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!
Flowerbirth didn’t alter Halo too much – steady in its vast arrays of snow and fog, defiance and regard, sovereignty and dominion. Still, settling into the mist, listening to the tougher, firmer terrain crunch beneath their feet, cured all the restlessness of LongNight from his bones – long strides extending, extending, extending until they could chase away remnants of apprehension, memories of blood and disaster. He lifted his jaw more than once to the wind, so that the breeze might curl and contort around him, stark and vivid, clear and awe-inspiring.
They didn’t drift too far from home; he knew Noah was already in his own strained state, and it would’t take much more than a quick, sudden teleportation to take the man straight into the Citadel’s reach once more. Deimos had his duties to attend to as well – further patrols, means of defense, alterations and repairs done to homes – all in due time. What little they could spare, they did so now.
“How are you doing?” seemed to be a common question he asked of the Sentinel lately, but he’d learned in his tight circle of friends to check-in, even upon those strong and stalwart.
you're all bronze and bite all venom and fistfight
Contractions kept coming with Cordelia, but progression hadn't been too much since the sun rose. Every day, Noah was sent out to release his copious amounts of feral, nervous energy while Cordelia's family kept watch and tended to her needs. The woman was tough and nesting wasn't stopping. It kept her able to harness her own nervous energy, though her mother made their home a very serene and welcoming place for the children -- hence Noah's daily exiles.
Today, he found himself in stride with his friend, brother in arms. When they were together before Longnight they had warred against each other in a training of endurance and speed, dexterity and grace. A tie had been the outcome, and Noah was comfortable with that (only because Deimos was the most powerful person he knew).
Then, the Sword had asked the hardest question to answer. Noah's face lit with a small smile, and he shook his head lightly. "I'm not sure. Holding in there, though. Impatiently."
Patience was a must out there on the tundra, amidst the desolate and frozen world – but Deimos had never believed Noah incapable of it either. These were different circumstances entirely though; no hunt, no fight against the Ascended, no tireless crusade into rendering politics or chasing relics. So Deimos gave him a broader smile, and a firm pat on the shoulder. “Soon,” because it would be, and the entire effort would be worth it.
Striding out further into the reach of the mist, letting it unfurl and billow around them, he snagged at a nearby boulder, perhaps leftovers from a glacier’s tirade. Settling his bag down upon it, he pondered over the newfound parameters ensconced in the season. “What do you think about this upcoming ball?” His nose wrinkled dutifully, ranging into the uncertainty and typical balking behaviors of festivals. Though Liat Fux hadn’t been dire, its predecessor invoked certain memories the Sword thought better kept discarded.
you're all bronze and bite all venom and fistfight
The day of his twins arrival couldn't come soon enough for him. He was eager to meet them, but he was also eager to begin the next step with his family. He had always wanted to have children, and now that he had a wife at his side who was tenacious and beautiful and everything he had dreamed of, it felt like everything was falling in to place.
The hunter followed the Sword's lead and set his bow down on the surface of the boulder. "I didn't think it was different than Fiat Lux, to be honest." Which really meant Noah hadn't given it much thought. When the rumors and whispers came to his ears, the hunter thought it was just a way for the citizens of Caido to one up the masquerade from last season. "Do you think it will be different?" He cocked his head slightly. "Because if it is, I don't have anything to wear." Then came the impish, twisted smile that often followed Noah's teasing and quips.
Fiat Lux had its own haunting measures with Deimos; from the amusing to heart wrenching, and the stigma of its nature unfortunately still filled him with some apprehensive dread. Liat Fux, however, had been fairly mundane in comparison; haphazard at best. So he could only amend the notions with a shrug of his shoulders. “As long as there are no rampaging mud monsters,” that couldn’t be ceased or countered, that destroyed entire areas and ensured swift demises and catastrophes. “A little change in festivities probably would not be so bad.” Leaving it up the probability on the other end of schisms, the Sword merely arched his brow, untying the knot on the top of his bag with measured dexterity.
At Noah’s statement though, he snorted, permitting some range of laughter across the frosted field. It didn’t echo quite the same as within the barracks or across neighboring houses, but it was still there just the same. “Did you end up going to the masquerade?” And then with a wrinkle to his nose, he countered. “We could likely make something, but I am not certain what would be fitting for the occasion.” Pondering past circumstances, he tilted his head vaguely, before snagging at some parchment laden within the satchel. “I will likely wear a flower crown again.”
you're all bronze and bite all venom and fistfight
For as many instances of chaos and destruction Deimos had endured while living in the Grounds, Noah couldn’t say that Halo had been as interesting. Their festivals — if attended by any at all — had been much more sober than that of those within the dome and even the area after the dome had fallen. But he chuckled with as much empathy and understanding as he could, pulling it only from the circumstances after the Voice had gotten her reach to Halo.
”I did.” He replied simply. He had attended mostly to make sure that nothing happened that might require his attention as Vi’s demigod. ”I didn’t stay long. You know, with Cordelia and all…” He trailed off with a shrug, before countering with his own questioning, ”Did you go? Anything interesting? Was Evie there?” With the disguises that Frey’s magic so carefully orchestrated, Noah wasn’t sure who had all been there. He wasn’t even positive he had spoken with someone he knew, or if it had been a stranger.
”If you wear a flower crown, again, I’ll have to pay someone to paint your portrait.” He laughed out loud at the prospect, and his eyebrows danced above his glacier eyes. ”Just think how wonderful it would look above the hearth in the council hall.”
Rummaging through his bag, he retrieved some parchment and charcoal, handing it over to Noah. “Sketch your outfit ideas.” Creation incantations was a paramount foundation to the Sword after all, and together they might be able to collaborate and ensure something was suitable.
