[SE] punctuate the sky

Deimos

Dare we know the halo's hanging low

The Sword never stopped. With the ever moving and maneuvering complexities of Caido, complacency hadn’t been an option for him; not in the sweeping tides of yesteryear, nor in the present. Alterations of weather, disappeared gods, and strange dreams didn’t illuminate much except something impending, and so he clambered back to the reassurance of weaponry and armaments, of ensuring that his people knew how to defend, how to fight, how to survive.

And at the very least, amuse himself.

The trebuchets were in working order, as he’d made repairs to them after a long Deepfrost just that morning, the targets placed in varying decrees and distances beyond the Citadel walls. If one glanced closely the effigies could be noticeable figures of the Warden’s animosities, some figures purposefully cloaked and arranged to be certain individuals for entertainment’s sake. Pressing his long strides into the widened expanse of the high-reaching barrier, they might’ve all looked like they were on top of the world – fortified and ready, willing to unfurl.

On a massive grin, he snagged at a rock and placed it upon the first trebuchet’s basket. Pulling the lever, the wooden arm and beam flew forwards, releasing the stone into the abyss, where it sank directly into a figure resembling a white dragon’s shoulder, leaving a vicious mark as it threatened to topple. Only then did he shift his grin and glance to his compatriots, the several soldiers there gathered amongst the barricade, offering a nod of permission before extending the same sanction in his distinct rumble. “All right,” his eyes landed on Icarus, granting another snicker. “Your turn.”

soldier boy

As the trebuchet flings its load towards a vaguely dragon-shaped target, Icarus isn’t quite sure he likes the look in Deimos’ eyes. But then again, he very rarely does, when the fabled Sword has some new magnificence of defense at his fingertips and people to train them on, and though Icarus may stare at the thing with a heathy does of nervous trepidation, his fingers itch for the cold wood under his sword-calluses. The day is another pattern of many frost-dusted, similarly biting days, the whirling wind stealing curls from his short ponytail and whipping them around his face. Still, even with the wind trying to steal his warmth, he meets Deimos' fiery gaze. The passion kindling there, the expectation of a job well done and the fatherly (no) chuckle that crackles from his lips are enough to warm the young soldier against Halo's unforgiving brutality, though, and he steps forwards with a determined nod and a quiet "Yes, sir."

He tells himself it's not the weight of Deimos' eyes that pull him towards the trebuchet, heavy and lingering as he heaves the rock into the basket. Icarus' strength is nowhere near comparable to Deimos' inhuman abilities, but the determined set of his jaw scares off anyone who may dare to offer their assistance, and his seasoned soldier's muscles eventually maneuver the thing into where it needs to go. 

It's training, he tells himself, for what he's here to do. To defend his region, his home, the wild winds of Halo that rip apart so many but embrace those worthy of its love. And it is, truly, as the scars on his chest burn from twisted movement of loading the stone. It's nothing else. 

But as he yanks the lever and sends the stone flying towards the dragon, it smashing into the grand and white thing leaving another stone-slashed scar on her man-made side, he can't help but sneak a sidelong glance to Deimos, mouth curling up in the slightest hint of a smile to see how the man would react.

Icarus

oh my little soldier boy

Deimos

Dare we know the halo's hanging low

If Deimos noticed the trepidation in the young soldier, he didn’t say anything about it. He’d held that age-old apprehension himself many times, but it couldn’t exist on the battlefield. Not when lives were on the line and devastation rankled at every turn. It was why practice was important; to funnel the nerves into muscle memory, to let the senses be overridden by purpose and maneuvers. No warrior could tremble in place, hoping something would go well. They needed to have the ability to conduct it wholly on their own.

He answered Icarus’s determined nod with one of his own, stepping back and away to watch. The rest of the constituents did the same, all waiting for their opportunity – eyes cast as the lever was pulled and the stone flew. It cracked into the edifice with an audible distinction and a dent into its side, and there were a few raucous cheers and pats on the back extended to their compatriot. “Good,” the Sword supplied with a grin, before his eyes went towards the next, inclining his head and ensuring spots were rotated through. "Once we finish it off, I can increase the difficulty."

