What do you get when two ruthless assassins raise their daughter travelling through the wildest reaches of Caido? Take one look at Theea and you'll get a pretty good idea. Cheerful and tenacious in equal measure, and curious beyond all else, she began her journey on a mission to find those her mother once called family. And find them she did, soon rubbing elbows with demigods, leaders and even ghosts from the past. Her determination is resolute, her thirst for knowledge unmatched. We can't wait to see where her next adventure takes her!
Congratulations, Theea!
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 air in the Tower is thick with the weight of failed ambition, though nothing in its opulent gothic decor would dare admit to such a thing. Heavy drapes of deep crimson and sable frame tall windows, allowing only slivers of the afternoon sun to cut through the Deepforst gloom. Chandeliers hung with blackened crystal throw fractured patterns of muted light across the dark wooden walls, adorned with paintings that seem to shift their gaze so as not to look at the man seated in their midst.
Dorian does not sit as a man awaiting an audience, but as a king, quietly owning the space despite it not being his. The high-backed chair cradles him like a throne, his linen shirt loose despite the chill of Deepfrost. A porcelain teacup rests between his fingers, its floral pattern almost quaint in contrast to the sharp lines of his expression. He lifts it with a measured grace, the pale liquid within rippling faintly as he takes a sip. The faintest curl of steam drifts upward, its delicate dance a stark contrast to the tension simmering beneath Dorian’s calm exterior. His gaze is not on the door but on the single, flickering candle burning on Dahlia’s desk. Its flame trembles, casting uneven shadows that seem to move with a will of their own.
The subtle creak of the Tower’s stone settling does nothing to shift his focus. His stillness is magnetic, the kind of poised control that leaves the air feeling heavier, denser, as if it, too, recognizes the authority in the room. He waits without impatience, the faintest curl of his lips hinting at something far colder than displeasure. When Dahlia finally enters, it will not be to the greeting of a raised voice or a thunderous reprimand. No, Dorian is far too precise for that. The air is poised, the stage set, and the tea—well, it’s still warm.
Dahlia is the movement to Dorian's stillness, the vibration in the air after his pluck of a string, the heat to his cold, cold nature. And when she does enter the room it's through a door she shoves open, sending it slamming against the wall on its hinges before swinging shut once more, scored with deep gouges from claws that the Reaper does not bother to sheath. Dressed in a dark catsuit that hugs her every curve and with her waterfall of curls fastened in a high ponytail, she stalks across the room and snuffs the candle on her desk out with a closed fist.
The Oerwoud - gone. The Feverlands and the Greatwood - gone.
Sunjata and Hotaru? Healed.
And even Torchline's little queen and her beau hadn't had the good grace to stay dead.
"I tire of this world and its impudence," she hisses, declining to take the seat on the other side of the desk and continuing to prowl about the room instead, cerulean eyes overbright with a thirst for violence and reprimand.
let me put my lips to something
let me wrap my teeth around the world
01-07-2025, 12:23 PM (This post was last modified: 01-15-2025, 11:20 AM by Odd.)
DORIAN
Dorian does not flinch when the door slams against the wall, nor does his gaze waver as the room plunges into deeper shadow. The soft snuff of the candle only enhances the predatory gleam in his blue eyes, which remain fixed on Dahlia as she prowls the space like a caged animal. The faintest tilt of his head follows her movements, a gesture both indulgent and calculating, like a hawk watching its quarry circle below.
The tea cup in his hand hovers near his lips, the picture of unbothered calm. He takes another sip before setting it down with a deliberate clink, his fingers lingering on the delicate porcelain. "Tire of it?" he repeats, his voice as smooth and measured as the ripple of a dark tide. His gaze cuts through the dim light, locking onto hers with a force that demands attention without raising its tone. "The world is nothing more than what we make of it, Dahlia. If it has proven impudent, it is only because it has not yet learned to kneel."
