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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!
we write out the ends on our palms, then forget to read
Flora snickers under her breath, tossing a glance over her shoulder that’s all fond mischief. "If only you were one of my citizens," she teases, aqua eyes gleaming. "Just think of all the fun you’d be having." The umbrella tilts precariously as she gestures animatedly with her free hand. "Actually, I was thinking of having a permanent dry mist in Torchline during LongHeat. Something cool to walk through, but not wet. Like…walking through a cold breeze made of magic."
As they reach the deli, she steps ahead to pull the door open, the little bell above it chiming brightly. Warmth rushes out to greet them, carrying the comforting scent of soup, toasted bread, and herbs. "I’ve been to the Cordillera a few times now," she says, nodding as he steps through. "Every trip, I swear I see something new."
Following him inside, she shakes off a few stray drops before folding and propping her umbrella neatly by the door. "If you ever want to go," she adds with a grin, "I’d be happy to take you, especially now that you're such a seasoned flyer."
"Bold of you to assume I am not having the time of my life as we speak," Niki drawls, deadpan as ever, though as he steps in through the door of the deli - offering Flora a nod in thanks for holding it open - he can't not relax into the comforting warmth and the smell of soup and toast and seasonings. "Oh, I bet everyone would find that helpful," he agrees of the dry mist idea. "And a lot fewer people would get heatstroke."
Shrugging out of his coat to hang it on a coat rack nearby, he gestures to a free table by the window as if to ask if this would suit before he heads over to it, dismissing his cane (with practice by now, she'll be pleased to see) and settling himself in the comfortable upholstery. "The Cordillera," he repeats, almost sighing the word out. "If you had even suggested to me a year ago that it might be somewhere I could visit, I would have laughed at you." Grinning, he nods again.
"If that was not enough of an answer, yes, I would like that a lot."
stay your pretty eyes on course keep the memories of who i was before
we write out the ends on our palms, then forget to read
Flora laughs softly, the sound bright against the hum of conversation in the little deli. She rolls her eyes at his drawl, warmth slipping easily into the motion. She could tease him about trudging through the damp with that leg of his, but honestly? She can see it in his face; Niki is enjoying himself, no matter how much his dry sass suggests otherwise. So instead, she only fixes him with an affectionate smile that glows as warmly as the light filtering through the rain-streaked window.
When he gestures toward the table, she nods and slides gracefully into one of the seats, shifting over in silent invitation should he want to stretch out his bad leg. The space feels intimate, the air rich with steam and spice, and it’s impossible not to feel at ease.
"Oh please," she says with a fiendish smile, "you’d have laughed at more than half the things we’ve done together this past year." The teasing fades into something gentler as she wrinkles her nose affectionately, then reaches for the menu. "The pesto chicken sandwich is incredible," she says decisively. "But honestly? You can’t go wrong here." With a shrug that’s equal parts confidence and indulgence, she leaves him to it, glancing out the window where the rain still dances over the cobblestones.
The afternoon drifts on easily after that—lunch stretching into laughter and idle talk, shopping bleeding into soft spring rain again—until the Sugartide’s silhouette gleams like a promise waiting to carry them home.
