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!
Still entranced by the festival’s hum and levity, the Reaper pushed through crowds and gatherings, stare darting back and forth for nothing in particular. He bordered on nomadic, wandering from place to place, catching wares for sale, entertainment whistling and calling over the throngs, everything bewitching and beholden, light instead of darkness, uncertain of where he should tread. Habit dictated the shadows, etched the edge of the horde, mass, and multitude, lapses of freedom, liberation, but desolation too. For once, he didn’t covet it, embraced by acceptance and tolerance for his presence within the fold, neither shunned, shoved aside, or drawn into the eclipsing abyss. It was different, it was unfamiliar, strange, and somewhat discomforting, but in the same stead, a welcome breath of fresh air. His lungs craved it. His heart beat more than stiletto rhythms to knives and daggers, to swords and mettle, to infernal glory and contemptuous actions.
He roamed, steps less savage and sinister, sculpted and molded for maneuvering purposes without the ominous, foreboding weight of a demon incoming; distracted ultimately by a diversion in the air. Light and airy, the vision bounded and leapt into his vision quickly and efficiently, popping on the end of his nose before he could do anything about it. The warrior snorted at the action - bubbles - recalling the days of absolute youth and wonderment over layers of soap suddenly laden into the sky. A glance told him several children were concocting these wayward pockets, more – some tiny, some massive – streamlined with sweeps of their hand, tiny little tools forcing the froth to become free, zipping between the rest of the festival participants. Their merriment was contagious, infectious bouts of laughter ricocheting off of buildings and banners, waving flags and easygoing smiles, no worries, no cares, no matter of previous exploits and events a thought on the horizon.
He tilted his head, considering, contemplating, his next set of actions. The boyish semblance of mischief persisting in his chest thought about joining them, extending several waves of their instruments and allowing the bubbles to ascend and do as they pleased; yet another contortion remained firmly entrenched in his ancient, archaic form of countenance, eroding and bestial, merciless and terrible, no time for tricks or games, sedition and upheaval to be spread. So he stood there, admiring their work on the cobblestones, shelving a few chuckles, and popping the ones that came closest to him.
He was starting to feel a little better: less savage. Less likely to bite. He was slightly ashamed that he had needed to sandpaper away all his sharp edges with alcohol of all things, but Fiat Lux was a lot more pleasurable when a pleasant sort of warmth simmered in his blood; when a laugh was closer than a snarl. He was more at ease. He was .. beginning to feel like being social. Jigano had left him to his own devices, but Isuma remained perched on his dark shoulder, a white and fabulous bright spot that seemed more interested in playing with the tendrils of his hair (or just napping) than interacting with anyone he stopped to chitchat with.
Phoebe had given him a nice flower crown, which had an uneasy truce with the topmost feather he wore. For now, it seemed like no war would break out, but he was a little (foolishly, perhaps) worried he'd lose either of them.
Not that the feather itself would be a loss, really, but it would ruin his looks...
With a tankard of honey beer in one hand Rory wove through the crowd, looking for someone in particular. Meeting Phoebe had brought a certain conflict to the front of his mind, and it had left him a little uneasy and anxious—a strange contrast now that he had begun to feel better in general.
What do all of you want?
The calm, the curiosity, how genuine the question—Rory had meant to seek out the giant after that incident, to make amends, somehow, offer explanations if wanted.. but everything had happened so quickly after that, that he simply hadn't had the time, and then, despite whipping up a mob in the name of anti-Outlanderism, he had sort of forgotten about it. Thought that it was all over and done with, now that the Spire was breached and the barrier brought low and a renegade would-be God let on the loose again.
Meeting Phoebe had made him acutely aware of how not over and done with it was. Rory thought he had caught sight of the man in the crowd previously, but he had still been prickly as a porcupine and skulked off. But now, ah...
There he was, surrounded by soap bubbles shimmering in the sunlit air. Rory stopped for a moment. It was a scene that needed savoring, a sudden reminder of how Deimos had looked there in Devas Bakery: so curious and absorbed by his pumpkin slaughter that he had seemed almost gentle. Like a cat unaware that you were watching it. And it was the same now. The alert, wary warrior could likely be called out again by just the merest hint of danger, but here, at the peace of the festival...