The subsequent whining surrounding the statement didn’t seem to diminish the amusements though; bright eyes and faces as they faced down the unmoving target. The Sword surveyed and witnessed, eternally scrutinizing, offering pointers and suggestions as they all maneuvered through. “I think we should use fire next,” he rumbled to Icarus, if only to see if it unnerved or emboldened.

soldier boy

Icarus wethers the cheers and hearty pats on the back with a shy smile, pride kindling in his gut even as his face turns a light red from the attention. The simple good that came from Deimos' mouth, aimed at him like the stone from the trebuchet, quiet in its approval but as impactful as it smashing into the side of the target. He doesn't flinch or groan at the threat of increased difficulty, his mouth setting deep and firm into pure determination, though he knows the scream of his muscles the next day will make him regret his ambition. 

As they move through the exercise, Icarus wipes all thoughts but perfect completion from his mind, forcing away all hopes and joys other than the pull of his body moving through the motion and the satisfaction of every new crater formed in their constructed enemy. When Deimos stalks his path towards Icarus, he prepares himself for a correction, already vowing to do better on the next round. Instead, he gets a whispered comment of fire, and Icarus risks an eyeroll and an affectionate smile. He grins up at Deimos, not quite calling his bluff but sensing the teasing in the words.  

"Whatever you think is best, sir," He says with twinkling eyes, his grin curving into something young and cheeky. It's very carefully not insubordination, the words compliant, but toes the line in that expert way he's perfected over the years as the baby of the unit. Deimos would never catch a whine sneaking out of Icarus' mouth, would never sense something even close to insubordination or lack of loyalty; but, as his affection, his open admiration, and most of all, the years he's spent by the Sword's side colors his tone, he lets it veer dangerously close to affection.

Icarus

oh my little soldier boy

At the edge of a drift sits a round, compact lump of snow and ice, threaded through with broken twigs and frozen grass. Its surface has been polished smooth by wind and weather, blue-white in the cold, with a handful of brittle branches protruding from one side. A shallow furrow cuts across the packed snow behind it, interrupted by long stretches of untouched white. Frost gathers thickly between the sticks, concealing the barbed points beneath translucent layers of ice, and the occasional faint crack comes from somewhere inside its frozen shell.

Ice-crusted limbs can snap outward from beneath the snow with sudden force. Their grip is sharp and cold, their poison an unpleasant companion to already-numbing winter air, and the creature’s snowy core slowly draws anything caught within its frozen exterior.

---

You've encountered a Tangleweed Variant

---

Tangleweed Areas Found: Hollowed Grounds, King's End, Hak Etme — Common Appearing like nothing more than an amalgamation of sticks, the Tangleweed is actually an arguably sentient creature. For the most part it appears spherical in nature, keeping its many limbs tightly pulled against itself to form a round shape. It moves as if blown by the wind, suddenly rolling forward on the hard packed earth and then stopping just as suddenly. Having almost no natural predators, these creatures are found in great numbers especially along large, flat areas. It is often impossible to tell if a Tangleweed is dead or alive unless they are touched. If interacted with, the branch-like limbs will lash out and close quickly on whatever they can grasp, at which point a poison is released which causes the skin to numb. Then, quite like other species of carnivorous plants, the Tangleweed slowly begins to digest its prey. Challenge Rating: Easy HP: 30 | To Hit: 2 | Dmg: 14 Movement: Roll 20 ft.; Lurch 10 ft. (limb-propelled); Creep 5 ft. (against wind) SPECIAL SKILLS Lash & Latch: branch-like limbs whip out and close quickly and effectively on anything they can grasp; Numbing Poison: contact venom causes skin to go numb where seized; Slow Digestion: like other carnivorous plants, it digests prey over time once secured; Grip Net: multiple limbs interlace into a living snare that tightens with struggle

TRAITS Stick Camouflage: looks like an ordinary tumble of twigs and branches; Spherical Compact: limbs tuck tight to form a rolling, round body; Wind-Feign Locomotion: advances in sudden windlike rolls, then freezes; Dormant Deception: impossible to tell alive from dead until touched; Field Congregation: commonly accumulates in large, flat areas; Few Predators: little in the wild bothers a tangleweed’s dry, woody mass ACTIONS Sudden Roll: bursts forward in a short, windlike tumble to collide with a target; Limb Lash: snaps out hooked twigs to seize wrists, ankles, or gear; Numbing Seep: exudes the numbing toxin along gripping limbs to deaden sensation and resistance; Enfold & Digest: wraps prey into its core and begins a slow digestive process

