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!
03-17-2019, 04:52 PM (This post was last modified: 03-17-2019, 04:53 PM by Roana.)
Loud, repetitive thuds echoed across the outskirts. From whence did they come?
Former Captain Roana Steadman had set out well before dawn, her claymore and broadsword in tow, dressed for the hard work that lay ahead of her. Her hair was pulled back out of her face, her hands wrapped in leather bindings to protect them. From what? The wooden post she set up that was in for the beating of its lifetime. She had started her workout with basics. Push ups, squats, lunges, sit ups, plank holds, wall sits against the post - sweat rolled down her skin and drenched her shirt. Only when the sun just started to rise did ease up and stretch her muscles to give them a moments reprieve before moving on.
The post became her target, her mind sharp and focused on it as she laid into it. A flurry of punches and kicks, dodging imagined retaliation as splinters flew from it with each hit she landed. Which was not all of her hits to be fair - some she stopped short, some she feinted, twisting back and hitting low from the other side. Hand-to-hand combat wasn't her specialty, she was a swordsman, but she wasn't unfamiliar with the methods. No soldier worth their salt couldn't fight without a weapon in her opinion. This imagined duel between her and the post went on for...well she wasn't sure how long that was how focused on the task she was. But it eventually was brought to an end as she punched the top third, the wood finally giving way and snapping loose, falling to the ground in defeat. Roana stopped, staring at it as she caught her breath, pleased with her success thus far.
If only she could hear Ronin from wherever he was, certainly giving her criticism on her form.
Roana
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay
A blistering conviction had settled deep into her form the moment her eyes had dried, the moment the world had reassembled, the moment that hatred had spewed at her simply for her existence on this damned earth.
You must get stronger.
She’d been mighty and courageous within the Rift for sheer survival. Her pluck, daring, and audacious oaths had ensured her persistence, perseverance, and fortitude were melded and folded right into the very core of her being. She was not one without the others: forged in fire, breathing maelstroms, endeavors, and bold, intrepid beliefs. She’d been brazen, she’d been impetuous, she’d been impulsive when it came to the lives of her friends and family. She’d lived.
But not much of that seemed to matter now: despite all her strives, all her attempts, the peace and repose flickered away with the last breath of a fallen man, with the rush of a zealous quartet, with the relish of a monster slayed, marred, and destroyed. She wasn’t enough anymore; not with the rise of anger, with the sizzling, the seething, the smoldering wakes of the earth rising up to snag and unfurl, to growl and hiss. Before long it would come to blows, to assaults, to sieges on more than just monsters. The honeybee child had seen it, had witnessed the way people divided and cut themselves apart to prove they were right and others were wrong, how a singular viewpoint could seize and torment, how promises and virtues and assurances could mean nothing in the long run.
The honeybee girl had no intention of being amongst the disillusioned, the frail, the meek, or the inept. She needed to become more.
It was Fangorn who heard the first potent whacks, gestured wildly to the wandering youth as she kicked rocks down paths, as she attempted to come up with a plan by herself. It was unfortunate that she’d grown from impetuous natures, instead of a steady, scheming one; ruses hadn’t had time to be effectual when a fiend, when a demon, hovered behind one’s neck. The pumpkin companion, however, must have sensed a grand, great opportunity, gesturing wildly with bounds, leaps, and hops into the air. “Goodness, what's the matter?” She tilted her head, shaking it once or twice, but the gourd was mercilessly insistent, and so she followed him towards the outskirts.
Before long a woman appeared before them: armed and garbed in military style, dutifully assaulting a post. Melita studied her, trying to figure out where she’d seen the form, similar, familiar, but where; but also admiring the style, the methods, to her madness. Precision and practice had never been her thing: the youth’s techniques and manners were usually assigned to the more reckless of natures. Then, an idea began to form…beautiful and brilliant, chaotic and wonderful, an impish quality centering itself into her mind.
She approached, amiable and amicable, Fangorn at her ankles. “Hello! Very impressive!” Perhaps she didn’t look the part of an incoming, feral, savage little thing, but gods how she wanted to prove herself amongst the fold. “I’m Melita.” Then, she might’ve realized the familiarity was due to this woman being within the battle she’d just watched, and something close to foolishness and embarrassment coiled amongst her motions, her realities. Why would she even bother with someone like her? She’d just helped take down a monster that hadn’t been conquered up until those last, few lethal moments. Instead, though, she bowed her head a little, maybe more meek than she would’ve liked to have appeared, but there was a layer of worth she hadn’t worn, hadn’t accomplished, in the realm of this battle-hardened woman. “Are you training for something in particular?” Was there more to come?
