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!
Okay, so he hasn't written ahead. And he doesn't know where the Warden conducts most of his business these days (you know, given that Ronin last met him out on the Tundra). But sue him; after an impromptu snowball fight with Talyson, the afternoon is beginning to bleed into evening and the Huntsman is still at the Kraai long after the courier has to leave. Once upon a time would have found him in cheerful conversation with acquaintance and stranger alike, perhaps even pleasantly buzzed and paying a bard for a song or playing cards and bartering for trinkets.
Alas, the time and distance since the war - not to mention the scars, both visible and otherwise, that mark his skin - have turned him into a creature somewhat more subdued. And so like any typical mysterious stranger at an unfamiliar bar looking at you, Aragorn, Ronin finds himself seated at an out of the way table. He's close enough to the action, for lack of better word, that he can feel involved without having to speak up, but far enough back to keep himself to himself.
And with a mug of mulled wine to warm his bones, too, he can think of worse ways to spend his evening.
A Warden’s duties rarely ceased, but both he and Evie had been working on establishing some manner of boundaries when it came to ensuring neither of them toiled themselves into the ground. Certain hours meant others took upon patrol duties, that some shifts ceased, or that paperwork could be left until the following morning.
Deimos tended to avoid the Kraai based on primordial pettiness (Sunjata and Neron specifically), but several hunters had mentioned other flora and fauna they’d seen recently, and they’d be within the bar for a couple more hours. Part of him wondered if the creatures had been inspired and imagined by evening drinking, but he’d listen.
Coming through the door, nodding to several patrons and giving greets, passing conversation towards fellow Halovians, he scanned the room for the trappers – and found himself pinpointing on the Huntsman, of all people. Brow arched and head tilted, he parted through wandering masses, ensuring the demigod received a greeting as well, in his usual Deimos way. “Ronin,” a series of inquiries flickered through his mind – wondering if he’d missed a notice, or if something else was giving way in all the segments of lingering peace. “Back in Halo so soon?”
Ronin is nearly done with his drink by the time Deimos walks inside, and he's contemplating another to ward off the (truly despicable) chill of the night flight when he spots the Sword. Blue eyes crinkle at the edges with his smile, and he raises his almost empty mug in Deimos's direction. "I wondered if I was going to see you tonight," he admits, shrugging his shoulders a bit. "The last time we met we mentioned meeting for a drink, so I decided to drop by."
Granted it had been more of an all-day affair than planned, what with the snowball fights and the day drinking, but he's still dropping by, right? "Are you in a rush, or can I persuade you to join me for one more?" he asks with a lopsided smile. "It's good to see you less... hellhoundy."
The Sword wouldn’t admit the rarity of the situation – his preferences generally gleaned to drinking with friends outside the public veneer – but nodded just the same. The other perplexities (how long had the Huntsman been waiting there, or what had caused him to not hasten a note?) were left to unravel silently in the state of his constantly, meticulously, inquiring mind. “No rush. Meant to meet some hunters here. They mentioned something about a breath snatch.” New information and curiosities would lure him out of the barracks at certain hours, at the very least.
Within a moment he’d wandered back to the bar, snagging at his drink, before cutting back through the crowd and snagging a chair on the opposite side of Ronin’s table. Settling his things down, he gave a slight roll of his shoulders, half-shifted along so he could watch the maneuvering people and the Huntsman all in the same range. He’d yet to lift the drink to his mouth before the statement was uttered, and a snort rallied through. “And you less…dragon-esque.” Considering the multitude of times they’d battered down enemies in Attuned, obliterating means. “Everyone all right?”
"A what-snatch?" Ronin asks automatically, raising an eyebrow and glancing around, somewhat foolishly, as if the fauna might be lurking around the Kraai. Still, mention of hunters warms him further, and he doesn't try to hide the smile he directs into his mug of ale. He might be the Huntsman, but he still remembers more humble times, when monster hunting was the pinnacle of his life in Caido.
Raising the mug in a toast, he clinks it against Deimos's glass and grins. "To being more or less human," he says, draining the last of his ale and gesturing for a refill from a passing waitress. "Mm, as alright as they can be I think," he says. "I confess that Remi and I haven't done much visiting since the Cordillera. The Citadel is looking busy, though."