He didn't know Deimos. He didn't know Deimos at all.
But he still felt a fierce fondness for the man, mixed in with a (likely very unneeded) desire to protect him. To make sure he was warm and safe and comfortable and happy.
It was odd as hell, but he'd take it.
With a sip of beer for courage Rory slithered through the crowd, coming up next to the mountain of a man. He reached out a finger to capture a bubble. It shimmered on the pad of his finger. "Hello, Deimos. Happy Fiat Lux. Are you enjoying yourself?"
Even creatures left too long in the dark should get to enjoy themselves at Fiat Lux. And besides, it was a perfect time to drag them into the light.
Clothes/style recap, because he's odd today: sort of snug-fitting black wool pants, dark blue shirt with a nice patterned trim, and a bright sash tied around his waist. His hair is done up sort of like feather guy here but less jpop, and his hair is longer.
He took too long in deciding his next course of action, slow, meticulous deliberation, distracted by hues and colors blending across landscapes and pillars, banners and bubbles, easily entranced and beguiled by things he didn’t understand. The familiar voice flared along his senses; the last time he’d heard the decibels, they’d been fire and brimstone, courting riots and rebellion, hatred and animosity, acrimony and vehemence. Had Deimos been amidst his own homeland, capable of comprehending beyond the vitriol and venom, he would’ve been just as incendiary, a kindling, a stoking, of defiance and sedition straight from his bones. He’d gone the other way instead, rational and calm because it was all he had left in his ignorance and foolishness, brandished and bristled against when he’d fallen from the earth without any other option.
It’d been such a different contortion from the first time they’d met; Rory befuddled and mauled by gourds, and Deimos kicking them aside.
So the Reaper’s expectations were not of friendliness and amiability; he anticipated hostility and gnashing teeth, fangs eager and fervent, mercurial, rapacious claws avid to sink into flesh. His entire body froze, a stoic, unrelenting force taut and straight, mischief falling away from his eyes, his face, bubbles sticking to his hair and flower crown as he turned his frame to glance upon the other man. The beast blinked once or twice, struggling to adjust to the differing aspects and fragments of the leatherworker, seemingly unpredictable, a variable, capricious edge coiling amidst the feathers and festival grandeur. He wasn’t even quite certain how to react, if the hatred and contempt was going to curl and recoil again, brewing below the surface, revealed when the warrior made some inept comment, when he reminded Rory of his wrath, when acceptance had been extinguished, vanished, gone, tolerance forgotten and fleeting because of others’ actions.
“Happy Fiat Lux,” he managed to sputter out, colder and far more composed than he’d been moments before – the armor and guards back on, chiseling its way to his foundation with a natural, quick poise so no one could scald and simmer across his flesh once more. The composure had rid him of most of his glee and merriment, swallowed down by the presumption of violence stoking, ready for anything and everything, the ease and vigilance of a predator carved and sculpted beneath floating bubbles and surrounding laughter. “Yes. Are you?” He had been – if he would thereafter would remain to be seen.
The change was instantaneous: one moment, unguarded and amused, the next, cold and tense and exuding wariness. It was just like in the bakery, except this time, there had been no outburst to trigger it, no need to look for the danger (the enemy) because it stood right by him. Rory saw it, because he had been looking for it, and though he had expected it, it still made his heart sink.
He deserved it, honestly; the last couple of times he'd opened his mouth in public it had been to decry the Outlanders and their influence. Their initiative. "Ah," he responded sadly when Deimos wished him a happy Fiat Lux, as if the response had somehow explained everything. And it sort of did: was Rory going to have another anti-Outlander outburst? Was he going to chase Deimos from the festival? He let his gaze fall to the side.
He wasn't going to do any of those things. In fact, the most immediate thing he did was droop a little, shoulders sagging as his faint, foolish hope to find things alright between them was crushed beneath the glacial reception.
It wasn't like he had genuinely expected anything else, but—it could still hurt, couldn't it? Even if it was all his fault?
