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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!
Deimos was pragmatic by nature; any actions had some rhyme, reason, motivation, ambition, and goal intertwined; whether it be amusement, a necessity, or anything else lacquered in between. Today’s ventures included taking Idalia to see the greenhouse (given her awe over the treeflits in the Oerwoud), snagging some fruits and vegetables for dinner, and seeing if he could grab anything for flower festival offerings.
The humid means were still a shock to the system as soon as they entered, and he peeled off jackets and layers from himself and the youth, while she giggled and he re-strapped her to his chest. With the youth’s eyes widening, he snorted, watching as she made grabby hands towards the multiple leaves, branches, and boughs they passed along the way towards apples, oranges, and lemons. The Sword unfurled quiet grumbles her way as she giggled and laughed. A preference, really, over the way the infant could scream. Perhaps she'd sleep better that evening.
Once they’d snagged enough citrus laden sweets, next were vegetables, each carefully placed in his bag or tiny pieces torn apart that they could share. While Idalia munched on the smallest portion of a strawberry, his long limbs took them towards potatoes and contemplating rows of herbs.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
The humidity wasn't always preferable to the endless bite of Halo's cold, especially for one as embittered in it as Icarus has -- he often liked to joke he crawled out of a snowbank instead of a womb -- but sometimes he wanted to feel the sensation of something like and growing under his fingers instead of the endless pain of the wind. Perhaps he'd even make it to the flower festival this year, instead of volunteering for extra patrol duties for others to go: his compatriots have vowed to 'get him drunk for the first time in his soldierly, stick-up-the-ass life,' but if he's going to drink the mead from the flowers' honey, he certainly wouldn't show up empty-handed.
The greenhouse exhales a blast of humidity onto his face, conjuring sweat nearly instantly, and he sheds all his winter layers until he's in the barest of his soldier's garments, arms bare. A few inches of jagged, brutal claw-scar climbs from the low collar of his undershirt, ending just at the base of his throat, but he's too relieved to no longer have humidity of the greenhouse under his layers to pay it any mind.
He exhales, smile bursting across his face as he takes in the bright and beautiful things adorning the place, reaching out a hand to ever-so-gently feel a bright pink petal under his fingers. That is until he sees Deimos, big and broad and commandeering as ever, but with a little baby strapped to his chest. She looks comically small compared to the enormous Warden, but Icarus is too shocked at Deimos' appearance to let a chuckle escape. Instinctually, his body snaps to attention, but a soft, fond smile lingers on his face as his eyes stay glued to the baby. He'd wanted a sister once.
"Sir," He says in that quiet way of his. "Apologies. I didn't know you'd be in here."
Prying his long hair out of his face and into a messy bun, Deimos and Idalia contemplated their choices, more so the former over the latter, before moving onto the array of blossoms nearby. When another entered, presuming for much the same reasons the Sword and his daughter had, both heads turned towards the newcomer. The Warden arched a brow as he was suddenly bombarded with the soldier’s snap to attention, but the infant gurgled something incoherent, then went about her business with placing sticky fingers into her mouth.
The regret baffled him – but he paid it no mind, shaking his head, granting an amiable greeting. “No need to apologize. Everyone is welcome here. It is why we have it.” A place to snag and have food and resources that, without the greenhouse, would otherwise be unavailable to them, save for some expensive importing. He surveyed the warrior for a moment, a brief scrutiny, wondering if everything was all right or something else was lingering below the surface. Icarus always came across as far too serious. And that was coming from someone like Deimos.
Plucking at a few stems and flowers, each in a deep shade of blue or green, he brought them over to the closest worktable. No longer occupied by her own digits, Idalia loosened a squeal at the soft petals, but he kept them firmly out of her reach, opting to address Icarus once more. “Were you looking for anything in particular?” Given Evie and Amhran’s time within, it’d even been the location for his and Evie’s wedding, he knew his way around the building; could probably point the youth in the right direction.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Icarus’ shoulders slump a little at Deimos’ casual, friendly tone, releasing himself from the taut posture of being a soldier at-ease. He couldn’t quite turn into a carefree, exploring youth, didn’t have it in him, but a little rush of tension leaks out of him. With a touch of self-consciousness, he pulls the collar of his undershirt up just slightly, enough to cover the gruesome imprints of old jagged claws peeking out. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it, an old tic cemented into habit, and he rubs it as he wanders a little closer to Deimos and that cute, giggling baby. She squeals and giggles and waves her little hands around reaching for petals just out of her reach, and the affection grows on Icarus’ face. His hesitant grin grows wider, softer, and he gives her a little playful wave.
