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!
At Luka’s behest and perhaps some of his own curious indulgence, Deimos sent a note along to Soleil. There’d been no hint or sign of reasons why – he certainly wouldn’t implicate her brother – rather a penchant for promised training and catching up portions. Especially with her adventuring exploits – surely she’d have her own fair share of stories and be willing to tell the tales, rather than diving headfirst into melancholic efforts.
With the time arranged, the Sword tended to other duties, checked in with Evie and a multitude of other missives, before thriving once more in the expanse of the training grounds – comfortable sentiments. Here, they could grow and prosper in determined factions for just causes and pursuits. No politics, no ties, no gnarled knots; strength for the persistence and perseverance of it all, fortitude and might forged into the solidity of Halo’s forces.
From there though, he gave a few waves to his brethren, before settling into a corner, uncertain what the Accepted’s preferences would be for combat.
When the silence isn't quiet And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
Whether it's due to Deimos and Luka's handling of it all or her own distracting melancholy, Soleil is surprised but not suspicious when Deimos offers to spar with her. It's not uncommon for him to do so, with her or a variety of others, but lately her method of training has been beating dummies blind and occasionally tackling Talyson to the ground and wrestling with him in a fit of blind anger. Neither is exactly great when sparring with their Warden.
She shows up a little early, but is far from surprised to see that Deimos has beaten her. Her hand clenches and unclenches, mildly sweaty, around the wrappings of her spear shaft. Diana marches primly at her side, only parting when they've made it to Deimos as if handing Soleil into his care. She moves to the corner and lays down promptly, eyes watchful. Soleil watches her go, swallowing what feels like sand. She hasn't learned how to hide her feelings, but she knows that she has to try, and it leaves her feeling stuck. "Hi. Um, are we doing side-by-side or versus?" She summons up a smile, and it feels sticky and wrong, which only makes her insides pinch with that same anger she'd felt around Talyson. Sick and unnatural.
I know you feel like dying But I promise we'll bring the world to its feet
He waited, keeping himself busy with another set of dummy repairs before she’d made her appearance. His eyes tracked movements, from the clenching of the spear to the motion of her companion, head tilting vaguely, giving nothing away save for his usual round of curiosity. Even her approach seemed to signify a different edge to Soleil, the question lacking her fire and emboldened notions. Where he’d expected audacious complexities and fervency, she dwelled seemingly in between quiet and discord. No wonder Luka had been concerned.
Grabbing hold of his own practice spear, he prepared for more indulgence rather than poking at kindling and seeing what he could incite. Not yet, anyway. The Sword granted her a smile in response. “How have you been?” They hadn’t discussed her journeys, her ventures, or anything otherwise in quite some time – so the inquiry was justified and amiable, rather than outrightly seeking and searching. “What would you prefer?” To beat and scrape at fellow Shields alongside him as he granted advice, or to be mustered and maneuvered, twisted and turned around, as he sought to bombard and confound?
When the silence isn't quiet And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
She had hoped - vainly - that asking after their training immediately would stymie this question, and it leaves her smile hanging wooden and trembling like a dilapidated tavern sign. Soleil is a terrible liar. She's never seen reason to practice at it; honesty is her currency, and it has yet to fail her.
"I've been better," she admits, gritty and as evasive as her eyes suddenly become. Her hands cramp slightly from how tightly she holds her spear. Her heart - unfettered, honest - yearns to reach out, to spill everything she feels and seek comfort, but the anger comes swift on the heels of that with recriminatory vengeance. How dare she? When Deimos of all people had suffered the most, had given everything while she'd been trying to make it back?
Her cheek bulges as she clenches her jaw, and the pressure in her morals is punishment for only herself. "A spar, please." He won't hurt her in the way she want, and he can't reach where the rest of the hurt stems, but she'll take what she can get. The ache of muscles, the scrape of knees and palms. And maybe she can prove she's still capable of something, can atone in his eyes somehow.
I know you feel like dying But I promise we'll bring the world to its feet
I’ve been better could be a signature notion for the whole lot of them – and along the thresholds of her evasion and tightness, he looked away, granting a moment of composition. He’d been hoping the inquiry would spark the explanations, but he should’ve known better than that – he too was well versed in the art of furtive answers and avoidance, dodging or compelling another subject entirely when everything seemed too much. He wouldn’t say anything without her prompting though, and he certainly wasn’t going to give Luka’s semblances away, so he nodded. “I am sorry to hear that.” Because he was – before maneuvering around their chosen area, across stones and rubble, spear clasped in his hand.
Unaware of how she marred and bruised her own soul, he couldn’t tell her she had nothing to atone for. Nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps it might not have mattered, because they all held those ferocities within so tightly and so wound until they became mitigated or doomed.
Instead, he gave her a wide berth to conduct her initial motion. “When you are ready. You have first move.” From there he took a practiced and trained stance, a long breath held in between.
When the silence isn't quiet And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
She swallows thickly, his sympathy a burn that both heals and agonizes further. Her father is her everything, but Deimos has always been the closest secondary, a closeness that is distinctly familial even when propriety might decree she shouldn't feel that way about their Warden. But she has to cling to her spear to avoid throwing it away and throwing herself into his arms like a much younger version of herself.
