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!
"I'll be sure to take a gift or two before I head back, then," Ronin says with a grateful nod, already able to hear his husband's appraisal of the Halo vintage. All the more reason to take some with him, honestly. "It can be," he agrees of the feather charm as he slips it back into his pocket, though it's almost as if he's read Deimos's mind, because it's with a sly chuckle that he admits, "we've set up a mailbox. I go to check for letters maybe twice a week."
It might not be the best way of dealing with it, but it suits them at least, and so far no one hasn't needed them urgently. (Thank the gods for that). As for Remi's feelings about that hermit life, Ronin flashes the Sword a crooked smile. "Sometimes what he wants and what he needs don't agree with each other," he points out. "The offer is open either way, if you ever wanted to see a bit more of the place."
Half of him pondered mentioning other snacks to include in the intended gift, but figured Ronin was more than capable of snagging those himself too. Instead, he took another drink, amused at the potential of a mailbox high along the mountains, heavily burdened with letters and packages. Another thought conjured, perhaps one of nostalgia and not much more. “Let me know if either of you want to participate in a hunt again. I am thinking of taking some guild members out in Flowebirth.” The ones who wouldn’t put everyone in immediate danger, and clever enough to help and assist, rather than bog the attempts down.
His brow arched at Ronin’s insinuations of wants and needs, but permitted a smile nonetheless; if it was a little juvenile and clearly contorting some machinations of his own, he didn’t reveal it any further. “Thank you. I will consider it.” Another inquiry volleyed to replace a semblance of others though, recalling conversations in dreams and Safrin expansions. “Have his wounds healed?”
Ronin is mid-drink when Deimos mentions a potential Flowerbirth hunt, but even so, it's difficult to hide the way his blue eyes light up. Lowering his mug - and using a napkin to swipe the foam mustache off his stubble - he offers the other man a lopsided smile and a nod. "I think that would be fun," he says, because of course someone like Ronin would find that to be a grand day out. (He is called the Huntsman, after all). "You can count me in. I'll see if I can convince Remi."
Perhaps they'll even up the ante by only using physical weapons and items, rather than the magic coursing through their veins. Speaking of the physical, though, Ronin tries to find the words to describe the current state of Remi's wounds. "...It has been a long year," he explains eventually. "Until recently his arm was unusable, after pulling out the Core. After Safrin called us, though, I suggested he go to visit Ludo. It seems to have been able to help. His wings are still a wreck, though."
The Sword, habitual in his quick surveys of others, noted the reaction well before the words were accepted, and permitted the crook of his smile to remain there again. “Good.” Even if Remi didn’t crave the notions, there would always be others. “I can send you a letter when we are ready.” And once he’d pinpointed something that could challenge them, within reason and motive.
Unaware of the methods or measures the Huntsman was conspiring, Deimos turned his attention to the prospects of the Lullaby’s progress. He might’ve believed Ludo capable of mending just as Safrin had done, though she’d done so willingly, coming to them rather than the opposite. His brow arched a degree, before his eyes narrowed, deep in thought, pondering over the perplexities that perhaps he simply didn’t understand. “Can they not be healed?”
"And I'll make sure I check the mailbox regularly, so we don't miss it," Ronin confirms with a flash of teeth; indeed, perhaps he'd be a little more strict with himself in not ignoring any potential communications with the outside world. Not a difficult thing, in truth - since he'd started to come back down from the Cordillera more often, touching base with old friends and socialising (gasp), he's started to crave it a little more.
As for Remi's wings, Ronin gives an honest shrug. "I imagine they could be, whether by a god or enough healing magic. I've only got limited power when it comes to that sort of thing, and... well, seeing a healer for that sort of oomph would require Remi to come down off the mountain, right?" He grins. "On the plus side, getting his arm back has let him shift into a hawk again, so it's not all lost."
Another nod solidified the arrangement, and the Sword took another swig of his drink, stance noticeable less rigid and more comfortable as he leaned back into the chair. “Have you seen any other interesting wildlife there?” Besides the dragons – they were all aware of those creatures with vivid scars and memories, should they require periods of self-reflection. Deimos doubted they were the only animals calling the mountain range home.
At least Remi’s wings were seemingly a kindling of wanting to, rather than anything else impeding the Lullaby’s path. A matter of the right moments or needs. But a smile did manage to resurface at the semblances of the hawk returning, as if it were pathways to days long since gone by; even if the instances were difficult to hold in levels of nostalgia now. Not with everything else trapped and scalded, changed and altered, within. “Fair enough,” was an acknowledgment of the necessities required, with a touch of humor.
"You know, surprisingly not," Ronin admits with a belated grin as he realises how comparatively tranquil the Cordillera is, when you take the dragons out of the equation. "The landmarks seem to be the true wonders, like the waterfall, the summit, and a huge lighthouse we haven't been up to, yet. There's memory snow, the same as here, and some very stubborn sheep. They'd probably make a good ningo substitute with their wool, if you can stand being headbutted."