”Nothing in particular,” He reaches out to touch another blossom, feeling the velvety petals under his callused fingers. ”Just collecting something for the flower festival. Some of the guys said they’d bring me and—“ He cut himself off, realizing he perhaps shouldn’t confess the unit’s plan to get their unit’s young member thoroughly sloshed for the first time, to their commander. His cheeks redden just a touch and he switches his attention from the blooming blossoms to the bouncing baby strapped on the Warden’s broad chest.
Icarus nods at her softly. ”What’s her name?” He asks quietly, like he’s reaching for some grave, sacred secret. ”Is she yours?”
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
Beginning to twist some of the stems around one another, he kept his focus and concentration split between the work, his daughter, and Icarus, eyes glancing back and forth, snorting mildly as the soldier waved. Idalia didn’t seem very certain – not like her brother, who absorbed any attention and gave it readily in return - before granting a small wave in mirroring, tiny fingers maneuvering this way and that before swiveling her wide gaze back to the petals in her father’s grasp.
He glanced up upon the explanation – expecting something before it was abruptly cut off. Brow arching, he hid a snicker, for any sentiments of mischief could be extended at the upcoming festival, and while he’d comment on being safe, he certainly wouldn’t hold anyone back on sentiments of antics. It’d be hypocritical, considering how many things he’d gotten into as a youth, and once he’d been relegated to Caido. Keeping the topic safe at hand rather than digging or prying, he understood well the sentiments of keeping things close to one’s chest, his rumble went along the blossoms and gardens. “We are making flower crowns, if that interests you,” though the infant would not be much help.
The questions thereafter compelled him to laugh, as he wasn’t in the habit of picking up random children – then he remembered he’d done just that with Kiada. “Yes. This is Idalia.” Who perked up at her name, grasp coming out quickly and he had to maneuver out of the way of incoming hands towards his beard. “Evie and I have Erebos as well – who you may often see running about. Amhran too, though he was from Rae and raised from a plant,” shrugging thereafter, as if this was normal circumstances.
His stare turned and altered though, upon seeing the tangleweed out and about through the glass walls, as if lying in wait for someone unsuspecting to come around the bend. That’d be something else to take care of upon their departure.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
The little baby's wave is mesmerizing in its adorableness and Icarus feels his heart melting further, slowly defrosted in the humid, hot air of the greenhouse. He floats another little wave at her, watching the way her eyes move from new thing to new thing, though ultimately, the flowers in his father's hand seem to capture her attention most. Icarus can't blame her; if he were a baby in a cold, cruel place like this, he'd be captivated by any delicate beauty too.
His hands float from the flower he's touching to another one, this new one green and a little furry under his fingertips. "I've never made a flower crown before," His voice floats, distant and thinking, not quite catching the invitation laden in Deimos' voice. It does interest him in an academic, distant way. How would one make a flower crown? It seems like an odd, unknowable kind of magic, stranger and farther out of his grasp than the water magic that comes so easily to him, so at-odds with the cold landscape of Halo that even in this sacred place of warmth and greenery he can't fathom its existence.
The baby's name brings another true, childlike smile to his face, and his fingers flicker in another gentle wave. "Hi, Idalia," he greets, throwing her a half-hearted but still formal salute in hopes of making her giggle. She seems thoroughly enamored by the great thing that is her father's beard, and he imagines if he were a baby again (oh, Gods, had he ever been that small?) he'd find it rather fascinating as well. The plant-baby mention sends his eyebrows crawling up his forehead in surprise, though he knows better than to ask a follow-up question. Things get strange when Gods and demi-gods are involved, enough to defy logic and explanation and really it was much wiser to just nod and accept it into reality. Icarus, as a soldier, is good enough at nodding at things he doesn't need to understand.
When Deimos' gaze shifts, Icarus follows it, more out of habit than curiosity, and sighs lightly at the conspicuous trap of the tumbleweed outside. "Another one?" He murmurs, more to himself than his commander, more in curiosity than in concern. He wonders if Deimos will light this one on fire, or merely hurl something at it until is explodes again. His attention turns back to the rich colors of the greenhouse, plucking a flower between two fingers. "I'd offer this to her but I'm afraid she'll just try to eat it. She's at around that age, right?"
When the Sword’s suggestion wasn’t readily taken, he shrugged, continuing his work of blending the hues together through managed stems and petals. “We all start somewhere,” he mentioned instead, granting a wrinkled nose of amusement. His first iterations had been busts as well, in the rounds of Fiat Lux, until others ultimately gifted them to him partially out of pity. By the second festival iteration, he and Kiada had been cannoning them across the wakes of the fields, enjoying the sentiments before everything else came crashing down with it. Rather than meander through those glimpses though, he’d make a matching set for his family, starting with the one strapped to his chest.
