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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 unintentional rebuke crashes into Casimir like a brutal punch to the sternum, knocking the wind out of him and causing the big man to bodily flinch like he had actually been struck. Hurt, a fear, and a hint of panic flash over his face before he schools it back into his neutral mask, but his chest heaves slightly and his fingers curl into clenched, anxious fists where they hang by his side.
He thought— he doesn’t know what he thought. There was a small bloom of hope and wistfulness in his chest when Thorn’s face had lit up upon receiving the washcloth, and he stupidly thought perhaps it had meant the courtesan had heard all his silent apologies throughout the evening. His actions — violent, giving, stupid, whatever — had always spoken much louder than his words (or lack thereof). It was self-centered for him to think that someone like Thorn, so bawdy and open, could understand him.
His fingers ghost the doorknob, the metal biting and cold under the tips of his fingers. Thorn seems to have melted into the comfort of his room, letting it reclaim him in its homey splendor, and Casimir feels himself sticking out like a big brown spider in a lush garden. The invitation to stay is contrasted by the harsh, toneless murmur it came out in, and the rebuke is clear. He should go. Thorn wants him to go.
He doesn’t want to go.
Carefully, he ghosts to the corner of the bed, sinking down to perch as little of himself there as possible. The cushion of it sinks under him, an unstable life raft on a stormy sea, unmooring his senses slightly. It’s just until Thorn sobers up a little, just to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep on his back or smothers himself with a pillow. Then he’ll ghost away (to Halo), and Thorn will be better off.
So busy attempting to put himself in some semblance of cleanliness to ensure he doesn’t get the grime of the past few days all over his bed, Thorn completely misses the flinch that reverberates through the bartender. The brush is set off to the side and his hands run through his hair, pulling it back out of his face, half expecting Casimir to leave.
But the bartender doesn’t. And Thorn suddenly realizes when Casimir approaches that he’s still here, his face breaking into that vibrant smile yet again. He doesn’t get comfortable yet, but he does resign to perching on the edge. Thorn reaches down to untie his boots, kicking them off and rising to tug his shirt off of his head. All tattoos are on display again, curving around his hip and disappearing below the waistline of his pants.
“Thanks for stayin’, Cas.” He says softly, sucking in a sharp breath and looks over at Casimir, shuffling a smidge closer to collapse in against the bartender’s side. He’s too drunk to notice what exactly he’s up to, how it might affect the bartender. All he cares about is sitting this close, soaking up the warmth radiating from his muscles, breathing in the scent of bourbon and cinnamon like it’s oxygen.
When Thorn sits up to remove his boots, shoulder brushing up against Casimir’s, Casimir doesn’t think he could panic any more than he is right now. Then Thorn’s shirt gets pulled over his head, exposing a surprisingly muscular chest decorated completely in tattoos, and he thinks his brain breaks clean in two.
If Thorn were to look up from his cozied perch pressed up against Casimir’s side, he would see the bartender’s face redder than perhaps it has ever been before. He is, to put it scientifically, freaking out. His eyes unintentionally flicker downward to study the intricate patterns of tattoos adorning his chest, seeing the way they tangle together and then disappear down his waistband. And then he’s very carefully not looking, tearing his eyes away and examining the extremely interesting patterns on wood on the doorframe. That’s much better. Much more interesting than the curve of Thorn’s chest, bare and unexplored like untold wonders, a treasure map aching to be read.
It took him everything not to shift away and let the man’s exhausted body slump to the bed as he fled the House of Midnight and changed his name. The courtesan doesn’t smell of his usual mix of floral perfumes and scents, instead giving off the smell of something rich and earthy and vaguely horse-like. He should probably try and convince Thorn to take a shower, knew the man would thank him for it in the moment, but he thinks if he caught a glimpse of Thorn’s body shining and damp from the shower he couldn’t handle it.
Thorn’s exhausted, obviously so, and seems to want his body against Casimir’s for whatever reason. It would only make things worse if he tired to talk right now or apologize for That Night or try to make things right. Wouldn’t it be better just to be the thing Thorn needs him to be in this moment? Carefully, he lifts a hand, the one closest to Thorn, and rests it gingerly on the man’s knee.
Honestly, if Casimir moved even in the slightest of ways like he was going to escape, Thorn would – in his deliriousness – latch onto him and not let him go. But, as the bartender stays and the courtesan leans against him, soaking in his warmth and heat, Thorn feels himself slowly beginning to nod off. It’s a short little burst, giving Casimir ample time to study the vines that race up his sides, curve toward his chest in looping flowers, then curve back in a spread that curves both to the front and the back of his body. It tucks away in the waistband of the front of his pants, as well as behind in a kind of floral tramp stamp.
He isn’t paying attention to it, though. He’s, instead, focused on the scent of the bartender and how it soothes him. It’s comfortable, normal, relaxing in ways he can’t accurately express – like it’s the perfect subconscious reminder of That Night, and the courtesan selfishly laps it up like a dehydrated canine.