I'm sorry if I ruined it for you was on his tongue, but he swallowed the words, looking into his beer tankard as if it would somehow hold the answers. He could just pour it all down his throat and get another and another and another until he had drunk his misery away and passed out and he'd keep doing it and doing it, over and over—
He wanted to say yes but he couldn't, not quite yet, not honestly. Instead he made a noncommittal noise and took a sip of the beer by way of response.
He had words, but not words to respond to that.
"I think," he said, slow and measured, letting his blue eyes flit up again. Searching Deimos's face. Watching for his reaction, if there would be any; his heart seemed deeply hidden behind layers upon layers of armor and protective ice. "I have some apologies to make, and explanations to offer. About.. about what I've said and done, lately."
If you even want to hear them he didn't add, but it hung between them as he watched Deimos for an indication of whether he wanted to listen, or if Rory should just take his leave.
This was a different Rory – no longer molded in his acrimonious, caustic outline. He seemed dampened and diffident, the smoldering fumes doused and flickered out, and the Reaper puzzled over the complexities, completely uncertain of where to go or what to do in this situation. Were it another plunge into riots and subversion, he could stay his course or simply leave, watch the flames eat away sense and sagacity, listen to the brutality, the mob mentality, streak and simmer along the horizon. But after everything, the semblance of death, devastation, and sudden, overwhelming freedom, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that was left were the crumbling, jagged pieces of wounded prides and wary glances, the after effects of plunging knives and wild, horde emblems, their flying banners. Deimos could’ve uttered any number of things then and now, how the Outlanders had strived and tried, how they had been dragged from their beds, from their sojourns, from their death knells (his; lingering on the earth and waiting for something to completely consume him, so he wouldn’t have to watch everything else fall apart in his hands), how they all hadn’t attempted to disregard the Naturals and their compassion, their beneficence. He could’ve proclaimed how grateful and appreciative he was of each and every one of them, who’d assisted him, who’d guided him, who’d directed him away from ignorance and self-loathing, who’d given him something to do besides brood and brew.
His eyes glanced away, stared at the bubbles billowing by, but not truly seeing them. His mind was occupied by the mess and shambles left on the Spire’s wake, slithering into these confines, and what he should do about it. The warrior presumed some snarled and seethed, some forgot it happened, and some acknowledged the regrets, the rues, coiling in the air, the ether. Which path was he meant to take? If a bridge was burned, was he supposed to assist in rebuilding it?
(The past echoed and bounded; cold, cold, and cold, betrayal a bestial sound in his lungs, in his ears, rampaging until he was a seething maelstrom - never again embedded in his chest, glacial king on his summit tired and tired of losing.)
So the soldier listened, as he was forever apt to do, gifted not in discourse, but concentrating, attending to the sights and sounds available to him. Rory’s speech wasn’t what he expected – carefully considered, nearly a calculating endeavor. Maybe he’d already practiced on others, proffering his omens and ultimatums, his wrath or animosity, his defensive vindications.
But memories of another world may not have justification in this one – they had faults, they had flaws. Hadn’t they seen Deimos lurking in the shadows, and still given him a chance? Why couldn’t he be just as accepting as Rory had been of him? The piercing juncture of his gaze swept back to Rory and his tankard, willing to give another chance, a subtle nod, an acknowledgment, an opportunity, less apathy, more curiosity hovering there. “Go ahead.”
He was not a bold creature: no matter what others might've been led to think recently, Rory preferred to turn his back on conflict. He did not want to stand up for anything—much easier to roll over. Get out of the way. Not be provocative. Take his beating and nurse his bruises. For the first time in his life he had truly stood up for (against) something, and he had been called a coward for it.
And the aftershocks were still going—
So he found himself in this mess of his own making, uncovering victims in the rubble, victims he had not quite realized he should've considered until then. Watching. Waiting. His heart was pounding beneath his ribs, his mind overlaying Deimos's calm face with Ashetta's snarling one for a moment, and he gripped the tankard harder.
But the eyes that returned to his were not the cold and hard of judgment (though perhaps some of the distance still lingered in them), and Deimos's lips did not curl into a snarl, and his voice did not brush Rory off.
(Does that mean I mattered to you?)
