
“Yes, exactly. It’s good to make room for gratitude and joy in the wake of loss.” They’d done it many times in the Grounds when the sun returned at last and the dead had been accounted for. Depending on the scale of the wedding, perhaps the event itself could serve not only as a celebration of a forged relationship, but of life itself. “Safrin is Vi’s herald after all, and you are her champion. We shouldn’t be remiss in celebrating life.” It’s a tease of a thing, and the corner of her little smile is visible as she glances over her shoulder at him.
It fades at his question, uncertain how to answer in a way that is fair and unbiased. “Yes, because she ran. I believe specifically because she did so after one injury; the name they call her seems to be based on it.” But she had lived, and Evie would rather Cordelia live named as a coward than not live at all. Had she or Talyson died because of it, or if the Banshee had made it further into the Citadel, perhaps things would be different. Seeing as neither thing had come to pass, Evie’s grudge was weak if it were to be called a grudge at all.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
“Close your eyes,” was a brief command, and maybe a warning, before snagging at the pitcher and carefully pouring it over her head. There’d been a juvenile semblance to merely using his own magic to douse her, but where they were rooting themselves into merely being alive, the mischief could wait. He watched some of the bubbles disperse into the ether, and then others were slain mercilessly as the liquid drove the shampoo outwards, rinsing and cleansing, ridding traces. He gently repeated the process, pondering over the state of affairs in the meantime. “I do not know the Halo traditions,” considering he’d never seen a wedding take place in his seasons here – perhaps they’d been private, he hadn’t been invited, or the mountainous wake forgot some of the joys too. “But I will ask Noah and see if they want any help.” Which only led to the lightest amount of foolishness contemplating into the reaches of his mind – reflections of another time, another place, another occasion.
He ended up snorting at the insinuation of him being Safrin’s Champion. “Believe that is Ronin’s job,” but nonetheless, loyalty was loyalty. Nodding along, and arching his brow at the look she gave over her shoulder, he dumped another onslaught of water for the commentary alone. “But no, we should not be remiss.” How many times had he been before – so locked and corded away in his grief?
The inquiry’s answer fanned a sigh out of his chest though, as he trickled more water down the ends of her hair, watching the liquid funnel down her spine. He understood it from Halo’s perspective: a hardy people, who gave everything and held back nothing, who fought tooth and nail to ensure they all lived and breathed for the next day, the next onslaught. He hadn’t been home long enough to hear of any chatter, to snag at any gossip, whisked away by the Evergreen as he walked through the gates, but maybe he’d ask around thereafter, once they all got back on their feet. “A shame. Maybe she will prove herself again.” Somehow, someway, to make up for the strife.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
Eyes shutter obediently, breath held in stasis for but a moment as water pours down over her head, washing ichor and suds clean and clear. Though she has not been dirtied for long, the sudden state of cleanliness - even imperfect - feels like a weight off her shoulders. Evie keeps her eyes closed until the few rounds of rinsing have finished, and only then does she lift a hand to rub the water away from the darkened copper of her lashes to blink open once more. "Neither do I," she admits easily as her hand falls back to the filled basin, "but I'd be happy to help. The curiosity alone is incentive; I've only seen Grounds weddings." Including Deimos' own, but Evie doesn't think a Goddess officiating a wedding could possibly be topped.
Evie gives him a baleful glance over her shoulder as he diminishes his title, but her lips twitch at the corners. "He's already her demigod, he can't hog all the titles." It's spoken with an air of upturned-nose-arrogance on his behalf, though she knows Deimos has always humbly - and sometimes uncomfortably - shirked and turned away from any complimentary titles and terms.
Finally she turns, on her shins now to face him. Continuing her path with the bar of soap, she nods silently to his observations as she gently rubs circles with the soap into his chest opposite the strange wound. "I hope so. Regardless of whether she's perceived as a coward, I am glad she survived because of her actions. At least being alive she has the chance for redemption." And perhaps some would look down on Evie for that outlook, but as a healer, Evie would prefer people alive over the alternative - no matter the context of their survival.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
Placing the pitcher down, he contorted through water incantations, taking hold of the residual ichor and cleaning it thoroughly from the tub; the liquid pristine once more. While she considered, more mischief contorted, removing multitudes of ghosts from his gaze, half-inclined to plot and scheme juvenile antics. “Perhaps they will get a herald involved too,” seeing as how Noah was Vi’s demigod, but the Sword shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe we can provide fireworks.” Presuming she’d catch his meaning, the depths of his grin widened, before rolling his eyes at the next comment.
