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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.
6 hours ago(This post was last modified: 3 hours ago 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