Discussion of the masquerade though left his brow in its signature arch, form leaning against the rock while waiting for the Sentinel’s parameters to be signified and noted on paper. Not many had openly conversed about the event, at least not in his presence, and he’d found the whole thing rather tame. “I went, though mostly for the food.” A wrinkle to his nose, impish fixtures, gaze rising along the lines of the fog and mist around them. “Fairly certain Evie propositioned me to dance, but I have not verified it.” Saving it, ultimately, for another bout of mischief.
To which he didn’t expect the reaction out of the advisor, outright snorting, then laughing, in response. “All the more reason to avoid the council hall.” That wasn’t going to be an idea he’d extend to the Evergreen either.
you're all bronze and bite all venom and fistfight
Noah's smile and the jesting glint in his eyes did not falter as he took the parchment. He curled his legs, feet under his knees, and began scratching at the paper. He was no artist, but having spent much of his life filling notebooks with sketches and information about various flora and fauna, the hunter was able to give Deimos more than just a stick figure covered in a cloak.
He sketched out a long jacket with a fur-lined collar, though and arrow pointing to the main body of the jacket indicated it would not be made too heavy, too warm. Something easy to slip on and off for fancy engagements. Then he made a bullet point note beneath, scratched and barely decipherable in the haste (his drawing was much better than his penmanship, after all) were words made from half-baked ideas: linen shirt, belt?, boots (underlined twice), and a few more words of wardrobe that Noah wasn't even sure he would be able to read back to the Sword.
"Well its what you have advisors for, anyways. To do the business and point to the painting and remind them of the great work of the Wardens that keeps them so busy that little old me has to meet with them." His eyebrows danced quickly and his tone rolled up and down dramatically.
While Noah laid out his plans amidst sketches, Deimos did much the same. Taking hold of another spare parchment and charcoal, he leaned against the boulder and hastened forth his rough-outlined ideas; simplistic as ever, when it came to things for himself. His mind contemplated layers, considering they didn’t know the location yet, amidst cloaks and fur, long mantles he’d otherwise never use. Probably a tunic – blue, perhaps, in his natural favoritism of certain hues, before pondering any whims to add to the inside of linings. Visions of snow. Of mountains. Of hounds or blades.
Though he looked up, not quite glancing at what the Sentinel had concocted, at the statement thrown his way. An idle chuckle settled into the midst of his chest, then bounded outward. “I did want to speak to you about something.” Brows furrowing, a shrug of his shoulder filtered through, trying to dissuade the notions of discomfort. “We saw a piece of the old Ascended shrine, near the location for the hot springs. Probably nothing, but…,” he trailed off, a vague wrinkle to his nose to punctuate the notions churning in his mind. “I do not want to see any remnants or reminders of her around.” They’d all suffered enough.
you're all bronze and bite all venom and fistfight
When the Sentinel finished his sketching and his little notes for what he thought he could make, he turned the paper in a way that Deimos could see. ”How’s this?” It wasn’t as fancy as the cloak and suit that had been made for him for his wedding, but it was fancier than anything he owned in his normal closet.
Noah stopped his sketching and his playful jesting when Deimos’ tone shifted. He looked up at the hybrid and shifted his weight some. ”That’s not good.” Though the Voice and the Core were destroyed and gone, having any semblance or reminder of what their power once was could not be looked over. It could give other people ideas.
Noah laid his sketching tools down and looked to the sky, then out around them, then finally back at the Sword. ”I think we should dispose of it. While she may be gone, and thus no power is held within that shrine…I don’t want anyone to ever get the same ideas in their heads that turned the Voice into what she was.”
Pausing in his notations to glance over Noah’s, he wasn’t surprised by the outlines and diagrams, for they seemed Sentinel-esque in their functionality. “I can make the fabric for you. But you will have to stitch it yourself.” The offer came with an arched brow and juvenile, boyish grin, but he’d wait for the agreement and accord before creating and concocting anything for the other man – already beginning to detail his through gilded incantations riddling through his palms.
He wouldn’t let the subject distract him, however, even as his brows furrowed and concentration pinpointed to two differing subjects, contrasting between fabric and textures, and certain destruction. “I agree.” Of dissolving, of mauling, of ruining any portion left of the vile Goddess from the likes of Halo. “So if either of us happen to see it again…” his voice trailed off, but the implications were clear.
you're all bronze and bite all venom and fistfight
A firm, understanding nod was all the Sentinel returned to the Sword when the assumption and command filled the space between them. They couldn't let the remnants of the Voice remain. They couldn't let the memory of what she had become, where she had started, and what her people had done live in this world. Knowing history was one thing -- desiring to replicate it was another. The latter could not be permitted.
Once Noah had the fabric from Deimos, he would start on his cloak and vest. He was no master tailor, but he had repaired enough holes in his clothes over the years to understand basic stitching. Thankfully, Deimos' magic was unrivaled and indomitable, and it gave him an easier time with the fabric the hybrid created for him to use.
With understanding parsing through with little fanfare or argument, the semblances became settled. From there, the Sword could work silently, concentrating on the articles of fabric for himself, then the Sentinel – passing them over as soon as each was concocted and made for Noah’s work.
For his own, he stitched and molded, carefully arranged portions that he’d contorted in his mind’s eye, and then paper, and for however long it took, the two could work their way through needles and threads. Not unlike wounds stitched and sewn back together, they applied their best efforts to ensure they’d be fitted for something at the impending ball, eventually finishing under the fine art of tundra ambivalence.
{FIN}
you're all bronze and bite all venom and fistfight