“Breath snatch,” Deimos repeated patiently, another shrug threatening to incline through his shoulders. Instead, he leaned further into the chair, content to people watch with the piercing slate of his eyes. “Apparently it does exactly as the name says.” But he’d yet to run into one, so he’d have to rely on the experience of others; presuming they hadn’t already been inebriated and prone to tall tales. “Quite a few new creatures out there.” In case Ronin was ever still tempted to remain in the monster realm – though they’d probably all seen, and battled enough, for several lifetimes. On a mischievous, but still truthful note, one side of his mouth turned upwards into a smirk. “Man-sized spiders out in the forest,” and he gestured in the direction of the woodline from beyond the enclosed tavern; more or less to see a reaction.
He clinked his glass in return, raising it to his mouth, relishing in the drink and swallowing it down while listening. Alright as they can be seemed to be a brush over, but considering the amount of trauma they’d been through simultaneously, the Sword wouldn’t pry further. So he nodded, letting that go, opting for a genuine smile at the praise of the Citadel’s motions. The icy citizens mostly kept to themselves, but were constantly working on improvements and supports. “We are aiming to place a hot spring in the Fangs currently.” Tilting his head vaguely, the considerations contorted through his mind, peeling and piecing away nuances. “How is the Cordillera?”; curious, truly, how they lived amidst a world of dragons and past wars.
"Ah," Ronin says, any of his usual eloquence snatched away by the prospect of a creature who could do the same thing to the air in his lungs. Add in the glorious image of man-sized spiders basking in the steam of a hotspring, and you can colour the Huntsman thoroughly bamboozled. "Ah," he says again, accepting his new mug of ale and taking a healthy swig before searching for his words afresh.
"Well, if anywhere is deserving of a hotspring, I'd say it was here," he says with a crooked smile. "I saw the Fangs have changed quite a bit from my flight over. Will that be a problem, do you think?" He tilts his head. As for the Cordillera, that at least is something he's comfortable discussing. "It's like living in the world's most dangerous paradise," he confesses, chuckling. "The views are breathtaking - I don't think we could properly take them in last time."
The Sword might’ve been hoping for a round of disbelief or some manner of reaction other than bewilderment, but he’d take it with a slight smirk, hiding the snicker behind another swig of his mug. His gaze roamed over the confines of the bar again, eternally searching for dominions of threats and ominous beacons, but when there weren’t any, he surmised a response to the initial inquiry. "I am not certain. My concern will always be with the white dragons and frost giants.” If they could be irritated or driven onwards towards the Citadel (the former had from time to time), wreak havoc, cause intense damage. The winter world had their weapons, defenses, and means to an end, but Deimos had always been a vigilant, heedful cretin.
The Cordillera, much like Halo, brought back memories of the Aurora Basin – similar in their summits, in the rise and peak of heights, and the way they seemed to yearn to be left alone. Majestic and beautiful, deadly and imposing, and so he listened to the description of a world they’d barely been able to view. Not when they were fighting for so many lives, and not thinking about their own. “That is certainly true,” and he snorted a little – the rain had dampened much of the scenery. “Do the dragons trouble either of you?” Perhaps not in power or demolition, for they all knew both Ronin and Remi were capable of demolition, but by mere presence.
"Deimos," Ronin says slowly, almost as if he's about to impart a secret to the other man, "I don't suppose you considered at any point that you've chosen perhaps the most dangerous place in all of fucking Caido to live and rule?" The Cordillera notwithstanding, of course. But white dragons and frost giants, on top of breath snatches and gigantic spiders? Be serious, Dei.
As for the dragon-crested mountain range, Ronin settles back in his seat and shakes his head a bit. "Not as much as you'd think," he confesses. "Parts of the Cordillera almost seem peaceful. We live in... an alpine meadow, I guess is the best way to describe it? But there's this huge waterfall that flows upwards. I could watch it all day."