Deimos had never craved titles – and she knew that, based on the stare alone. His brow arched and he shook his head, a snort echoing through the bathroom. The Warden had done as he was tasked – protecting, shielding, in loyalty and devotion to people, to deities that had instigated alterations and changes, but he wouldn’t be an individual to loudly proclaim the actions or notions. Not when they’d all suffered in their own way – whether it was amidst the Draig or scattered along kingdoms, desperate to save themselves and one another.
Which led to Cordelia, though he took the opportunity to cast an admiring, appreciate glance as Evie turned back toward him. Figure too tired and exhausted to try anything but simple endeavors, his smile took on a content air, an easygoing rumble in his chest as soap and hands were applied there, watching carefully as she spoke. Not used to any sort of pampering, indulgence a rarity, his hands were restless things, taking to the water, fingers spinning droplets nearby. In quick movements, he snagged another bar of soap, reaching to gently start a lather along her shoulders. “You do not bear a grudge against her?” The question pinpointed solely on the occasion; curious over her sentiments within the moments.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
Evie watches his magic set to work, always admiring his abilities, his control. As she turns, she feels hope bud in her breast at seeing the mischief in his eyes. They’re going to be okay. They really, truly are.
All of them.
Her response is delayed, so taken is she by the light returning to his eyes like sunrise over the tundra, but Evie is far from embarrassed by her own enraptured state. When it comes, it’s heralded by her own impish smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I think fireworks are a must.” A great gift for the newlyweds if she says so herself.
Deimos’ appreciation is held close, though it’s unneeded. Although as his hands begin to clean her own shoulders, Evie wonders if perhaps they both feel that way; neither expecting nor even anticipating such tenderness, but cherishing it when it’s offered freely against all predictions. “I think…” she trails off, considering not only her words closely - though Deimos would never judge her blunt, heart-true expressions if shared - but also her emotions before she completes the sentence. “I think I do hold a bit of a grudge, but I believe it can live harmoniously with my equal relief at her survival.” Halo had lost far too many as is, Cordelia’s loss would not have been worth a swifter end to a battle that hadn’t made it past the gates. “It’s not a choice I would have made myself, even if I had promised to stay safe or alive for you, and similarly I can’t help but wonder how many losses could have been prevented if she’d stayed - but I’m glad she’s alive, and I cannot change the past.” No matter how they all must want to after this war. “I would say my trust in her as a fellow fighter has dimmed, and perhaps I do not see her to be as brave as I’d assumed, but I feel no ill-will towards her. And despite my wondering, I don’t blame her for the deaths at the gates.” That was solely a blame to lay at the feet of the monsters that had attacked them.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
It would take time – for all of them – to not linger in the throes of trauma, to not feel it clinging to the surface of their souls. But with the majority of them whole and alive, Halo seemed to have fared better than most. Prepared and stalwart, bound to their oaths of protection, they’d done just that. It was the aftermath that lingered heavily and headily now, made phantoms linger, made memories fester rather than dim. Such were the infernal punctures of war; the onslaught first, and then the vitriol trailing behind.
He studied her for a few moments as she paused, uncertain about what caused the delay – but relieved when the notions seemed to pass. Snorting again, briefly reveling in the stark images beginning to flicker into his mind, he justified the notions with a few droplets of water, shaped to encompass their intended follies and foolishness, before they dispersed back into the tub. The impish grin remained for a few instances more. “It is tradition, after all,” to ensure the juvenile means were readily understood.
Then he listened once more, never quite ceasing in his quiet ministrations, hands touching over pale skin and silver scars, striving to wash away the rush of claws, the amplification of pain. Creating more memories over stark and anguishing ones; head tilting vaguely, watching the suds build upon one another, while truths were uttered and shared between them.