Thorn doesn’t fall asleep for long, though he slumps a little harder when he feels the warm weight of Casimir’s hand on his knee. He half curls in, absolutely passing out for a grand total of probably ten minutes or so before he wakes up again – some of the alcohol and the exhaustion having worked its way out of him with the power nap. He reaches up to rub at his eye, blinking up to see Casimir still there and that bright smile flicks back into place.
“Sorry, I dunno why I’m so fuckin’ tired.” He does, but he’d thought he could handle it better than he had. It’s his way of trying to alleviate just how weak he suddenly feels, especially sitting here half curled up against the bulk and muscle of the stony bartender. “You’re so warm. S’nice.”
Casimir doesn’t realize Thorn is asleep until soft exhales of breath leave his mouth at a level, even rate, almost snoring as the air rattled through his throat. Casimir is too busy freaking out and panicking to notice, but once he does, it inspires even less of an ability to calm down. His heart begins to race so loud he thinks Thorn must be able to hear it and will wake up, which causes his heart to race even more, on and on until the loop of panic closes so tightly his brain just completely jumps ship and fills itself with the white noise of nothing in particular.
To add salt in the gaping and bloody wound in chest, the moment before Casimir realized Thorn was using his body as pillow, he had determined to gently extract himself from the room and excuse himself. He had reasoned Thorn was too out of his right mind to want Casimir’s company, especially after that cutting rebuke from earlier, and it was really the only correct thing to do to excuse himself and return when Thorn was in his right mind (or maybe never). When the man goes completely limp under him, though, Casimir freezes so utterly and completely one could have mistaken him for a statue.
Is Thorn insane? Or just stupid? Has he forgotten what Casimir did to him the last time he had touched the bartender gently? Or has his mission with the unicorn simply given him a death wish? This is very bad. This is very bad. Casimir is going to give him nightmares just by his very presence, and Thorn would wake up with blood under his fingernails without knowing why, and—
Thorn shifts on his shoulder, just slightly, and Casimir holds his breath. He feels like a hapless human trapped by a dozing cat on his lap, unable to move out of fear of disturbance. When Thorn arises, hair sticking even further at odd ends than it had before his catnap, eyes slightly bleary and smile sweet, Casimir cannot physically look at him.
”Go shower,” He grunts and it’s the first words he’s said to the man since That Night and he’s already kicking himself for it, but if Thorn doesn’t take his body off of Casimir’s soon, he cannot be held for whatever destructive decisions he makes as a result.
It isn’t his intention to drive the bartender into a state of panic and dread, though apparently the courtesan is very good at it. Instead, Thorn pretends like everything is relatively normal. Like Casimir hadn’t kissed him and fled like his lips were poison, and that Thorn hadn’t been there the next day to prove that he did want to still see that stubborn glint in Casimir’s eye. It’s precisely what he wanted and what he gets as he looks up at the bartender, courting fire with the closeness of their bodies and how despite his exhaustion, he wants to curl up in the bartender’s lap like a cat and sleep till morning.
Or at least until he felt like he could function again.
For now, though, all he gets is the grunt of go shower, that comes out like an order – much to Thorn’s surprise. He doesn’t show it on his face, just huffs a soft sound like a tired laugh and withdraws from Casimir’s warm, inviting body that had become a makeshift pillow. “You gonna be here when I’m done or should I say my goodbye’s now?” He asks, raising a brow over at the man as he stands, stretches, and unintentionally gives Casimir a show of the vine tattoos that line his torso and disappear beneath the waistband of his pants to gods knew where.
He steps over to the edge of the bathroom but doesn’t slip into it yet, looking back at Casimir to wait for an answer because somehow he anticipates he won’t get a verbal one.
The absence of the heat from Thorn's body is as sudden as water dousing a roaring flame, and the withdrawal of it sends Casimir's body into a cold, frozen nothingness he didn't even know was possible for it to feel. It's a different cold from that corpse-like chill that thrums through his body so often, and the lack of heat stings worse than the addition of cold. He very carefully avoids looking at the lithe, lean lines of Thorn's tattooed as he stretches, keeping his cool eyes fixed deliberately now on the gleaming, tempting metal of the doorknob and not at that jungle of twisting plant life curving through Thorn's body.
He doesn't have an easy answer in the curve of his head when Thorn asks that question, lingering at the edge of the bathroom like there's something Casimir can give him other than the hurt he's already doled out. Though the question is aired curious and light, not like the sharp rebuke from earlier that still smarts against Casimir's memory, he thinks he senses another stab of resentment there, another reminder that Casimir had failed and ran and hurt him the last time he spoke. Another flinch, a small flicker of pain, spasms across his face. In the light of that rebuke, small or unintentional it may be, Casimir feels room close in on him slightly, pinioning him to his seat. He can't leave, not after that, can't shove that knife deeper into Thorn than he already had.
His head moves in a slight jerk, just a hint of a nod, spoken in that language Thorn is so adept in. Yes, he'll still be there.
