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!
He had been here less than a full year and yet the weather still never lost its... charm. He meant the word with all the possible ire he could muster, not particularly well versed in sarcasm but certainly embracing it for his description of Halo's frigid landscapes, empty and devoid of anything but the cold that seemed to seep into every pore of his body if he didn't take steps to actively chase it away. It was certainly a change from what Ephrem was used to, Torchline's tropical climate admittedly far preferable... but he left his old home for a reason, and could scarce abandon his new post now, when there was still so much to do, still so much undiscovered. No, he would not be leaving Halo, as inhospitable as it sometimes seemed to be, even when his veins turned to ice and redoubled the pain he felt on the daily a thousandfold.
It was the price he had to pay for everything he would become. All he needed to do was be patient, though it had never been a virtue of his. Even he wasn't stupid enough to repeat past mistakes, however... he was more focused on moving on to make new ones. That, too, brought a bitter grimace of amusement to his soul. Destiny was a cruel mistress. Perhaps even crueler than the gods.
Nevertheless, future conquests could only be left to a body that could function in the future; and as it stood, between the cold and his sleepless nights getting used to his new position in Halo's Arcane Academy - carrying books too and fro and, generally, doing things his body screamed at him for by the end of the day - Ephrem needed a break. Back when he was first leaving Torchline's coasts, the poor sod who had been assigned to care for him as best as they could told him to at least partake in the land's hot springs on a semi frequent basis to chase away the worst of the pain, and he wasn't so prideful as to not listen to their sound advice. It had become a weekly addition to his schedule, ending his days by letting the magical warmth seep into overstimulated nerves and, perhaps not heal them (he had yet to find anything that would permanently cure him, to his clear disappointment) but certainly calm them down.
A pleasant shiver cascaded down his spine when he sunk down into the warm waters, clothes neatly abandoned next to the pool far enough away not to fall in, their magic taking almost instantly. A soft, pleased noise ripped itself from his chest before he could stop it, the pain melting away into nothing more than a dull throb in his limbs. Eyes closed, he let his head lull back, steadying his breathing down to the rhythm of the lapping waves.
— EGO NIHILITAS NON QUAESIVIT, SCINDITUR MIHI APERTIS
Ronin's visits to Halo are infrequent these days, but wearing the mantle of a starlight goddess comes with a set of responsibilities that he's hard-pressed to ignore. Safrin has told him to shine, and so the Supernova is touring Caido like it's his gods-damned job. The worst part is that he thoroughly enjoys it, truth be told, but it does mean he's frequently taken away from other pursuits. (Those pursuits most often come in the form of a man with a halo of curls and a penchant for mischief, but as it so happens, his husband is also in the region hunting a manticore, and so Ronin's complaints are minor at best).
Having remained in the Citadel during his last few calls to the region, this time he heads a little further afoot; a friendly face in the Kraai has told him of some recently installed (for lack of a better word) hotsprings, and he's loathe to miss the opportunity to indulge in them.
Ronin remembers the Fangs as an imposing crown of icy crags, so to see them levelled so low is startling to say the least. He's seen it from the sky, of course, but it's very different up close and personal. Ducking through the tunnels, only when he feels a tell-tale brush of heat against his legs and face does he realise he's close, and he emerges into the hotsprings already feeling as though he's wearing too many layers.
Spotting another man already partaking in the water and steam, he offers him little more than a nod of greeting before moving to strip off his shirt. A social butterfly he may be, but he knows places like this are built for relaxation and, as is sometimes necessary, a bit of solitude.
08-18-2023, 09:40 AM (This post was last modified: 08-18-2023, 09:41 AM by Ephrem.)
He’s come to expect people coming and going whenever he is here, the wonder that is hidden within The Fangs open to all, after all. At first he felt some modicum of discomfort at sharing in his vulnerability with others, but soon realized that most came here for peace and didn’t spend precious breath talking. Or maybe they just didn’t want to talk to him. Regardless, it suited him just as well no matter the reasoning, though whenever someone did encroach, just as someone had now, he still shifted subconsciously in the waters, moving his cane closer to the water just in case — to make it easier on himself when getting out of it. The worst part was always the pity whenever he could tell they were watching him struggle with leaving the waters; he’d rather spare himself the sentiment as much as he could. Usually he left it at that, returning a nod here and there and then closing his eyes once again to return to the blissful moment of numbness the magical hot springs offered him. Not this time, though.
This time his curiosity was piqued.