Once he’d completed the circlet, he fit it over her dark hair and curls for a moment, testing out the size, then promptly snagging it away before she had a chance to clutch and pull on it. By then though, she was occupied by Icarus’s movements, eyes wide and watching as his fingers moved in another wave, then a salute, that had her smiling in earnest, before babbling and gurgling something incoherent, hands pulling on the fabric around her. Eventually, she gave one squeal of delight, then mimicked the salute movement, but only made it halfway to her head, ultimately distracted by the blossoms once more.
The tangleweed was just another thing, and he sighed, gaze going back towards it. “Probably be more after that. We will just have to get rid of them as we seem them.” Luckily they weren’t strong and durable; a quick flick of magic spelled the end.
At his offer though, he snorted. “It is appreciated, but it will not last. She tries to eat everything.” Hence why he’d managed to maintain everything out of her reach. “Use it for yourself. Or the offering.”
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Icarus ghosts a little closer, moving to study the flower crown in Deimos’ hand, trying to memorize the intricate way the stems weave together to make a tight, beautiful halo. How can someone so large, so strong, so capable of such incredible feats of strength and power, weave something with such delicacy? He’s having a hard enough time reckoning the waving, squealing baby with the firm-but-fair commander he’s known since he was a child.
”Could you teach me how to make one? A flower crown, I mean,” He asks, hesitant and a little apprehensive. A fiend for battlefield knowledge, Icarus works himself long after the drills are done pushing himself to perfection, trying to gauge every glimmering piece of knowledge he can get to be better, to finally learn enough and prove himself enough to defend his home. This, though? This feels different, superfluous, something just done for the beauty of it instead of the utility. But if the Warden determines it’s worth enough of his time, perhaps Icarus can loosen himself enough to learn it as well.
He shook his little flower at Idalia, trying to coax out another gurgling laugh, before tucking it behind his ear, a little splash of color in his curls of dark hair. Looking at Deimos out the corner of his eye, a soft and yearning ache fills the cavity of his chest where his bleeding heart lingers. Whether it’s at the sight of father and daughter together, or or Deimos’ stern face softening into something closer to familial fondness, or even this gentle, domestic scene he happens to have intruded upon, he doesn’t know.
Perhaps it was a sort of whimsy no one would expect out of the Sword – but he always held a steadfast mischief right below the surface of inscrutable, nonchalant features and apathetic masks. Over the years he’d like to think he’d not been as unyielding as before; prone to antics and ridiculous machinations simply because he could, rather than being the eternal stone-cold piece of Halo’s landscape. Dependent on situations, so it seemed; and as he wasn’t waging war, battling, or delving into politics at present, he could afford to relent and relax into celebrations and festive arrangements. At least before something else occurred; Caido’s predilections hovering right on the edge of circumstances lately.
When Icarus managed to make up his mind, Deimos nodded, keeping the snort inward, the rumble moving along through his chest. He’d much prefer the soldier to learn decisive measures, no matter how small the notions. “Sure. Take one of these long stems,” pointing to a bunch he’d already placed along the table for impending use. “Use it to measure around your head.” A starting point, just as he’d done with Idalia’s much smaller bounty – placing that down as an example for impending, finished products. He snagged at another one, and avoiding the infant’s rampant grasp, fitted it neatly over his cranium and hair to gauge size needed for the circlet to fit, and stay, properly.
The infant, in a very familiar pattern of her bloodline, wrinkled her nose when Icarus’s own flower disappeared into his hair – then sniffed, before Deimos managed to distract her with another small piece of blackberry.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
In his close examination of Deimos, namely out of the peripherals of his vision as his eyes stay largely adoringly enamored by Idalia's antics, he sees something hitch through the Warden's broad chest. He cannot name exactly what it is, there and gone as it is, but something burns in the hollows of his ribs that he did something, if not wrong, something not interesting or impressive, something enough to trigger that strange unknown spasm. Color decorates the very tops of his cheeks and he focuses his intense, focus gaze on the bunch on the table, wondering if it's possible to get high marks in making recreational flower crowns. With a sigh, he pushes those thoughts away, letting them flow out the tops of his fingers as he chooses a long-stemmed purple flower. He was here to connect with the living things that could blossom even in the frost and cold, to leave it all outside the humid walls of the greenhouse for an afternoon, including his soldier's tendencies for perfection.
As instructed, he measures the stem around his head, and when he finds it a touch too big, he uses his fingernail to cut off the excess so it lands more snugly. Idalia, seemingly as happy as anyone could be, clutches a berry in her little fists like it's a treasure worth anything, and Icarus muses that perhaps in some sort of strange, metaphorical way, it is.
Now he thinks he's straying a little too far from the soldier's mindset. He tucks a loose curl behind his ear, behind the little flower adornment, and turns his attention to Deimos again. "What's next?" He asks, and there's that same steel that underlies his words when he's trying to master a new drill.