Deimos

Dare we know the halo's hanging low

He snorted at the response, before watching the rest go through their assailments again. He walked up and down the line of wall and inclines, inspecting the launching as they flew. Adjustments were made and rendered, when necessary, teamwork building and brewing into cheers and jeers upon conquest or failure. The Sword looked on with a semblance of pride, but only just so, and it was for his compatriots – watching as they prospered and grew from the experience, even if there were undertones of misgivings or confusion, they carried on. Hopefully it would help in future unfurlings.

As the dragon sank into their upheavals, worn out from ricocheting stone and pummeling rocks, he went to extend incantations, when there was a ripple amongst them. Brows furrowed, he watched where several pointed, eyes narrowing as the strange appearance of tangleweed emerged from their immodest attempts. Whether or not it would’ve been conjured there, without their volleys and rallies, didn’t much matter. It was the appearance and shape of it; wholly foreign to their soil, that gave him another rankling edge against his spine. His smile disappeared, leaving his usual nonchalance and impassive features to conjure the routine mask while he thought and sought. “All right. We can see what it is,” he rumbled, intending to placate himself and the soldiers. On a long and extended breath, he wove his Air enchantments across the vacant space of wind and snow, picking up the barbed layers of twigs and blue-white limbs, and lifting it upwards.

Eventually, it reached them, but Deimos never let it come into their vicinity, permitting it to linger on his infinite control and command; granting them a chance to study and question. If anything at all, while his mind whirled and contorted into various degrees of calculations and machinations, he’d use it as a learning opportunity. “So we have encountered something new. What should we do first?”

soldier boy

Icarus watches carefully as the bright, jovial cast of Deimos' face morphs into that of the soldier and warrior he knows so well. He knows not to be worried about the strange, writhing mass of vines and thorns floating through the air until he can see the gleaming whites of panic in his commander's face, and that rarely occurs (or, the legendary fighter is just rather proficient at hiding it). Still, the the twisting ball is unnerving as it hovers there, a facsimile of a child's drawing of a sun as it hangs in the sky, and Icarus' gaze narrows in on the white tendrils of its makeup. 

His gaze shift, just slightly, over to the cast of Deimos' face. It's so easy to forget that the man who commands the unit with a casual nonchalance and a friendly curve to his mouth hides depths of deadly precision carved from years of battle and hardened by the harshness of Halo's land. Under his hand thrums the faint sense of raw power as the mass floats in the air, reminding Icarus of how deadly this man he idolizes really is under the skin of a man. 

Icarus' spine curves straighter at Deimos' question, himself transforming into the soldier he'd been for so long at the sight of this potential threat, boyish mirth and joking disappearing from the lines of his face. As his shoulders set back, tense and ready to jump to Deimos' command, his eye reevaluate the unknown thing and try to puzzle it out the way Deimos did. It didn't seem to be conscious, no more writhing against Deimos' floating hold as it would if it were trapped instinctually anywhere, and the bleached white of its colors match the bleak landscape of Halo. It does not hiss and spit curses, or call upon the Gods to smite these ants in front of it. That's good. 

The soldiers all stay quiet as they study the thing, pondering the answer to Deimos' scholarly question: What first? The commander doesn't ask it as if he has a specific answer in mind, as he would sometimes during drills to confirm knowledge, but Icarus aches to give the correct one anyway. What first? Deimos' desired answer may be to light it on fire, as it so often was, but in the case of an unknown specimen, Icarus didn't want to be the that suggested it in case it was something highly explosive. Instead, he juts his head up slightly, the curve of his jaw set into settled sincerity, his voice no holding the lighthearted lilt from earlier. 

"We should determine if it's a threat, sir," He ventures, forcing certainty into his voice because he didn't want to seem like he was waffling in front of Deimos and no one else was speaking up so he might as well give it a go. "Will it attack, or just defend?"