Rising from the chair with a fluid grace that belies his age, Dorian adjusts the cuffs of his linen shirt as though preparing for a task of minor inconvenience. The room feels smaller for his standing, the weight of his presence filling every darkened corner. "Let them flinch from death and crawl back from the brink," he continues, his words cold and sharp as a blade dragged over stone. "We are not here to chase them. We are here to remind them why they should run."
He steps closer, the distance between them narrowing to a razor’s edge. "The question, my dear," he murmurs, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, "is whether you tire of the world—or of what it reveals about you when it pushes back." The charged air between them feels like the moment before lightning strikes, his gaze holding hers with a promise of both challenge and understanding.
"It has been given enough time to kneel willingly, Dorian." Dahlia says, her voice soft as a cat's paw, her nature just as prone to acts of spontaneous violence. Still, the weight of his gaze is enough to pin her in one place if only for a few seconds, her jaw feathering as she forces her feet to adjust to face him properly when he rises to his feet. "They have run so long the game has become tiresome. Is it not time for our claws to come down?" So saying, her fingers slam down on the desk, leaving deep punctures in the wood from the talons they have warped into.
Glaring at him as the distance between them narrows to less than a breath, Dahlia's lip curls, her hand wrenching back out of the desk. "Ought I apologise for my nature? The very nature that brought us this far?" she asks with a scowl. "Those hotsprings were an oversight. They have to go."
let me put my lips to something
let me wrap my teeth around the world
"No one kneels willingly," Dorian replies just as smoothly, his chin rising ever so slightly as if noting the subtle shift in the atmosphere between them. Glancing apathetically at the grooves left in the wood, he marks this outburst with a slow raise of his eyebrows as the corners of his lips twitch; the expression not one of amusement or approval, but rather more like the slow tethering of a wild beast.
"Perhaps the fault lies with me." Dorian's blue eyes shift toward Dahlia's lips for a fleeting moment before he smoothly turns, his back to her, his tone one of pointed disappointment. "Perhaps I have kept too much to myself. Too much of myself from you." Straightening, he waits, allowing his withdrawn intimacy to tangle with the combined failure of their efforts, for Dahlia's ambition and predatory nature to either have her claws sheathing themselves or else driving themselves into the flesh of his body just as she'd done with the wood of her desk.
"Tell that to Rafael," Dahlia hisses, nearly spitting the name and glancing pointedly down at the desk. "This world is in no position for his soft approach, not now. But if we do not give him something to do, I imagine there will be trouble." Ultimately, though, this isn't about the other members of their Family. Not right now, not with Dahlia able to feel the heat rolling from his body with his close proximity.
Then Dorian turns away, and the prospect of explosive violence almost shivers in the air between them. Letting her breath catch in her chest and then loosen in a slow, purposeful exhale, the Reaper rolls her shoulders. And when she reaches out to brush her fingers across the shoulder of his linen shirt, they are just that, soft and gentle with no claws to be seen. "If I leave Stormbreak, I have no doubt there will be people waiting in the wings for it," she considers.
But gods if shattering that frozen continent to pieces doesn't sound tempting. "The White Knight is already planning to come here." Because of course she's aware. "...And I think we ought to kill him when he does. That nasty little ability he has to bring people back from death? It makes all of them reckless. Perhaps they'd take us a little more seriously without their guardian angel."
let me put my lips to something
let me wrap my teeth around the world
Mention of Rafael has a brief flicker of disdain darkening the blue of Dorian's eyes before it's wiped succinctly away; every family has their issues, even one as broad and otherworldly as this one, and Dorian is not without his methods of ensuring things run smoothly. "Then I'll see he has something to do." Offhandedly said, Dorian marks the Reaper's porcelain features. "A task for he and Vox, perhaps."