Maybe it was easier on their end – because both of them understood the swift, gnashing, overwhelming nature of war, that he would never make a promise he wouldn’t keep, that he didn’t expect that of her either, and even so, it wouldn’t come to the detriment of their people. Listening to the summary caused his jaw to clench and feather, maybe for Cordelia, maybe for those lost, maybe for the wake of wraiths beginning their march again behind his eyes. The heart of the matter chiseled its way into his own chest, uncertain if there was anything for him to bear – just a viewpoint, an angle, and nothing more. “Had either you or Talyson perished, I could not forgive her.” A breath loosened from his lungs, one hand rising to cup her cheek. “But I will not bear her ill will then either.” For it hadn’t happened – and there were plenty of other credits to Cordelia’s claim. And she could earn her way back into Halo’s graces. There was time, and opportunities, to do so.
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
It’s amusing, how he pauses in mirror to her, nearly holding his breath if he weren’t so well-trained - yet he can’t parse that the reason why she does is because she’s overcome by the strength of affection she feels for him. So astute and observant until the moment the lens shifts to view him, and then he is utterly blind. It makes her heart ache with fondness that bubbles up into the laughter spurred by his comment. “And who would we be if we spurned tradition?” Gleefully egging and goading, eager to see such a display at the Olson wedding.
Callouses catch on the ridges of her scars, but the healing was done well, and it causes her no pain. They are both marked by the war now. Though their battles had been undeniably separate, they were never really far apart in spirit. Such a communion and companionship that only further underscores his own sentiments; they never would have made such vows, not only because of their experiences, but their understanding of one another. Though unbidden warmth flows through her veins at the quiet vehemence in his tone, eyes burning bright even as she blinks it away. His forgiveness comes swift on the heels of it, but Evie can’t forget it. So long she has been a side note in the stories of others. Deimos’ grudge, even theoretical as it may be, is the kindest brand she can carry in her skin as a reminder that she is loved. Lifting his hand, Evie presses a tender, lingering kiss to the lines of his palm, and then nuzzles her cheek gently into the large cradle of his hand. “She can strive to win the people back on her own.” Interference, even from Noah, would be unacceptable in the eyes of the Halovian people. “As for us…now we rebuild.” Blue eyes open to find his own, and Evie smiles. She has told him many times about the power of hope and optimism. It shines bright now in her eyes.
Don't look up, just let them think There's no place else you'd rather be
bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones, bones.
You've encountered the OG random event! This allows you to skip one levelling requirement with the character in this thread. (Unfortunately does not count for characters over level 10, how sad.)
ache first, but then let the cuts close spit out the blood
The Sword, and the Reaper, had been so ingrained amidst battles; to see the clues, the notions, the slightest movements and motions of an opponent, an enemy, that anything else had gone by the wayside. Seen as an object of affection, while not necessarily new or foreign, given all his other experiences (of loss and loss and then nothingness), bordered on precarious lines and a confidence he didn’t have – but might gradually come to see, come to know, come to understand. His head tilted at the laughter, grin softening, rounding out the edges of exhaustion and fatigue drifting through his mind – like webs, cloudy and fogged.
His free hand wandered amidst suds and soap, down by her sides and along curves until those were clean – but it was a restless movement and motion, too distracted by alternating notions. The calloused wake of his other palm was blessed and sanctified, and he permitted a chuckle to rumble through, even if the subject matter didn’t deign such an action. Ticklish, maybe, though he didn’t bother to explain it, allowing the shudder and undulation to linger on his skin.
And would Cordelia do such a thing? He’d believed her loyalty a foundation of her character, and maybe it would rise again in the coming days, where they all had more time, more opportunities. “Up to her now,” he mirrored with a slow nod, head drooping involuntarily and then swinging back up, as if caught by the drowsiness and fighting the intensity.
His piercing eyes flickered back to hers though, and even though he was quickly snagged and caught by the listlessness forged along his own frame, the ghost of a grin remained. “And where do you want to start?”
watch your body pull itself back together then let your soul do the same