Icarus

oh my little soldier boy

Deimos

Dare we know the halo's hanging low

The silence from them wasn’t what he expected, and a brow arched as it extended onward. For his own amusements, he spun the tangleweed slowly, watching as it barely writhed around.  From this angle and persuasion, it didn’t seem threatening at all. But if it had been on the ground once more, immersed in the snow, hidden and exploitative, that could be another story. He wouldn’t want any of his citizens plagued upon by anything; even if it was a simple combination of sticks, ice, and barbs.

Icarus speaking up meant his focus split from newfound creatures to the younger soldier, head tilting while he listened. The rest of the soldiers seemed to rally behind this fruition, nodding along in accord and agreement rather than bemused and befuddled faces. “We could,” pleased enough with the response, granting a nod of encouragement and approval for Icarus being willing to come up with anything in the quiet. “Study and examine. See what can occur.” Almost like hypothesizing, but with creatures instead of scientific means. Holding it aloft in mid-air, he extended one palm and through a gilded glow, contorted and created a piece of parchment and charcoal alongside. “Before we do anything though, it should be recorded. It can go into the guild files, and elsewhere.” Another warrior, known for their artistic denizens, snapped up the offered adornments swiftly. While the other sketched and outlined, the Sword perused the weed again, snorting a little under his breath. “There was a variant in Torchline recently too,” so that could mean Rae and Frey were spreading them outwards, or something else lingering amongst the surface. Unsurprisingly, he’d instantly set that one ablaze.

Once the youth had finished, the Warden granted more opportunities and chances. “So how do we test it?”

soldier boy

Icarus would never dare to presume he knows the Warden better than any other soldier, despite his numerous years in the company, despite the oftentimes nearly friendly way he spoke to his imposing commander. Icarus would swear up and down the man was his superior in command, nothing more, and certainly not a mentor or a role model. But, as Deimos speaks to the company, voice patient and analyzing, the young soldier swears the man is fishing. They are, after all, lined up in front of recently rejuvenated trebuchets, fingers itching to pull some levers and see how much damage they can do. It’s a rather straightforward thing he’s looking for someone to do; send a rock flying, smash it into the enemy, cheer and whoop as it bursts into a million pieces. 

He can feel that consensus spreading through the collected company, some smart enough to pick up what Deimos was maybe hinting at, and some also filled with a deep desire to hurdle rocks at unknown things to see what would happen. Someone will speak up soon, and Deimos will turn his fiery gaze on them and give that short nod that means his quiet satisfaction.

Icarus is, by nature, on the quieter side. His contributions are steady hands, a quiet murmur of assurance, a comforting touch on a shoulder and a bandage given to cover a wound. In his own quiet, subtle way, he volunteers for missions by stepping forwards with a soft raise of his hand, asks if he may prove himself, and argues his frustration point by point with a subtle flash of steel when Deimos inevitably tries to push him away from danger. But, as the plant-thing rotates in front of the company, Icarus aches for the burn of an approving gaze. 

With a bold, soft step, he breaks the line and moves forward, asking, "Sir, may I?" With a flick of his wrist, he conjures up a lithe and spinning rope of water and send it shooting towards the floating plant, adjusting his gaze right before it hits so he can study Deimos' reaction to whatever large and likely violent thing is about to occur.

Icarus

oh my little soldier boy

Deimos

Dare we know the halo's hanging low

Far be it from his citizens to accuse Deimos of purposefully dangling lures; though anyone who knew him could comment the man occasionally enjoyed setting a trap. Not unlike a feline, batting at his prey out of amusements, he granted the ability and time for others to simply think; if they fidgeted and squirmed during the thought process, that was on them. Whether or not he agreed with their proposals and ideas was another juxtaposition. He had enough experience to lend and bend them towards certain distinctions, but if they were ever going to be out on their own, guarding, patrolling, defending, and attacking, they needed to have a foundational level instilled. Something automatic and precise. Maybe he was hoping they’d want to seize and assail. Maybe he was intending for them to pause and reflect. Maybe it was all embroiled and contorted into similar faculties and abilities.