Roana's head turned quickly upon hearing another voice. A high-toned sound - a female on the younger side. She was pleased to see her assessment correct when hardened blue eyes came to rest upon the curly-haired youth. She watched as realization seemed to dawn on the girl - Melita she said her name was - about who she was. Roana had seen such an expression cross faces her whole life - the realization that they were standing in front of someone they gave importance too; whether it was because of her name or, as she presumed in this case, because of her actions on the field of battle. She watched as Melita went from boldness to shrinking in on herself, looking at the ground as if it might swallow and save her.
The former captain offered her a warm smile to calm her nerves. Roana was powerful, but no monster.
"It is good to meet you Melita. My name is Roana Steadman." she introduced, gladly giving her full name, willingly removing whatever anonymity she could cling to for the sake of the girl's comfort. "Yes and no." Roana said, looking back at the broken post with a contemplative sigh. "Yes, something in particular, because I've a dead man's last wish upon my shoulders that requires me to act. And no...because I am simply not good enough. Not yet. So I must get stronger, better. It is business and personal." she said with a small smile and looked back at Melita.
"You're out awfully early. What brings you out all this way?"
Roana
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay
The girl absorbed it all – listening ears and riveted eyes, lifting her chin, her head, to stare back. She lost some of the shame, for it never seemed to stay for long, emboldened by curiosity and the undercurrent, the tones leading somewhere down shared paths. She heard the name (Roana Steadman) and committed it to pieces and pockets of memories, and then the wishes of a gone man (Ronin? the youth almost dared inquire; but a sensation halted her, and she knew), requiring the older woman to forge onward, and the eerie maelstrom of comrades, of a kinship, flickered in her bones. How many times had it occurred in the Rift, everyone holding onto the same wish, the same dreams, the same damned interlude and horrors, longing for a sanctuary, for a refuge, when none could be found? How many times had they banded together to fight a common enemy? The audacity lingered in her heart, in her mind, in her throat, until they couldn’t be held back any longer, and her tongue sparked, sizzled, in its array of questions. One managed to hold its own in the wind, in the morning dew, in the ominous, foretelling spells. “What do you have to do?”
And if this one didn’t think she was good enough – a warrior who’d helped in casting down a monster – what prayer did Melita have?
Except the tenacious, forceful little fiend never gave in. She didn’t crumble. She didn’t quake. She didn’t fall apart, to pieces, to splinters, to embers. Defiance became her blood, her bones, her enamel, her essence; the steadfast confidence in her own abilities. If she wasn’t talented, if she wasn’t grand or great, she could at least keep trying, determination in her grit, in her heart, in every damned, forsaken breath she took.
Then the questions segmented back to her – the wonderings of her travels in the morning. Roana wouldn’t know that the youth roamed and wandered her way through each and every field, copse, or meadow whenever she pleased; day or night, and despite Wessex’s attempts at lecturing her, still committed the actions. It was sedition, tradition, and habitual, a routine set in her lithe legs and her limber movements. However, it was also in pursuit of practice, and she might as well admit the notions before they got too far embedded into lasting wounds and fragments of the days before. “My companion heard you practicing.” She grinned, gesturing to the gourd at her feet, barely restraining an eyeroll when he hissed and growled in response. “So we followed the sounds.” Her eyes went to the destroyed post, then out to the great beyond, ruins and outskirts made before her time by something mysterious and unknown; and she was suddenly a force to be reckoned with it again, the swift maneuvers of a turbulent, capricious storm. “I’d like to become stronger too.”
Roana smiled a little at the question, having expected it and yet still being surprised when it was asked. And inquisitive mind this one seemed to have, a good trait Roana thought. Inquisitive minds sought answers and did not take the first blush as truth. "I must get people out of this bubble. Those were his final words to me...a mission I am not certain everyone is so happy me to have." She had heard of the discontent that had passed through the watching crowd. She knew the road ahead would be difficult...she just wasn't sure how difficult.
The sun was beginning to rise now, and the air was beginning to warm - frankly the last thing the former captain wanted after the workout she had just gone through. Her breath was caught but her temperature was still elevated, so she quickly shucked off the long sleeved shirt she wore over her sleeveless tunic. The lingering scars from her battle with the demon were then revealed: little, uneven red welts from shrapnel, the jagged teeth marks on her shoulder, deep and red - in places seeming more like parts of her flesh had been pulled free. But it all was healed, no longer open wounds but painless reminders of the battle.
Roana glanced down at the gourd and chuckled lightly. "Keen ears you have. What is its name?" she asked, unsure if it was a he or she - did such creatures have such gendered delineations? - so simply said it, hoping doing so was not offensive. Blue eyes looked back up at the girl, a brow raising in curiosity. So she wished to be stronger too, hm? "Were you hoping for a lesson then?" she asked her, guessing at her scheme.
