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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!
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.”
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.
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.
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.
Yesterday, 05:13 PM (This post was last modified: Yesterday, 07:52 PM by Odd.)
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
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?”
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?"
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?”
1 hour ago(This post was last modified: 1 hour ago by Icarus.)
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.