Nothing fun to hunt though, but in truth Ronin thinks that after the great dragon battle, and the Court of the Fallen, and Caido... yeah, the Cordillera can keep its hunts, thanks. "So how are you finding being Warden?" he asks. "It suits you, I have to say. Given that I put all my leadership down and ran off to the mountains, I'm happy that Halo is thriving."
The more Deimos heard about the Cordillera, the more he was perplexed about the land itself. For something so domineering, threatening, and overpowering over the past years, he’d expected more of the lethality. Perhaps it’d been shrouded in myth, or the dragons had done most of the work, hiding and shrouding their world in mystery, awe, and uncertainty. His brow arched, another swig taken, biding his moments and thoughts, about stubborn sheep and lighthouses, landmarks they’d barely touched upon when fighting and sieging. “Interesting.” For it was, and he wouldn’t deny it – those strong notions of curiosity stirring again.
The inquiries eventually turned on him, however, and he could permit another modest smile for the efforts of the world surrounding them. “I avoided it for a long time.” Far more comfortable in his role as General, which was why he still maintained the barracks, ensuring their defenses were still ready and capable, for whatever the future held. “But thank you. Evie and I share the efforts, and Halo has always had capable people. It has not been as bad as I thought it would be.” He shrugged his shoulders, memories sweeping briefly of another life where he’d been shadow and brimstone, haunting the mountainside. “I presume you have no regrets of leaving leadership behind?”
"A smart idea, honestly," Ronin says with a flash of a smile as Deimos confesses to have avoided leadership as much as possible. "At least, it was when the war was gearing up. Nowadays you make it look prosperous, even enjoyable." Ronin chuckles behind his cup. "And that you have Evie as well to stand with you... it makes all the difference, I bet."
But as for himself? Ronin nearly snorts the head off his ale, wiping at the foam on his nose as he puts the mug down. "None whatsoever," he assures him. "Back when we were looking for relics, when demigods were looked towards as people who had answers, it felt like I would be letting everyone down if I didn't lead. But gods... it's been good to take the break, you know? Maybe I'll come down from the mountain a little more often, but I don't think I'll be looking to pick up a new title."
His brows furrowed in thought – scanning the inside of his glass, mind elsewhere as he mulled over Ronin’s statements. He couldn’t recall a time he enjoyed leading in the stretch of past lives. The pressure had been too great, the responsibility too vast, and the weight he’d put upon himself ensured he’d run his entire body and soul into the ground; at times no more than a silent shadow. In the end, he’d been merely bones in caves and gone, just the same as Helovia thereafter.
But now was different, and so he eased a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, permitting another slow and fond smile to flicker along the corners of his mouth, gaze flicking upon the table. “I think if either of us were leading alone, it would be a different story.” But the Evergreen had ensured that wouldn’t happen, from the moment the titles had passed over their shoulders. With genuine affection rumbling in his chest, he nodded, adhering to the agreement. “We make it work.”
Deimos’ sense of responsibility wouldn’t have permitted the tossing of the mantle, but they were two entirely different people. So he listened as the Huntman described the changes, the fundamentals, the break necessary after years of giving themselves away to everyone and everything. “It sounds like all of you deserve a rest, regardless.” His thoughts drifted to Noah too, starting a family, trying to adjust to a world where they were stable and secure. Of how it was okay to take breaks and establish one’s self again, after tragedy and strife and loss and bloodshed.
Perhaps once upon a time Ronin would have teased Deimos on the warmth in his voice, or demanded to know more, but time and solitude, as well as the war, have tempered those urges somewhat. Instead he offers a genuinely happy smile for the other man, nodding to him and tilting his cup as if in a small toast to their success. "Honestly, that is all that matters. Halo doesn't seem to be suffering for it, in any case."
As for the rest, Ronin huffs out a laugh and a nod of honest agreement. "You would have thought that we'd be rested enough by now, but honestly, it took a few seasons just to realise that things were alright." That the Voice wasn't going to resurface around every corner, that Caido wasn't going to change their mind and smite them down.
Now, though, he thinks perhaps they're getting into it a bit, as evidenced by Ronin's presence in the Kraai. His eyes lift from his mug to note how full the tavern has gotten, and a smile curls the corners of his mouth to hear the low rumble of voices, the pluck and twang of a lute nearby. It isn't much, and he doesn't see it happening too often, but it has been sorely missed by the Huntsman.
And so he passes the rest of his evening with Deimos in quiet conversation and perhaps even the odd game of cards or darts. Ronin doesn't even cheat, though when Deimos wins, he'll undoubtedly wish he had.
