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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 next fireball has barely left Deimos’s hand before Flora moves. It isn’t graceful in the polished, and thank gods for that, because this is faster than graceful. It’s sharp, instinctive, almost ugly with the suddenness of it: one bare foot digging into the sand, her body cutting sideways before the line of flame can properly claim the space she’s just abandoned. Because if Deimos had aimed that one at her properly, if it had come with real intent rather than careful restraint, she still thinks she’d have slipped it. Not because he’s anything less than terrifyingly precise, and not because she’s suddenly decided she could stand opposite the Sword and do anything other than become a very blonde cautionary tale, but because for once her body answers before doubt can get in the way.
It thrills her, which is probably a character flaw, but there are worse ones.
Flora turns back toward him with sand stuck to her legs and a crooked grin pulling at her mouth, lifting one hand to point at him with all the dramatic accusation of someone who absolutely plans on enjoying herself. "Two is definitely cheating," she calls of his fireballs, breathless enough that the complaint loses most of its dignity and gains quite a lot of sparkle.
Still, she doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead she bounces her eyebrows, shifting her weight lightly from one foot to the other as if the beach beneath her is suddenly less a place to stand and more a board she has to keep balanced beneath her. Her heart is still kicking hard, her grin hasn’t gone anywhere, and when she lifts her chin at him, the invitation is obvious. Again.
2/4
She learned and adapted quickly; but Deimos was never without some scheme. He hadn’t made it this far in (multiple) lives to exist by one fireball at a time – even if two were deemed cheating. He laughed, let the rumble coast through his chest and outward into the air, watching as she raised her chin in defiance and challenge.
In response, he conjured more. The flames yielded easily at his command, just as akin to breathing, to maneuvering with a weapon in hand, to carving his way out of nothing but loss. They rose upwards in a conflagration, in a crescendo, purposefully meant to be towering and overwhelming. “How about a wall then?” he grinned; equal parts careful and mischievous, though she wouldn’t have to decide which one prospered further. He was at least predictable in that measure.
From there, he sent the enchantments towards her, but the onslaught of embers and fire were purposefully, strategically slow, towards her back, as if to give chase, hunt, and stalk, rather than pounce, granting and giving her ample opportunity to outpace it in any direction.
"A what?" Flora’s eyes flick from Deimos to the sudden rise of flame, the word leaving her mouth with all the bright disbelief of someone who has just realized, far too late, that she has been encouraging a man whose idea of escalation is apparently architectural.
The wall comes up broad and brilliant against the beach, and Flora’s entire body answers with a sharp yelp before any of her pride can make a smarter suggestion. There’s no slipping around it, not with enough time to be clever about the attempt, and certainly not with the sort of dramatic grace she’d prefer if anyone is going to be watching her run away from a controlled inferno. Instead she darts backwards, bare feet digging hard into the sand as she retreats from the slow, stalking push of it, curls bouncing against her shoulders and her heart launching itself somewhere up near her throat.
For one wild second, the only reasonable thought she has is that Deimos has very clearly misunderstood the difference between training and lightly terrorizing Torchline’s queen for sport, but the fire never surges fast enough to close the distance. It gives her room, deliberately and maddeningly, and Flora uses every inch of it until the flames finally gutter out and leave the beach bright and ordinary again. "HOLY SHIT," she calls, breathless and laughing despite herself, because terror and delight have braided themselves together for the afternoon. Her grin flashes toward the Sword, sharp and exhilarated, and then she’s moving again before either of them can get too comfortable with the distance between them.
This time she darts forward instead of away, cutting hard to one side and then the other in a zigzagging rush meant to make herself more difficult to predict. It probably isn’t elegant, and it almost certainly isn’t a tactic anyone would describe as refined, but Flora isn’t aiming for refined. She’s aiming for fast, difficult, and just irritating enough to make hitting her feel like less of a certainty. 3/4
Far be it from the Sword to find this sort of training highly amusing; but anyone nearby would’ve heard the rush of laughter booming from the man’s chest. Not unlike batting at a toy, given some of his more feline inclined shifts, it wasn’t far from reality, and he grinned all the more as Flora rampaged around the beach, never once in danger from his flames. Much like when he instructed his troops, all well versed in his antics, there’d be some lesson underpinned in all his mirth and entertainment – like agility and swiftness, thinking ahead, being able to combat and prevail under different circumstances – but where this had been Flora’s idea, he presumed the challenge was immersed somewhere in between.
She didn’t seem any worse for wear regardless; uncertain if she’d tell him either way. Snorting at her exultation, and subsequent movement, he followed suit. Tucking the wall back into smaller fragments, they assimilated into units resembling cords or ropes. Then he had them follow her, intentionally slower than the zigzag potentials; she’d outrun them regardless, but he made them look as though they were constantly on her tail – taking up space and swallowing distances with smoke and embers.
The fire breaks itself into chasing lines, and Flora takes one look at the ember-bright cords flickering at her heels before deciding that dignity is, in fact, wildly overrated before ditching her choice to zig-zag and merely hauling ass instead.
There’s no prettier way to think about it, not when the sand is dragging at every step and her lungs are starting to burn in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with Deimos’s magic. Flora sprints across the beach as hard as she can, curls flying, arms pumping, the entire careful picture of herself as Torchline’s graceful queen abandoned somewhere behind her with her shoes and clipboard. The flames don’t catch her, but they look as though they might, and that’s more than enough to keep her moving with a sharp, breathless sort of panic that would be less embarrassing if she weren’t also having an incredible time.
By the time she reaches the damp-packed sand near the water, her legs are making several persuasive arguments for immediate betrayal. Flora flings both hands up as if calling the whole thing before her knees hit the beach, and then she’s laughing and panting hard enough that the sound comes out tangled together. Her chest rises and falls quickly, but when she twists to look back at Deimos, the grin she shoots him is bright and unmistakable. Alive, unburned, extremely dramatic, and regrettably delighted.
A wave rolls in close enough to save her from having to pretend she isn’t winded. Cupping her hands into the water, Flora splashes it across her chest with a sharp inhale, letting the coolness cut through the heat in her skin as she tries to catch her breath. "Damn," she calls once she can manage actual words again, still grinning as she pushes damp curls away from her face. "If I had that chasing me in the morning for my runs, I’d set a personal best every damn day."
4/4
Deimos watched with his head tilted, wholly amused and continuing the roll of laughter as she sprinted – snorting when the fire dimmed and she opted to crash into the beach’s thralls instead. The flames curled and contorted back to him on a long breath and nothing more, brow arching as he watched to ensure the Queen wasn’t swallowed by the sea, nor suddenly hollowed out in exhaustion. She kept moving though, and so no alarm was raised through him – a reminder of the peaks and pinnacles of drama when it came to certain aspects of her parentage.
He didn’t expect delight to be back on her face though, and he rolled his eyes again, long strides easily banking through the lull of the tide. “Understandable,” as he extended a hand to help her out of the current. “And I would not be surprised if you came up with something similar.” It would be very much on par with Flora’s plans. “Good work,” was another well-earned compliment with a dip of his head, eyes flickering away from her briefly to watch the boys still sifting through sand nearby. “And thank you for the help.” Whether or not she could say the same, the Sword wasn’t certain.
