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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 glow is easy to miss at first, just a thin haze of colour caught between the roots, pale and wavering where it threads down into the Peepholes. It has no clear source, no lantern bobbing ahead or fungus bright enough to explain it, only a faint trail that seems to brighten when followed and dim whenever looked at too directly.
Beneath the jungle, the air is damp and close despite the chill of Deepfrost elsewhere, with thick roots holding open the hollowed paths where the old earth has washed away. Luminescent leaves glimmer in soft patches, and fungus crowds the dark in uneven clusters, but the strange light keeps slipping onward, leading deeper between the man-sized holes sunk into the ground. Some gape black and empty, some gleam with still water, and others hold half-seen shapes that might be stones, bones, or offerings left behind for something that only comes when no one is watching.
The farther the trail winds, the heavier everything becomes. Not suddenly, not enough to alarm at first, but with the slow insistence of a long day catching up all at once. Your limbs grow warm and unwieldy, your thoughts soften around the edges, and even breathing seems to ask for more effort than it should. The glow ahead continues to shimmer faintly through the dark, patient and inviting, as if whatever waits below has all the time in the world.
Welcome to the DROP. You have 48hrs to reply.
Ronin has paused in his lecture to the twins about not wandering off or he'll tie them together and then to himself and Remi, caught by the strange and twisting glow snaking away into the Peepholes. Despite the warning he's just given and almost unconsciously, in truth, his feet start to take him into one of the openings, eyes pinned on the light like it might disappear if he doesn't keep a close watch.
"I'm just going to take a closer look," he calls over his shoulder, brows drawing into a frown as he ducks under roots and meanders deeper into the Peepholes. He intends to shout out again that they should be careful, and perhaps in his mind he does, but by that point his concentration has started to pool into a strange soup of half finished thoughts.
With heavy feet, a vague sensation that something isn't right and a diminishing interest in finding out what, Ronin meanders further towards the light.
"We willlll," Carlo says again. Again because it isn't the first time they've been warned and it probably won't be the last time either, but he swears they don't intend to misbehave - he'd fully own it if that were the case. The Oerwoud is just really twisty, and there's a lot to see and smell and step in, and sometimes when he looks up his fathers have vanished down the next neatly available trail.
Even so, he's just sighed and held out his hand for Calan (because wandering off is much more fun together, especially if it's going to happen anyway) when Ronin vanishes down one of the Peepholes, drawn by a suspiciously interesting looking glow. "It's not wandering off if we're following you!" he calls helpfully, grinning at anyone who might think differently before marching down into the glowing darkness, intent of being a part of this.
There isn't much sense in asking why Amhran is in the Oerwoud. Nature happens all over Caido, and when Halo is at it's iciest, sometimes it's nice to take a trip somewhere more balmy. Don't get him wrong, the new upgrade to the region is lovely and the greenhouse is always a very pleasant temperature, but there's nothing quite like a canopy of green overhead to calm you down. (If the you in question was grown from a seed, anyway).
It's not that canopy that catches his attention now though, the Raeling drawn to the ground and deeper still, crouched to examine the hazy light that twines into the Peepholes and beyond. He straightens up as if to move on from it, but of course instead his feet take him just a bit closer. Just to sate the curiosity, you see.
Before he knows it he has descended into the tunnels to follow the light, and even as the world grows soft and heavy at the edges, he knows that what he's looking for is likely just around the next corner. Probably.
Remi keeps his eyes on the boys rather than the light, which is the only reason his feet do not follow Ronin’s with the same unthinking pull. The glow catches at the edge of his vision, pale and patient between the roots, but Carlo’s helpful logic draws a low sound from him that is half sigh, half grumble. "That is not what he meant, and you know it," he mutters, not quite loud enough to make an argument of it, though his eyes flick from one identical dark head to the other as if counting them by sheer force of will. "Following someone into trouble is still trouble."
The tentacles come easily, sliding into use with the same familiar economy as his hands, dark and sure as they reach past the twins to draw aside brambles and dripping vines. One coils around a low branch and pulls it away from their path, another presses a tangle of roots down so small feet will not catch, while Remi stays at the rear of their uneven little line with Ronin ahead and both boys between them. It is not the arrangement he would have chosen, not with that strange haze slipping deeper into the Peepholes and Ronin moving toward it as if his thoughts have softened around the edges, but it is the arrangement they have now, and Remi holds it together as best he can.