Many of them talked, whispering to one another as he turned the beast repeatedly. It didn’t do much else but be rustled and maneuvered along the cold breeze, either unbothered or too dim to care. But his sharp hearing took in their agreements and accords, each wondering what the best course of action was, before finally someone spoke up – Icarus, who seemed to be gaining in confidence over the course of the day.

He tilted his head, listening, muffling a snort under his breath as the youth deigned for permission on what appeared to be incoming incantations. Deimos had seen the soldier in action many a time, knew the water was controlled and mastered, and so he granted a nod, permitting the motion as the rest looked on – eyes widening to see what would transpire.

As the spinning rope of water surged towards the tangleweed, it changed from its outset of nothingness – as if the barbs and ice were grasping, striving, trying to snag at whatever was coming its way – but simply didn’t have the power to combat it. It deteriorated an instant later, and the sticks, snow, and brittle frost holding it together dispersed into Deimos’ air magic, floating there while some of the warriors clapped and hooted. Waiting for that round of victory to funnel and fumble through, he glanced back at their steadfast unit. “What did we learn from that?”

soldier boy

Icarus finches a little as the brittle, writhing thing separates into the air, just an unimpressive collection now of frosted detritus floating in front of them like a bad approximation of an abstract snowman. The flinch comes less from the actual reaction itself, which is significantly less loud and fiery than many things he’s seen even this afternoon, but from the incredible impact his simple tendril of water has on his wild and unknown thing. 

Still, even with the fantastical and strange reaction and the whoops surrounding him, the young soldier keeps his gaze on the only person whose reaction really matters to him here. The celebratory cheers and slaps on the back don’t even register as sensory input, nor does the feeling of his spell dissipating and the water turning back into nothing; his eyes stay curious and just a hint hungry on Deimos. 

That look, that quick glance and curt nod of implied approval, perhaps even with that rare undertone of pride, never arrived, the commander's solid gaze evenly distributed across the soldiers in the unit, and Icarus tries not to think much of it. Really, he tells himself, he was just following an order, and there's nothing particularly special about a soldier following an order. Deimos has already moved on, asking another scholarly questioned designed to lead his soldiers towards smart instincts that hopefully won't get them squashed-killed-frozen-dismembered in the brutal clime of Halo, and Icarus also has a vested interest in not ending up as any of those things, so he steps quietly back into the line and lets his spine straighten again. He'd be better next time, whatever better meant. 

A different soldier pipes up with the answer, saying something rationally well-collected like reactivity to external stimuli and defense mechanisms but it sounds like an over-explained way of saying it defends itself by exploding if you hit it with something and talk shit, get hit, and a wiseass soldier snarks that when the first egghead is done. Icarus isn't sure what answer Deimos is looking for, or if the man is even looking for a particular answer, so he only lets the curve of his mouth quirk up ever-so-slightly as the company titters, keeping his dark eyes trained on Deimos. The cold is starting to seep through his boots, but frostbite is as common as seasonal allergies in Halo so he's certainly not going to be the one that whines to the warden about something as unimportant as losing a toe.

Icarus

oh my little soldier boy

Deimos

Dare we know the halo's hanging low

Listening all the while, his usually inscrutable features reclaimed the small smile and the brief snort of amusement as the answers came. He hadn’t been looking for anything specific; simply willing to hear their responses, the layers laden, the potential lurking underneath, and what they’d managed to deign from the brief encounter of a newfound species. The tangleweed, while some might find wholly insignificant, could also be rendered to ties of Caido happenings, small little clues amongst the chaos – at least, that was what hovered in the back of his mind, from all the recent letters and information finding its way to his desks. Once they’d finished, he nodded along, returning to his formidable prowess and straightening out his spine, stretching and rolling his shoulders. “It also did not take much force, but, as defenders of Halo, we need to think of those who may not be able to protect themselves as well. Children,” like his own, always at the forefront of his intentions. “The elders amongst us. It does not take much until something is threatening.” Especially in Halo.

Moving on from the subject matter and sudden lesson in between the trebuchet antics, he turned his sights back upon the remaining targets – a currently placid ursur, a not-quite-to-scale frost giant, and a still water elemental, waiting to be struck down. “We can finish up here with a little more power,” and he wrinkled his nose, glanced at each of them with a clear vision of destruction and mayhem in mind. “Each of you team up, groups of three. Whoever can knock out their targets first does not have patrol duty in the morning.” It would all come down to accuracy, precision, and camaraderie to fulfill the task.

