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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!
As someone who responds similarly to any kind of praise, Zavien doesn't let his smile get too wide. But even as the stranger shares his tale, there's a sort of admiration in his hidden expression, an approval in the timbre of his voice when he speaks over his shoulder. "That's a brave thing to do for someone so young." And yet, the reason for it isn't lost on him, and Zavien lowers his tone when he adds gently, "I'm sorry you had to go through that."
The topic of Deimos leaving bruises is lighter, one that has him laughing when he takes another step onto a frozen plank. "Sounds about right." The words have barely left his mouth before the bridge is shifting beneath him, a nauseating tilt that sends his stomach into his mouth with a nervous, "Woah." His hands grip the railings, Sol turning to check on his companion with a soft chirp and tilt of his head. The dragon looks down at the bridge, seeming to understand that his own bounding pace might be contributing. His movements are more measured when he turns to lead the way again.
Once the ice has solidified again, Zavien releases his death grip, straightening slightly to take his next step. A silence hangs after the young man speaks, the advice knocking against the shells of grief and regret he'll always carry. The words echo in the mists like a terrible omen he can't quite shake, one he'd prefer not to dwell on.
Finally, he places a polite smile on his lips, peeking half over his shoulder to express his understanding. "I'll keep that in mind."
The abrupt change in subject is welcome, his mind latching to the topic like Sol grabbing treats. "Stormbreak," he answers without thought, without considering that it hasn't been true for some time now. Stormbreak had been his city, his home, his heart for so long that he finds it hard to claim anywhere else. But he can't live there now, and his life has changed too much to wallow in what's lost.
Realizing that he'd paused on the bridge, Zavien clears his throat to take another step. "But I live in Torchline now." He doesn't say more, momentarily caught in the torrent of memories and places that he'd never live again.
The secret of happiness is freedom, the secret of freedom is courage.
The silence following Icarus' unsolicited advice sends his own stomach sinking and his hand shaking slightly against the clutching of the rope. He senses he's made a grievous misstep, once again reaching out of his station as a lowly soldier into something he doesn't quite understand, the same way he feels whenever he tries to get Deimos to see him as more than just a young soldier untested and untried by the horrors of the world. Because for all his age and inexperience, Icarus has seen blood and death enough for several lifetimes; the burning scars spanning the length of his chest, red and raw in the presence of the dragon up ahead, speak to that. His words echo into the mists, and the man gives him a polite acknowledgement that seems more like a rebuke, and Icarus is more than happy to let the subject drop from his hands into the roiling mists below.
He regrets the topic change almost instantly though as the man mentions Stormbreak with the quiet tone of grief long-carried and his feet pause on the bridge. He seems whisked away somewhere, somewhere Icarus doesn't know the particulars of but recognizes. There's a familiarity in his longing to return somewhere that doesn't exist, though Icarus' home is people and this man's is a place. He allows the man this moment to himself, but feels a modicum of relief when he seems to return. The end of the bridge is in sight now, just a few steps away from the man in front of him, and Icarus has to stop himself from telling the man to leap for it. He yearns for the solid ground under his feet again.
"How do you like it there?" He asks mildly, trying not to step on any other conversational danger-zones. "Almost certainly warmer than Halo, I imagine."
The chill in the air weighs heavier than before, the burdens of unspoken words and too deep memories filling the vast space of the open canyon. The mists hover as if holding their breath, refusing to move until the conversation has flowed past the map of scars painting running across their bodies. The forest seems to understand that nothing good will come from dwelling on the losses of people, homes, and communities.
Zavien tries to do the same, his focus narrowing to the last few planks of the bridge, lifting to the solid ground where Sol perches proudly. A low trill of encouragement flows through the dense air, garnering a smile from the man when he faces the last steps of bridge. "It's nice," he says of Torchline. Although certainly muted compared to the praise most would sing of the region, Zavien doesn't deny the benefits. "Definitely warmer."
His foot finally hits solid ground and Zavien takes the deepest, purest breath of relief. Fear and anxiety fall from his shoulders like a winter coat, drifting into the chasm that would have loved if he'd fallen with it. The freedom releases the full strength of his smile, the one he now directs at the stranger coming up behind him. "I can't tell you how much I appreciated your help there." Without the ice magic, it might have taken him twice as long to cross the bridge. As is, it's already taken more time than he'd have liked, but he doesn't rush off, waiting for the stranger to cross before offering out his hand and another sunshine smile. "You already met Sol, but I'm Zavien." Now seated at his side, Sol gives another trilling chirp of a greeting, his tail swiping the dirt behind him, his excitement threatening to start a mini cyclone.
The secret of happiness is freedom, the secret of freedom is courage.
The man's vague compliments about Torchline are telling in what he doesn't say. It's nice. It's warm. But the words aren't imbued with the comfort of speaking about somewhere he'd call home. Icarus is about to respond something along the lines about how he's never left Halo, really, before now, and this was certainly an auspicious start to a new region, but the man's feet leaves the bridge and meets solid ground and the young solider's shoulders slump from relief. He follows him shortly, bounding the last few strides on rickety planks, uncaring of the danger in his desperation to reach solid ground. The ice dissipates into air as his feet touch ground and he thanks the Gods for his success. For as much as he worshipped Mort, he didn't want to meet the God of death on that particular day.
The full force of Zavien's smile is blinding, like looking into a sun, and Icarus, used to both the low-light landscape of Halo and the curved half-grins of Deimos, steps back from the force of it. It's odd to see someone so enthusiastically friendly after such a harrowing experience (and, he half-expected someone friends with Deimos to be as tightlipped and professional as him), and he's not entirely sure what to do with himself.
"I'm Icarus," He remembers how to introduce himself and reaches out his hand to take Zavien's outstretched one. Icarus' hands feel rougher than a person his age's should, worn with sword calluses and scars from nicks and accidental injuries during training, and he retreats his hand back to his side before Zavien can hopefully notice.
Now that he's on solid ground and no longer has the distraction of the danger of the bridge occupying his thoughts, the full impact of the fact that a damn dragon is here, trilling excitedly and swiping its tail back and forth. His hand is half-twitching towards his sword when his mind reminds his body that Zavien would turn rather unfriendly if his companion dragon was attacked, and Icarus forces his hand away.
"Sorry," He murmurs sheepishly. "I've had, uh, bad experiences with dragons." It's an echo of what he said earlier, but this time there's nowhere to hide his reddening face. He suddenly becomes very self-conscious of the scars creeping up the collar of his tank-top undershirt and he uselessly tugs it a little higher to try and conceal them.