"No touching anything that glows," he adds, because the list of things that should not need saying has become, recently, much longer than he ever imagined. "No crawling into holes, no drinking mysterious water, no picking up bones, and no deciding that because your father has wandered into trouble first, it is now a family activity."
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Calan’s hand slips into his brother’s as if there had never been any other sensible place for it to go, fingers locking tight and immediate while his steps fall into the same rhythm beside him. This, he decides, is already an improvement over being carried, because walking means choosing where his feet land, and choosing where his feet land means he can choose quite a lot of other things too if everyone gives him a minute.
He listens to Remi’s list with bright-eyed attention, because of course he doesn't intend to be difficult. No touching anything that glows. Fine. No crawling into holes. Also fine, since walking is not crawling and following is not wandering and Ronin has very clearly gone first, which makes this less of a bad idea and more of a procession with poor supervision. Right?
"How are we supposed to all stay together if we don’t follow?" he asks, with the reasonable patience of someone doing his best to help the adults keep up with their own instructions. Then, because this seems like an excellent point and not at all the sort of thing that should make anyone sigh, Calan glances over his shoulder and shoots Remi a quick, sly grin before stepping neatly over the tangle of roots held down by one of the tentacles. He makes rather a show of not touching the glow, not crawling, not drinking anything, and not picking up bones, which leaves plenty of room for continuing onward exactly as planned.
Flora has a perfectly good reason for being here, which is what she tells herself as the skyship settles above the Oerwoud canopy and she makes her way down toward the Peepholes with her curls already slipping loose from their knot. New demigod, strange jungle rumours, suspicious glowing trail; honestly, this is basically demigod civic duty if anyone asks.
Pulling out her parchment, she scribbles a note to Kai letting him know that if anything gets crazy she'll tell him. Tucking it away, Flora adjusts the strap of her feather-daggers and steps into the damp dark beneath the roots. The Peepholes gape around her in uneven intervals, some black and empty, some gleaming faintly with still water, but the haze of light keeps slipping onward as if it knows exactly where it wants her to go. "So far," she murmurs, glancing after it with narrowed aqua eyes, "very dramatic."
At first the tiredness feels like nothing, just the weight of the jungle air pressing against her skin. Then her next step lands heavier than it should, and Flora slows, fingers drifting closer to her daggers as the glow shimmers patiently ahead.
Flora
you can't be everything you wanna be before your time
Deimos could never cease the draw of suspicion, nor perhaps a glowing light, the way moths flicker to a flame. Caido had made him curious and wary simultaneously; waiting inevitably for the next thing to fall apart, even when in moments of peace and prosperity.
So there he was, canine head tilted, watching as other familiar beings floated amongst the runes of the Oerwoud too – enticed inexplicably by inquiry or other endeavors. He might not have persisted any further, had he not spotted Amhran – hellhound eyes widening briefly before following immediately, that age-old protective means brewing in his blood and a thousand other questions tilting the scales. Only after a brief roll of strides and limbs did he appear close to the Raeling with a brief bark; nose to the air as he contemplated a hoard of sounds, then sights, constantly on the lookout.
Eating fire is your ambition to swallow the flame down
While many could probably signify and explain why one wouldn’t follow a strange glow appearing in the Peepholes, Melita wasn’t the same sort of individual. The mere notion of flickering things and potential chaos thrived and intertwined in her limbs, so she too went amidst the assortments of ferns and leaves and thick, wooded fixtures, delighted beyond measure. Even as the pressure felt intense. Even as everything was warm, undefined.
And even more so when she spotted many a familiar friend. “Hey!” she called out to Flora, jogging along to catch up – while suddenly feeling the pull, and purposefully taking a deeper breath, surprised by the shortness of it. “Any idea what’s going on?”
to be lit up from within, vein by vein to be the sun
It’s strange, this light that seems to beckon and call a variety of souls toward it. Somewhere in the back of Sunjata’s mind, he’s pretty sure that he remembers a story akin to this very thing. And yet, here he is, a moth drawn to it despite all the warning signs, beckoned only by the sounds of familiar voices up ahead.
He spots Melita catching up to Flora, and the Heartless picks up his pace and tries his best to avoid touching any of the glowing fungus that sticks to the surrounding area, trying to avoid the brush of the fern’s speared leaves. “Hey guys, what’s all this?” He asks, sucking in a breath and realizing it feels too short to be anything good. It doesn’t deter him, though, as he continues to be tugged along.
