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Character of the Season
Once known as the Butcher of Whitebrim, he's now The Butcher of Dygra, stepping forward as the first created demigod of the Ancients. There is no question that Astaroth casts an intimidating silhouette. Tall, domineering and dangerous, if looks could kill you'd be dead already, but to get up close and personal with the Grounds' resident cannibal tells a much different story. Dripping with charm and clad in only the finest attire, Asta is a gentleman monster, as polite as they come and committed to his role as security for the Dusklight and those who have earned his loyalty. Be careful of that smile, though - those teeth are sharp.
Congratulations, Asta!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
OG Skinning provided by Kaons, with functionality and many custom plugins made by Neowulf!
"Shoot." Zavien takes a deep breath, the mists of the valley humidifying the cold morning air that hits his lungs, stimulating a short cough that he smothers behind a hand. He hadn't been expected Sol to lead him straight to a cliff - even if that cliff has a bridge spanning its width - but the dragon gives him an encouraging chirp that tells Zavien this is the only option to get home.
He should have just taken the skyship.
Leaning his head back, he tries not to look off the edge of the cliff while he grapples with the queasy feeling in his stomach. His hand grips the hilt of his sword, the other fidgeting with the strap of his bag, only letting a few moments pass before stepping towards the bridge. The longer he delays, the worse it will get, and he has a family to get back to.
Sol dives down to land along the rope lining the path, his golden wings spread out to keep him balanced as he trots effortlessly across the expanse. "Show off," Zavien mutters, hiding a smirk when he takes the first hesitant step onto the wood paneling, his green eyes fixed on the ground ahead rather than the misty drop to an unknown ground below, slowing his breathing as he hums a garbled, out of tune sound with no distinguishable melody.
The secret of happiness is freedom, the secret of freedom is courage.
Icarus catches the flash of soemthing in the sky and follows, heart hammering in the back of his throat. He doesn’t know what drew him to the Oerwoud, compelled him to ask a day’s leave and wander onto the Skyship in a perhaps ill-fated attempt to wake Ghilio. He says ill-fated because, if his hopeless sense of direction were anything to be trusted, he was hopelessly and utterly lost. And now, if the memories seared into the backs of his eyes and lacing the jagged, brutal scars on his chest are to be trusted, there’s a dragon flitting around here too. Wonderful.
His chest burns as he moves towards the source of the movement, drawn by some invisible tether of trauma. The air is thick with humidity, a largely unfamiliar sensation to the cold-hardened Halo soldier, and the jacket he had arrived with now resides tied around his waist. Long, lean arms push away foreign fauna in Icarus’ path; if circumstances were different, perhaps he would have delighted in letting his fingers run over the strange new life, reveling in the touch of vitality under his weathered fingers.
With a burst of desperate speed, sticks snapping and crushing under his heavy boots, Icarus emerges into a clearing holding a man, a bridge that could only be politely described as structurally unsound, and most pressingly, a dragon. The man upon the bridge is tall and strong and seems utterly unbothered by (rather small) creature of mass destruction perched next to him, and Icarus doesn’t want to startle him on this rickety bridge but—
”Excuse me,” He calls, voice soft as it ever is but with a note of urgency in it, ”There’s a dragon next to you,” It’s perhaps an unhelpful observation in this particular moment but echoes of talons on his chest and bloodied memories of wings against Citadel walls beat against his memories and his dragon-claw scars, remnants of near-death and grief, climb out red and angrily visible from the low collar of his sleeveless undershirt. His hands drift to his sword, more out of habit than anything else, resting there unobtrusively.
The first step has his jaw setting, determination lining his eyes when he looks at Sol, the awful humming echoing through the open space below. The dragon doesn't appear nearly as concerned by the height, practically trotting along the railing, but he also has wings that will do a lot more to stop his fall than anything Zavien possesses.
The second step earns a stuttered breath, gaze flicking down just enough to confirm the placement of his foot. Instinct has him wanting to look beyond to the threat of open air below, only stifled by pure willpower that forces his eyes back to his companion, fear and panic fighting for possession of his limbs. The world around him is muted, secondary to the danger looming below.
When a voice sounds from behind him, it takes a second to register. "Huh?" His third step hits the edge of the plank, shifting close enough to the gap that a curse attempts to push through his sharp gasp. He swears his stomach falls through his boot, falling continuously to crash-land somewhere solid and deadly disguised by the mist. The blood seems to follow, a chill setting over his body as if it can feel the death before it claims him.
Zavien's hands clutch the rope in a vice grip, adjusting his foot firmly on the plank, scrambling for a breath that doesn't make him want to vomit. It takes more than a few seconds for him to be able to think or hear past the feeling of plummeting in pieces, the irrational sense of doom pulling at his limbs. But when he does, he swallows, vaguely processing that someone's asking after the golden reptile propped next to him - the same one chirping softly at him, worry glinting in the yellow of his eyes.
Swallowing the tightness in his chest, Zavien glances at the young man in his peripheral, unwilling to turn in case he loses his footing. "Oh uh. Sol?" he verifies before adding, "He's my companion. There's rarely a moment he's not next to me." An airy chuckle huffs around the nervous smile he plasters on his face, talking over his shoulder when he says, "Sorry. Were you trying to cross? It might take me a minute." Or twenty. He hopes the man isn't in a hurry to get anywhere.
The secret of happiness is freedom, the secret of freedom is courage.