Considering the way Deimos had lived his multiple lives, Ronin’s statement invoked a deep rumbling chuckle. He’d been immersed in danger, chaos, and bedlam, since he could remember – as natural as breathing and bloodshed – and in doing so, ensured those in his orbit were protected, guided, and shielded to the best of his ability. “Likewise,” he tilted his head, as if to remind the Huntsman of his current living situation. “I think it is all in what we are willing to endure.” And the Sword could take hit after hit, for the sake of his people, friends, and brethren. Or the mountains, the touches of winter, the fringes of subtle beauty and disastrous dominion. “Though I am not certain of any land here without perils and hazards.”
Taking another drink, he listened quietly to the other insinuations. Brows furrowed briefly when the dragons seemed to lack a threatening presence, or the intonations of repose and serenity amongst a land where they’d been thrown into disarray and terror. Waterfalls flowing upward and sprawling meadows, likely untouched and pristine, was difficult to imagine, but he strived anyway. “Glad to hear you have some peace then.”
Ronin doesn't think he's ever heard the Sword laugh quite like that (shows how little time he spends in Halo), but the fact that it's over the shared danger of their living situations feels apt to say the least. "What we're willing to endure, and how much we value our privacy," he agrees with a grin and a toast with his mug. "Granted, I'm more of a social butterfly than Remi, but given his sacrifices, I'd have followed him to the bottom of the ocean if that's where he'd wanted to live."
Because Deimos is right - no land in Caido is without its difficulties - though one might argue that Torchline's problems are quite different to Halo's. "Too much peace, sometimes," he says with a chuckle, gesturing around at the bar. "Case in point - it's been over a year since I sat down with someone for a drink. The Cordillera is lacking in taverns, as you can imagine."
The Sword had laughed much more in the days stretching away from the Hollowed Grounds, when he could leave the past behind, when plots had become realities and the mountains had become theirs. Liberated and free – most of them were now, even if it sometimes didn’t feel like it. The pressure of war wore a different weight. So he nodded at the grin, the toast, eyes casting back to the table, before glancing upward, back amidst the surroundings of the tavern. “You have both earned it.” Privacy, seclusion, the security of merely themselves, if that’s what they craved and wanted in the aftermath of bloodshed.
Too much peace was an intriguing dilemma to him too – but Deimos put his restlessness into ensuring Halo grew better and stronger, or antics in the middle of the Citadel. Without those tactics and methods, he likely would’ve driven them all mad with his constant need to be doing something. “Another sacrifice,” he granted in a dry remark, sarcastic and fleeting. “You may always take some back with you. What is Remi’s preference?”
"Just as you've earned everything you've found here in Halo," Ronin says with a softer smile, taking another healthy sip of his ale because fuck yeah, he'll drink to that. "And that's true, yes, but it doesn't feel like a sacrifice when it's for the person you love, right?" The suggestion that he might take some of Halo's warmth back home with him is a welcome one, Ronin nodding gratefully.
"That would make a good gift to make up for leaving," he says. "Remi is a fan of gin and wine. He makes his own, when he's in the mood." On the subject of visitors, too, Ronin remembers something that might have been worth telling people like Deimos a long time ago. "If you ever wanted to send a letter to us, by the way, ravens always reach us," he says, taking the feather-shaped charm from his pocket to show the Sword. "In case anything ever happens, or you feel crazy enough to drop by."
It would always be difficult for Deimos to surmise or believe he deserved anything. But all the moments before, in acrimony and vitriol, in heartbreak and devastation, had somehow led him, and many others, here. And if these moments of happiness were something earned out of the ashes, rubble, and ruin, then he’d grasp those tethers and lines for as long as he could. “Thank you,” and he gave a humble nod, tilting his head at the notions of Ronin’s next line with a softer smile. “You are right. It does not.” Never had.
His brow arched at the notions of Remi making his own brew – Deimos had nearly offered his own abilities, and quickly dismissed the idea entirely. “We should have plenty,” and he motioned his jaw towards the bar. Though any further notions of the thought were shuffled to the side at the details of ravens always arriving (which explained previous letters and impromptu trips to Torchline via dreams) and charms extending the abilities. “Impressive,” permitting a wry grin, though he had to wonder if either of them enjoyed being capable of constant contact with so many. “Though I doubt Remi would want any of us to drop in.”