At least he was being given a chance to explain himself, now that he had realized he ought to. With a small sigh Rory let his gaze drop, swirling the beer around the tankard and watching it. "A lot of what I've said lately, in public, has been very .. harsh, and unfair, against the Outlanders," he began, uncertain of which words to use. "And not necessarily something I meant, either. See, when Roana put up her notice, about wanting to get into the Spire.. people were restless and upset, and there was very little time to try and stop her. I did what seemed best at the time, and it worked, we stopped her.. even if it was for nothing in the end." He looked up from the beer. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, with what I said. I didn't mean those things. And I'm sorry that it's taken me until now to realize."
[ Five years later . . . I'm ok to archive at any time you feel like enough has been said xD ]
He didn’t say anything, retreating back into his former state: a listener, a witness, the silent observer, examining and scrutinizing, tracing meticulous efforts back into his psyche, where he could repeat them over and over again. Harsh and unfair against the Outlanders was an intriguing start: the hatred and animosity had reached a boiling crescendo, notched for a scarce few, but instigated, incited, upon far more of those gathered, some not even involved. They, those taken and snagged from their homes, from things they knew and understand, dragged to another chaotic embrace, to more kindled ferocity and spite for things they didn’t understand – ignorance went both ways, and harbored, hovered, harpooned somewhere in between. The beast loosened a feral sigh, a memory of those hours drifting by, striving to cut through the tension with quiet appeals, and naught had mattered in the end – the rage and vitriol sputtered out of control, infernos blazing, a conflagration there on the hill, while men died and warriors bled below. Did it even matter anymore – with the world open, with foes vanquished – or was it as Rory had intonated, too brittle, too broken, to proceed without these admonitions or apologies, the regrets built up on stalks and foaming over, brewing, seething, smoldering? “I am not hurt,” the warrior applied, after stalking and meandering in the silence, because it took a lot to sting him now, with his glacial walls and discordant ramparts, the wrapped chords of treachery linked upon his chest, along his undulating muscles, slinking along the core of him, stuck in the middle of conflict. “Rage can instigate many impulsive designs,” and here he arched his brow, the ghost of a smile on his face, apologies absolving the nettles, the thorns, understanding full well the pieces of animosity, rancor, and upheaval, how they gnawed, how they grated, how they ignited even those patient and composed.
He mused for a few moments, gazing at the bubbles drifting by, but not listening to the decibels of laughter from nearby youths, pondering how to partake in his next bout of words, arching a brow, stare lingering on Rory’s tankard, then on the man himself, the slight arching of a brow chiseled on his features: traces of humor despite the rocky, perilous pathways. “But I hope you comprehend that several Outlanders do not encompass every Outlander’s opinion.” They were not all one in the same – a select few didn’t color or lend themselves to the characterization of many; they were unique in opinions, in faults, in flaws, just as the Naturals. The only thing that separated bleeding hearts and fuming lungs was birthright; silly and stupid, inane and ridiculous: because some had come into this world kicking and screaming, straight from their mother’s wombs, and others had been tethered, dragged, and descended here, without cause, without preamble, without knowledge. Perhaps, in a way, they were all ignorant – of the coming days, of the waking hours, of what lay ahead. They could only stumble forward, assisting one another as best they could. They wouldn’t be able to survive another outbreak of rage and vehemence, pitting Naturals against Outlanders, defiant and seditious, revolution taking its toll.
But he accepted – there and then – just as Rory had tolerated his existence within the bakery, turn for turn, knives for knives, intonations for intonations. “I am usually fond of riots and chaos.” The warrior shrugged then again too, feral humor returning. “But I did not have a place in that one.”
It took a while—half the conversation was in the movement of their blue eyes, the different types of silence that hung between the words. This particular one was half fear, half contemplation, and Rory's heart counted the seconds. Words weren't his strong suit (unless he was inciting mobs, apparently) and if these weren't enough..? He could elaborate, he could expand, but at its core, it was what he had said, and no amount of dressing up could change the truth.
And if Deimos didn't want anything to do with him, then, well...
His heart kept on counting.