Mischief laden in his wink following, as he strolled towards the three armaments waiting to be utilized again – placing stones within the basket that were now, due to his prowess with said element, clearly on fire.

soldier boy

The company erupted into excited titters at the prospect of not only a competition, but a competition with a prize at the end. Morning patrol duty was one of those awful necessary evils that was exactly miserable enough to make it a dreaded chore, and any opportunity to beg off and sit in the indoor warmth instead was perhaps the most luscious, juicy carrot at the end of a stick Deimos could offer. Icarus, for all his discipline and ability to shrug off even the most abysmal of duties with a determination that made even the oldest soldiers wary of his drive, feels the burn of competition begin to flicker into his fingers, replacing the beginning stages of frostbite. Like all the other cold, chattering members of the company, he wants to skip out on that early-morning slog through the biting wind and snow; but more than that, he wants to win. That fire in him, kindling slowly but surely, awakened earlier by Deimos' questions, the one that wishes to roar and show everyone he was more than just the orphan boy soldier with nowhere else to go, begins to creep up inside him. The task overwhelms him so completely, narrowing his vision and focusing his hands that he doesn't even scoff or toss an easy grin at Deimos when the man, predictably, starts lighting things on fire.

He turns to the two soldiers next to him and with a pointed, determined look, focuses on their trebuchet. The three of them, longtime allies if not necessarily friends, are used to falling into the easy camaraderie required for a focused, physically demanding task. Icarus focuses his nimble, strategic mind on figuring out precisely how they need to aim the huge thing, using what he learned of the trajectory from that first test run with the dragon. He murmurs confirmations, and after receiving an excited nod from each of his two trebuchet partners, his wrists twist with the conjuring of water magic. Twisting tendrils of frigid, spinning vines move to adjust the trebuchet, faster and stronger than human hands could move it, and it almost feels like cheating if the taste of ambition wasn't so strong in the back of his throat. 

The first stone fires, smashing into the water elemental, and Icarus' two parts let out a cheer of victory. Icarus doesn't, though, too zoned in like a dog chasing a scent and his magic is already adjusting the aim for the next one. His partners, tasting his wild ambition and alright beginning to revel in tomorrow morning's hearth, quickly join him, and the well-oiled unit of three hurls the next stone at the ursur. It hits it precisely on the head, and this time, there is no celebration as the three moves for the final target. They're one thing one, one person, one soldier, and when Icarus wrests down the lever for the last stone, he holds his breath as it sails--

--Landing in the center of the frost giant just a single moment after another group's. 

Disappointment burns the back of his throat, vivid and raw like bile, but he claps his hands anyway and congratulates his unit on a job well done. Second is still second-most-accomplished, even if it means they'll still have to go trudging through the snow tomorrow. Even if it means Deimos' unreadable, wild face will turn on another as he congratulates them on a job well done.

Icarus

oh my little soldier boy

Deimos

Dare we know the halo's hanging low

Deimos got the opportunity to watch again, brow arched as teams formed, and soldiers intended to divide and conquer. Wholly amused, he heard the feverish whispers of groups, begging for the opportunity to not have to meander amongst Halo’s chilly, crisp mornings looking for danger, figuring the competition would be enough to spur them onwards. What they received for results was just that – swift, keen, and decisive, ensuring targets were blown apart, set aflame, each trio close on the heels of one another.

In the end though, one prevailed over the others, and so he bowed his head at their abilities through accuracy, precision, and the understanding that sometimes one needed to combine their intellect, capacities, and quick action to set them apart from the rest. “Well done to each of you.” And he meant that – they’d all completed and accomplished multitudes of work in the interim. “We will not be seeing you in the morning,” he nodded towards the winning coalition, granting a boyish grin, before landing amongst and amidst the others on a sigh and a shrug of his shoulders. “To those not as fortunate, get some rest. You all did good work today. We can head out.”

And hopefully, with some reflection, they would all be that much better tomorrow.

[FIN]