Her eyes are a little glassy as he moves into position from trying to stuff those feelings down. The anger burns right behind it - anger at herself. And as she hurls her spear right for center-mass, she scarcely sees it go, and her throat echoes a strained noise of torturous fury without her meaning to. How can he be so kind? She doesn't deserve it.
I know you feel like dying But I promise we'll bring the world to its feet
The Sword hadn’t watched Soleil battle in some time – between notions of everything else going on – and half-expected her skills to be chaotic or impulsive, emboldened or billowy, savage or brutal. He waited, a vanguard of patience, as she hurled her spear. His brow arched, because there only seemed to be emotion behind it, and he could easily dodge, stepping towards the right, out of her initial range.
From there he pivoted his own armament, intending to swipe at her around the knees rather than the serrated edges; utilizing it as a staff for initial blows and considerations. To give her an opportunity, and for him to regard, scrutinize, and study more.
When the silence isn't quiet And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
He's not incorrect that it's an emotional lunge at best, but as she sees him sidestep she is already calling her spear back to her; her tussle with Talyson had helped a little, but it hadn't been enough, so clearly she needs to actually try. Maybe it will make her muscles burn longer, make her brain quiet in the aftermath of defeat.
She has to brace her spear with her shoulder as she swings it hilt-down to catch Deimos' swing toward her knees, and plants it there to lean her weight on to kick higher, toward his chest - hoping that his own extended weapon would allow her better access to his sternum. Fueled with desperation as surely as anger.
I know you feel like dying But I promise we'll bring the world to its feet
“Better,” he declared, nodding as more thought was put into her next movement. With his swing caught, he didn’t press his weight into the bombardments and pummel her off into the distance, it wouldn’t have been fair, but instead backed out of the stance, forcing her spear to wage away despite the threat to his chest. For the notion alone, he smirked, and then amplified his speed; a toying measure.
Swift footsteps rounded his motions towards her spine, and intending to see how she countered, evaded, or assaulted, angled his spear towards her back, intending to give a slight jab and nudge.
When the silence isn't quiet And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
His praise breaks her heart and soothes her hackles, and she's so confused. Tormented by the novelty and foreign nature of her own self-hatred and aimless anger. Her feet find the floor again without any success, but she quickly brings her spear back into both hands, certain Deimos won't give her any time to rest. And, blessedly, that also means no time to think.
He's far faster than her, rounding her quicker than she can counter, and she can only partially turn and step in to take the brunt of the hilt against her spine instead of the serrated edges at the tip. It knocks a hiccup of pained sound from her lips, but she's closer to him now at least and with both hands already squarely on her spear she aims the tip of it towards his arms in a close-quarters lunge. Soleil is certain he will evade it, but she's confident that in another fight with a different opponent she could lance the sharp edge off her opponent's forearm to force them to drop their weapon.
I know you feel like dying But I promise we'll bring the world to its feet
He dodged by a simple lowering of his body, ducking below the tip of the serrated edges, listening to it roll through the air just beyond his shoulders. A closer call, earning her another smirk, as he rounded away, putting distance between them. Ignorant of her confusion, and still keen to know and understand why she’d taken such pains into measures of confrontation, he left it alone; uncertain how to breech the gap and divide without prying too deeply.
Instead, he maneuvered to the right, long strides stalking in a circle, intending to keep her moving as well. To watch, to decipher, to try and predict his next modicum, before he sharply swerved the spear towards her ribs.
When the silence isn't quiet And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
A close call is still close, especially with Deimos, and Soleil's grin is sharp and swift before she catches herself doing it. Her expression falls, caught in a lingering, slack posture because there's no time to waste with how Deimos circles her. Her feet follow, sure and swift for a fighter of her level thank you, and as he swings his spear she does the same to try and clash them as if they were swords instead of staves.
Her arm buckles beneath his greater strength, but at least it means it's braced against her side, and just for the sake of practice she steps backward to try and hook her spear handle into the protruding parts of the tip of his own weapon to try and jerk on it to twist it from his hand. She's come to learn when sparring with Deimos that there are benefits to doing a move even when you know you'll fail - it teaches you to find the next step, and the next, so you never become cocky in assuming your cleverness might beat out someone's raw strength.
I know you feel like dying But I promise we'll bring the world to its feet
And if one combined cleverness with strength, sometimes it could be an essential bonus.
He could see what she was doing quite clearly, and he laughed, angling his spear upwards to escape the impending grasp. It’d allow her to evade too, but he’d take it for now, permitting another extension of learning and tactics. “You did well.” A nod as he solidified the last of the movements in the minor defense, bringing his spear upwards to signify their portions were over for the moment. And it wasn’t false praise; this particular armament was not something he favored, but didn’t mind practicing, and she’d held her own – a notation worthy of all her practice and skills.
With his own small smile, for he’d seen hers appear momentarily and then dissipate almost immediately, he might be able to pinpoint and conjure something thereafter, but he could tell it might take a bit of prying he wasn’t necessarily comfortable with. Instead, he opted for tilting his head, and then aiming to return his weapon to the shelf, where someone else could utilize the training device. “When you have a chance, perhaps you can tell of your adventures.”
Granting her the opportunity to either deny or accept the invitation, he nodded, striding his way back to office confines and the pile of missives remaining.