“I am not hurt,” Deimos finally said, and Rory felt the breath leave him in a long, slow sigh: it was the kind of sigh that happened when you realized you'd held your breath but didn't want the other party to notice. (He was pretty sure Deimos noticed. Deimos seemed very alert.) Words pooled on the tip of his tongue, that's a relief or thank Safrin, but they got tangled up in each other, sticking to the back of his teeth. In the end he said nothing, though the relief was visible in his eyes, and it was strange, really; who was Deimos to him? A maybe-friend with a connection to his not-blood sister?
Maybe it was just the confrontation talking, the release of tension, but some very distant part of him felt giddy with it—and with the almost-smile, oddly charmed, like he had been at the bakery. "That's very true," he responded quietly, once again uncertain; that silence, now half relief, half contemplation, and he let it linger.
He felt those glacial eyes wander back to him, and raised his own in response. "Of course," and it was true, in more ways than merely the fact that Jigano, an Outlander himself, had urged caution and research. Rory raised one hand to scratch between his feathery braids.
And again his little coup was called a riot. Rory winced slightly, his face pulling into a grimace, though he filed the wording away for later, burying his questions for a better time. Honestly, was it so strange to hear those words, coming from such a man as Deimos? His demeanor, his attention, his eyes, his garb—it all hissed of violence.
"Is it still a riot if no one got hurt?" he mused, though perhaps it was time to accept it for what it would be remembered as: a riot (a concept he knew of merely because his ancestors had been locked away with the memory of it). Rory, instigator of riots—he gave his head a small shake.
He could feel the tension visibly dissipate, as if the uncertainty and anticipation had been tangible, substantial, corporeal, and real; he might’ve been capable of reaching out and touching it, just to watch it sizzle, hiss, and crack. His eyes caught, heard, the slow, lingering sigh, and he followed suit, though his ended on a chuckle, on a popped bubble somewhere in the midst. The beast didn’t really understand or comprehend what they were – what any of them were – under these parables and quandaries, beneath the shades of misguided hatred and ill-timed infernos. Perhaps, in his desperation, in his isolation, in his detached, reticent fortifications, he’d instantly thought of Rory as a friend because the man didn’t seem to care about who or what he was, there’d been acceptance and tolerance, a mutual understanding. Then there wasn’t – lost in the warren and tangle of blistering hatred and animosity. But Deimos hadn’t detested the farmer. Deimos hadn’t wished him ill will. He’d stared and tried to convey, tried to understand what everyone craved on that damned knoll, while the world went on without them, spiraling into madness, into rebellion, into something that amounted to naught; dashed with the fall of the spire, with the opening of forests. Maybe Rory didn’t care for him at all, and it'd been one of those hopeless little regards the Reaper sometimes found himself trapped in, building tombs and sepulchers for the things he’d lost along the way. Maybe this was where it ended before it began. Maybe he didn’t have comrades or companions. Maybe he was far more alone than he’d ever realized. Maybe he was stupid and blind. Maybe he was foolish and naïve.
But the responses kept coming, not numbed or sealed, and he chuckled as Rory suddenly hemmed and hawed on the logistics of riots. A haphazard shrug gave way from his shoulders, breaking over the rigidity, the tautness, the bound muscles and coiled ramparts always ready for violence, for vehemence, for destruction, mayhem, and defense. It was a guard. It was a force. It was a blistering, scathing reach so no one could hurt him again. “Perhaps. There was at least an attempt.” The ghost of a grin prospered itself again, though he didn’t look directly at the farmer, gaze brimming on roaming people instead, memories flickering back over incitements and provocations, the way rabble-rousers drummed a crowd, made them pawns and tools for missions and coups. “Would you rather be known as an agitator?” This was hung on a laugh, a chuckle, not so brooding, not so calculated, not so forlorn and dashed away. Now what balanced in the air too, twisting and turning on the sides - he didn’t know where to go from here – because too many times he’d gnashed his teeth, hissed, and told them to never come back. You broke me so I will break you a clamoring knife, a dagger, a sword he’d swung far more than once. But nothing was splintered or fractured here, minor cracks and fissures, the wraiths disappearing, obliviated.