Roana
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay
Melita should’ve known; the bubble destruction was the mission, the end goal, the light at the end of the tunnel. But she’d heard the discontent, the hatred, the seething masses as she watched the battle wage on – inhaled, uncertain of where she stood or tread on the matter. She was too ignorant to make a blunt statement of where she aligned herself: all she craved was the fight, the melee, the rush of movement, of motion, to a singular purpose. “No. There were many unhappy Naturals gathered while you fought.” Her smile faded a little, remembering the contempt placed upon Outlanders – every single one of them – simply for their existence, because others pursued devastation and annihilation, and they craved the status quo. Were there things to fear then, in every single avenue? Was she supposed to be scared? Was she supposed to be apprehensive?
The restlessness tangled and sizzled down her bones.
Her eyes followed Roana’s movements, caught the edges of scars, the marks of battle. The honeybee girl had never given much credence to such emblems except that they were blemishes of survivors. They told an outline, a story, a mere sketch of the truth, but that the beholder remained, and perhaps that was enough. The youth had some of her own, but the largest zigzagged down her back, born from lightning barbs and sparked thorns, from betrayal and upheaval, from ghosts meant to stay in their graves.
Fangorn didn’t know quite what to do when he was addressed except glare – Melita answered for him with a muffled chuckle. “This is Fangorn.” She waited for the inevitable press, the endless queries, of how and why she’d taken in a vampire gourd, especially since they had worked to annihilate a vast majority of them in the great pumpkin uprising. It didn’t come. Roana had sensed her motives, leaned the conversation that way, and the child swallowed, heart suddenly roaring, howling, with anticipation. “If you’d be willing, I’d be very grateful.”
03-17-2019, 11:39 PM (This post was last modified: 03-17-2019, 11:39 PM by Roana.)
"So I have heard, and apparently those rumors were true." Roana said with a sigh. "I hope it is something I can work out. I wish they would work alongside us. I've no quarrel with them." she said with a light shake of her head. It was a situation that grew increasingly complicated, and she frankly didn't have the same ability to win over enemies over a stiff drink and easy chat like Ronin had. She was fairly certain that he hadn't been quite aware of just how monumental the task he gave her was.
Well. It wasn't his problem anymore. Now it was hers.
"Fangorn. The name becomes you." Roana said to the gourd with a grin. It really was a funny thing she thought... a funny pet for a funny girl. No, not funny. Unique. "More than willing." she said with a smile, seeing the girl's eagerness light up in her eyes. She remembered when she had been like that, ready to jump at any and every opportunity. Besides, teaching was just as good as training. If you couldn't teach what you knew, you didn't really know it.
"How much fighting experience do you have? Do you use weapons or have interest in it?"
Roana
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay
Melita didn’t know what to say about the current, developing situation of might against might, of Natural against Outlander. It’d hurt her, out there, watching everything unfold, listening to those she considered friends and comrades howl and roar about the ineptitude of Outlanders – something she was, always would be – but now it all seemed so petty, so ridiculous, so overblown and overwrought. Perhaps it was because she couldn’t do anything; a sensation of helplessness drifting over her features, a veil, a shroud, of ineffectualness.
But not any longer. She’d make certain of it.
Fangorn wasn’t sure whether to take pride in the compliment or balk from it, so he simply stared, nodded, and retreated behind Melita’s heels again. The subject altered away from him anyway, and Roana’s willingness to skirmish, to train, to somehow instill some amount of experience into her blood and bones. The girl was ebullient – her greedy, mercenary, covetous little claws unfolded and beatific, a radiant smile casting it way through her lips, brilliant and blinding. If it hadn’t been all for the sake of menace and warfare, she might’ve looked saintly and pious, a regal sprite of fortitude and might. Despite the inadequacies crawling over her surface, the obvious notion that she’d had no formal training in the darkened dungeons of the Rift, her avaricious mind craved the sensation of practice and skills, carved and etched and yearned for the opportunity to show someone she was capable.