Sunjata is in!
we'll break our own hearts so that someone else can't
No permission needed for power play!
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
05-26-2026, 05:28 AM (This post was last modified: 05-26-2026, 05:29 AM by Noah.
Edit Reason: To add the footnote
)
we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
While Halo’s newest upgrade kept them all in the Citadel from succumbing to the deepest of the Eirachi’s hold, Noah still found himself outside her borders.
He found himself on smaller wings than his griffin form, but still agile as he cut through the skies. Above the Oerwoud, his keen eyes caught the fainted twinge of something different. Banking, he descended. Closer into the trees, Noah saw that he was not the only one following whatever had caught his eye.
When his eyes found the familiar lanky demigod and the hellhound quick to follow, Noah too couldn’t be pulled any other way. He tucked his wings and from gyrfalcon he touched down on the soil as lynx. What do you think it is? Noah sent over the attuned bond toward Deimos, remembering the last time they were in the Peepholes and the relic that was found. His edges sparked with curiosity that thrummed down through his limbs as he strode forward toward whatever it was ahead of them.
// And they glow, with the help of Lucifer Yellow //
It really isn’t what he’s anticipating when he gets here – having only intended on making a pitstop before something seemed to call to him. The Ancient steps through, following along the path others have taken, guided by the strange yet persistent comforting light. Discomfort and uncertainty bleeds away under the pretense of warmth despite the chill in the air, even if the butcher is quite bundled up just in case.
He spots Flora and Melita, and the presence of the Heartless leaves a slightly sour taste in Asta’s mouth. Ignoring it, he picks up his pace even if it feels even more like a slog, like it’s more difficult to do alongside taking the deep breaths he’s trying to, in order to get up next to the Hot Take’s side, flashing her a vibrant and shark tooth grin of greeting, as well as one toward Melita, but promptly ignores Sunjata’s very existence.
Asta is in!
Astaroth
// I had it, concerning madness, sink into satin, focus on the static //
The glow does not brighten so much as gather itself, the faint haze drawing into a slow, pulsing rhythm that is almost too gentle to notice until it has already begun to pull at the eye. It slips along the roots and damp earth in thin, wavering threads, each pulse seeming to arrive just before the last one has fully faded, leaving behind the vague impression of movement without ever offering anything solid enough to follow.
Ahead, the trail begins to divide.
Some strands drift toward the black mouths of nearby Peepholes, vanishing down into the dark as if poured there. Others shimmer across shallow pools before sinking beneath the still water, while a few linger at the edges of openings filled with bones, stones, or half-buried offerings whose shapes are difficult to hold clearly in mind. The light never fully chooses one path, but neither does it disappear; it simply scatters, patient and quiet, its rhythm faintly hypnotic in the close air beneath the jungle.
There is no sound to it, no voice and no command, only that soft pulse drawing the gaze again and again, making each hollow seem briefly important before the next one catches the light. Whatever waits deeper in the Peepholes remains unseen, but the glow continues to lead onward in fragments, as though the way forward is not a single path at all, but a question being asked in several directions at once. Carlo and Calan begin to feel extremely tired.
You have 24 hrs. Please clearly state whether you:
1. Go into one of the peepholes after the light
2. Go into the water after the light
3. Continue to follow deeper into the jungle
Calan notices the yawn only when it has already gotten halfway out of him, which feels unfair, because a person should get at least a little warning before his own mouth tries to betray him in front of a perfectly good adventure. He clamps it down late enough that it still counts, unfortunately, his jaw stretching wide before he snaps his teeth together and blinks hard at the glow threading itself into too many directions at once.
That is also unfair. One mysterious light is an invitation, but several mysterious lights are a problem of accounting, and Calan is trying to decide whether the correct answer is to pick the nearest one, the brightest one, or the one that looks most like it does not want to be picked, when his feet begin solving the matter without consulting him. His path drifts sideways by a few inches, then several more, his shoulder tipping toward one of the dark Peephole mouths where the glow has poured itself down like something spilled, and his fingers tighten around Carlo’s hand with the immediate, businesslike grip of someone borrowing balance rather than needing help.
He catches himself a step later and makes the recovery look as intentional as possible, which is to say not very, but also not nothing. One foot skids against the damp earth, his other heel knocks into a root, and he stumbles back into line with a loud, sharp cough that has the useful quality of sounding like it might have been the point all along.
Calan stays on the path!