Social he may not be when it comes to matters of insignificance to him, but it was another matter entirely when the closest thing to a god that would likely bother speaking with him was present. Eyes blazing with intensity, he watches Ronin unwaveringly for a moment, expression unreadable save for obvious interest in his presence. He stops only when he realizes that his staring could be interpreted in ways he didn’t mean — curse everyone and their need to partake in all things related to the mortal flesh — brow crinkling into the faintest of frowns. No matter. He wasn’t going to let the sudden stutter in his focus sway him from his questions. There were higher things at stake here.
Shifting ever so slightly, the waters still lapping at his tanned skin, he casts his gaze farther, this time, giving the man his metaphorical space even as his voice rises up, the lilt of it deceptively flat — it brims with fire despite it, to those clever enough to pick up on it. The fire of hatred? Of envy? Of just pure unadulterated curiosity? Who could say. All that mattered was that it was certainly present. ”You’re the Demigod, yes? Safrin’s.”
— EGO NIHILITAS NON QUAESIVIT, SCINDITUR MIHI APERTIS
Years of wartime paranoia make Ronin acutely aware of eyes on him, despite his best efforts to ignore it. Whether it's because they know of him and his reputation (something he ought to be used to by now, and yet it remains positively wild in his mind) or because they want a piece of him, he's aware of it nonetheless. Still, trying to focus instead on the removal of his clothes, it's just as he's about to pull his shirt over his head that the voice cuts through the hotsprings, and the Nova turns with his face still mostly obscured by the garment and his arms trapped in the sleeves.
"Uh, yeph," he says helpfully, voice muffled by cloth, and it's a couple more wiggles before he can free himself enough that scars and tattoos replace the obvious image of Safrin's might he was portraying. "But please, you can just call me Ronin," he adds, ruffling a hand through his hair and folding his shirt to set it down. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
He assumes, based on the introduction, that he might be needed in some capacity. It doesn't stop him from unlacing his boots and stripping out of the rest of his clothing (and it only takes two hops to get out of his pants, thank you very much), but he can dress again in a hurry if he needs to.
In truth, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting out of this interaction. The mere idea of a demigod simply walking into a hot spring alongside him was absurd enough already (did he not have better things to do? Did demigods truly have the time and want to partake in simple pleasures like the rest of them?) but now that it had happened… suffice to say he was underwhelmed at best. Brow still furrowed, be cast Ronin only a brief glance when he got stuck in his own clothing, but promptly shifted it away again once he was free from his self made entrapment. Thrilling. The sarcastic irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him, distaste now more freely coating his tongue. Still, he was nothing but polite, even if it felt more strained to remain so.
What a question he was posed, however. Ephrem could scarcely hold back the scoff that threatened to escape him, but thankfully managed to disguise it with a grunt instead, something easily explained away by the waters relieving his pain. It still lingered, after all, in the backdrop of their soothing powers. He usually stayed in them long enough to feel nothing at all and then some, and it hadn’t been nearly long enough to achieve that result yet. After a moment of debate, turning the question around in his mind as if to analyze all of its complex angles, he made another soft decisive sound, the precursor to his speech. ”Forgive me, if I may be so forward, I have…” he trailed off briefly, trying to reformulate the words in the best possible sequence he could before continuing, “… I know of your kind. I know of how they can be created, some of your history that’s been written down already, if not all of it, of your connection to the gods” — he can’t stop the distaste that coats his tongue at the word but doesn’t linger on it — “but I have not… I did not expect to be faced with one, especially in the given circumstances. I did not think you… I assumed you would have more important things to do.” Then, after a brief moment of silence, curiosity getting the better of him, unable to hold back his tongue: “Do you not? Have more important things to do, that is?”
— EGO NIHILITAS NON QUAESIVIT, SCINDITUR MIHI APERTIS
Oblivious to the way his first impressions have underwhelmed the other man, Ronin listens quietly and, when he realises there aren't dragons to slay nearby or any similar perils, submits himself instead to the hotspring waters. "You can be as forward as you like," he says with a lopsided smile, one that eases into something altogether more gentle as the steam and hot water get to work on the day's aches.
"Were it a couple of years ago, I'd be inclined to agree with you," he admits, of having more important things to do. "At the height of the war, and so on. But now, I suppose it depends on your definition of important." With an easy shrug, he sinks further into the springs. "Safrin would see me make my presence known again in Caido, so that's what I've been doing. Torchline, Stormbreak, and now here. But the Citadel is peaceful, and it has a strong Warden to protect it."
And so, he says with a roll of his wrist, here he is. "You might say this conversation is the most important thing I'm doing so far today."