There was no point in lying about her trials and melees. They’d all truly been in hell, established demonic interludes and fiendish embraces; the kind that sought its refuge in nightmares, dreamt back in the middle of the twilight evenings with anguish, sorrow, and oblivion wrapped in its tails. She jutted out her chin, defiant and revolutionary, because her entire outlook had scrapped its way from the merciless eaves of the Rift’s quarters, and there was a semblance of pride there - I survived coiled in her grasp. Her gaze was ruthless, even when her tales only shown of green, unsophisticated measures. “I don’t have any training.” She swallowed there, but didn’t lose any of her strength, her potency; ferocity ready, fervent, to be unleashed. “I used rocks. I used branches. I used anything I could get my hands on to ensure my family lived.” Then she paused, only to take a breath, to press her arms against her sides, trying hard not to ball her hands into fists. “I fought monsters.” They’d been cunning, they’d been shrewd, they’d been barbed and wired with snares and traps, and she’d screamed and roared against the calamity a thousand times over; you can’t have me she’d uttered in her feral, reckless, ferocious howls. You can’t have them, she’d pitched over and over, growling, a menace to behold in those dark lands, where anguish was common and tribulations were paramount, desperate to protect everything she held dear.
Even then, it hadn’t been enough.
The truth was tangible though, a ring of suffering and trials; mysteries uncovered only to be swept away by false gods and treasonous, treacherous, duplicitous methods, means, to unravel everything in sight. She didn’t back away either, her gaze, her eyes, still steadily on Roana. A cheeky smile managed to lift the sides of her smile into a more impish grandeur; devil-may-care, a light in the brazen, emboldened fervor. “My favorites were always a handmade staff, a knife, or bow, though.”
Roana watched Melita quietly as the emotions tumbled and roiled over her features. She was quite the expressive young woman, which made her youth all the more obvious. It was a sort of youthfulness that ought to be treasured, one easily lost in the milieu of hardship; and based on her description of what she had fought like in the past, hardship was a well-known friend of this girl. She might not understand her exact situation, but she could empathize with her none the less.
"So a scrapper. No shame in that. But it will only get you so far." she said with an empathetic smile. "So long as the monsters stay on the field and don't invade your mind, you're doing good. One of my teachers told me that." she said, giving the girl a good once over. She definitely had a good build for combat. Perhaps nothing quite so strenuous as using a greatsword like her own claymore, but something a little smaller. That she prefered knives, bows, staffs...well that didn't surprise her.
"Well then, let's test some of your basics then and see what you're made of." she said with a smile before stretching her arms to the side. "Give me all you got."
Roana
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay
Melita didn’t have the heart to say the monsters never truly left her mind; they came and went as the nightmares did, as the memories screeched and howled, as the cold, lifeless tips of her mother’s once gentle fingers crawled over her neck, as she embodied the very same fiends and heathens.
But not now – today was about becoming better, stronger, mightier; she was conviction, tenacity, and brute, reckless force. Thereafter, she’d be even more, and the world would have to look her way, bow to her prowess, to her dominion, to her perseverance.
So she prepared her mind for the challenge ahead. She might be faster, but that was likely the only advantage she had. Roana was far more experienced, far more dangerous, and likely, far more cunning. But that didn’t mean Melita would be a sitting duck – eager and ready to take a beating. Most of her enemies had been felled by her quick wit and seditious pluck: growling and roaring, shoving anything she could into their eyes, into their hearts, into their lungs, until they bled across apertures and thresholds, and her family was allowed to flee.
Basics; did pretending to be a massive demon in the dark qualify as basics? Her eyes watched Roana’s stance, and she stretched too, arms flinging out to the sides and then across her chest, grabbing hold of each leg behind her back and then placing them down. Then she inhaled, exhaled, and fired rapidly – the only process she could fundamentally understand – with a balled fist intended, aiming, trying for Roana’s stomach. The movement wasn’t boiling or brewing with her innermost brutality or ferocity; there were no enemies in the vicinity, no lives to be saved, no threat for her imminent survival. It was just a touch, a taste, of her ignorance, of her abilities, but Fangorn shifted and bounded out of the way, as if he saw the storm coming well before she did.
Roana watched quietly as the girl stretched, preparing herself for the fight ahead. She had warmed up already and so waited patiently. Melita's stretches were barebones and did get the job done, but completely unrefined and inefficient overall. There were better ways - or simply better ways to do what she did - to get the results she wanted.
Then Melita attacked, and a small smirk curved her lips.
It was a basic punch. An untrained punch, informed only by her natural skill and need to simply accomplish a task by whatever means necessary. Not only that but her target, her midsection, was also more meant to maim than kill. Wind them, throw them off balance, stun them so you could escape. That was what a gut punch was. It further cemented in her mind that Melita had been fighting for survival rather than for any organized purpose. Anyways, she probably should deal with that, huh?
Her hand shot out, a near blur with speed in comparison to Melita's attempted. Her fingers curled around the younger woman's fist, her arm taking the shock of the blow without so much as a shudder. She was not only much faster but much stronger than Melita too. "Don't lean forward so much and keep your shoulders square with your hips - you'll be easy to knock off balance otherwise. Try again." she said, still holding on to her fist. What could she do with her dominant hand restricted...or how would she think to get it out?
Roana
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay
It was grasped and held by the warrior woman as if it’d been nothing. As if she, little Melita, were nothing. Her inexperience, her ignorance, was a barb sticking its way down her ribs, through her bones, collecting and curling through her mind like a thorn, like a bramble, like a vicious, spiraling opus. The honeybee girl had known she lacked some portions and skills; she wouldn’t have agreed to this training if she didn’t want to become better – but to have it shoved back in her face was a vehement maneuver. She grit her teeth and bit back the curse suddenly ricocheting through her mouth, because she’d show her, she’d show them all.
Despite the spike in her anger, the fury contorting its way through her figure, she listened to the advice Roana gave. The youth adjusted accordingly, leaning back, upper frame square over her hips, grounding herself into the terrain. I am a rock, she thought, channeling more calm through the incensed wicks of ferocity, striving not to be flustered by the obvious, tangible weakness in her talents. I am a force. One day, they’ll fear me.
She wasn’t daunted, however, by Roana opting to not release her hand. There were always other methods, other ways, other strategies and tactics to utilize. The Rift had assured a quick mind was an asset, rewarded by survival and persistence through the wicked, nefarious eaves; if one ruse failed, another took its place, quickly, efficiently. The youth considered several options on the try again command: had Roana any dangly bits between her legs, the decision would have been much easier. Had she been able to reach any sand or dirt to toss into her opponent’s eyes, it might’ve been done. Instead, On an exhale, keeping her right leg firmly planted, rooted, she lifted her left leg and attempted to kick forward, trying to reach Roana’s lower limbs or kneecaps with a potent punt.
Roana grinned as the girl made her adjustments, shifting her weight so she was more firmly planted. A fiery drive to succeed, some natural talent, and a good student? A rare combination indeed. It pleased her to no end that her wish to train had been earnest, that she had truly been seeking tutelage to grow in strength and skill. It was honesty, not flattery, and Roana respected that greatly.
She watched carefully as Melita planned and executed her next move. The girl didn't try to pull her hand away, leaving it where it was instead. Not a bad tactic given the situation - it kept Roana at a standard distance and she was overpowered anyways so it would be a waste of energy to try and get away. "Generate your attacks from your core, not your shoulders or hips. You'll get more power and control that way." she said, even as she watched the girl's kick land on her thigh. It definitely didn't feel great, and her leg twisted a little in response to the force, but Roana had taken much worse hits than that. In response, Roana twisted around, keeping Melita's hand in hers as she stepped behind her back, bending the arm with her. It wouldn't be a comfortable position, but it shouldn't hurt (because that wasn't her goal).
"Stop thinking of attacks as single movements. One leads into another and another. It is all connected in a continuous motion, even if you don't initiate it. Recover and strike in one movement." Roana said in a commanding tone. Melita would feel her hand being released, but in the same movement being shoved forward.
Roana
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay
Power, she thought, an echo to the juncture of Roana’s voice, beholding her core with a vigilant edge, centered in the glide of movement and motion. She could hear an emblem, a vow, in Fangorn’s thoughts too, quiet but persistent, a singular drone of consistent pushing, prodding, and she didn’t question it, but adhered to it, grasped, tethered to a line of force and persistence. She clenched her jaw and ground her heels into the earth, the light and ambience gone, replaced by the stirring of ferocity, the brimming of vehemence, the billowing effects of fury curling its mercurial, tempestuous glory in her veins.
Her arm was suddenly curled behind her, uncomfortable and unobliging. Her first instinct was to fight it off, to shimmy and shift away from the confining position – in the Rift, she would’ve grasped hold of anything in her reach, to howl and roar in her predators’ ears, to shove away the apprehension building in her figure, to escape, yielding not an option, liberation the only thing necessary, survival mode enhanced and vigilant. This wasn’t one of those moments – she could capture the nuances, control the machinations, bind the impulsive, impetuous notions seething and frothing their way through her mind; no singular movements, no broken motions. It had to be sinuous, gliding, one foot after another, like the way she raced down to streams, like the way she launched from branch to branch, built upon, sequenced. It made sense; she’d just never experienced it in the heat of battle, where she could grip a moment’s hesitation and make it her friends’ departures, their deliverance, their safety, their stronghold.
She was pushed forward, not hard, not rough, but just enough to stumble, to catch herself, to repeat the newfound refrain in her head – she breathed, inhaled, exhaled, and in a serpentine upheaval, pivoted, extended one leg in a feral, empowered, emboldened, side-swiping kick, intending to meet Roana’s ribs.