Unlike Dahlia, it is a rare thing for Dorian to allow himself to be touched in this form, so clumsy and rubbery as he finds it to be. Still, the thread of how the pair had once been is able to tug at his attention such that as he turns back toward her, there is a brief flicker of willingness that he's quick to tamp down. "Perhaps Pierce could watch over things while we work."
News of Ronin's intended interference isn't surprising, not with a moniker like The White Knight, but certainly he'd proven to be a thorn in their sides despite the loss of his Rapier. "Thanks to their tournament we've seen firsthand what it is he's able to do. Even were you to bait him into a fight he could teleport himself away or bring his lout of a husband to his side." Should Pierce partially claim Stormbreak of course his presence would nullify at least some of those variables, but only if he was stupid enough to allow himself to be pinned in place.
"His power is not unlimited.." Dorian muses thoughtfully. Placing two fingers upon Dahlia's desk and leaning slightly against it, a surge of something primal and Machiavellian sparks in the depths of his blue eyes. "...one of his children has already died. Why not the other? Perhaps so long as he stands against us, we force him to repeatedly bear the deaths of those he loves."
"For he and Vox?" That has a musical laugh escaping Dahlia's lips, the sound as unexpected to the Reaper as it might be to anyone else who hears it. "Well, that will certainly keep him busy." The work less so than the presence of their Family's 'voice', but she has no doubt that Vox will keep everyone busy for as long as he has something worth holding his interest. And luckily enough, anything from paper bags to fish guts have proven fascinating for him in the past.
As Dorian turns back towards her, Dahlia can't stop the smile that curls across her full lips, the Reaper gazing at him beneath her lashes and shrugging. "I could invite him to sit on my council. It is no secret that Stormbreak has become somewhat of a base for us." What's another member of the Family added to the mix? "Between he and Everest I imagine they will be able to handle things well enough. Unless he is unceremoniously dunked into those springs beforehand." She wrinkles her nose.
As for Ronin, his problematic existence and all those tied to him, her eyes dance with a dark sort of passion as she hears Dorian out, her expression becoming a little more feral. "Should he pick a fight here, whether before or after I leave for Halo, I will make sure it is finished," she says simply. "But many demigods have a habit of popping back to life after a season or so out of action. So there's always the threat of harm to his children after that point, should it come to it." A sweet prospect, really. She quite enjoys seeing the family dynamics of others.
let me put my lips to something
let me wrap my teeth around the world
Though the only sound of amusement that passes from Dorian's lips is an exaggerated breath, the faint creases beside his eyes soften slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of Dahlia's rare laugh. "Vox can work on an encyclopedia, and Rafael—well, he can begin drafting a treatise on how things might unfold once we reach the third phase of our plan."
Meeting Dahlia’s assessing gaze with practiced ease, Dorian inclines his head. "Perhaps the next time you see him, you might remind him of the...benefits of staying close to Stormbreak?" The suggestion is delivered lightly; her influence, after all, was as enduring as it was compelling, and Dorian had never doubted her ability to wield it.
He stretches out a hand, his movements deliberate, almost languid, as though time itself would bend to his will if he asked it. When his fingers graze the strong line of Dahlia’s jaw, his touch is precise, measured, and disarmingly intimate. It feels less like affection, though, and more like possession, his thumb tracing the ivory curve of her skin as though committing her ferocity and beauty to memory. She is a masterpiece—a wild, untamed thing momentarily subdued—and Dorian's expression betrays his quiet satisfaction at holding such power within his grasp.
Lifting his chin, he disrupts the perfect line that might have led his lips to hers, his restraint deliberate and cutting. "I leave him in your capable hands," he murmurs, his voice low, rich, and filled with a subtle challenge that lingers in the charged air between them.
As he steps back, his hand falling away, Dorian’s sharp gaze remains locked on Dahlia. The moment feels suspended, as though the room itself waits for her response, caught in the balance of his manipulation and her unyielding ambition. "Though I have not enjoyed the cold of this world, I must say I'm looking forward to our work in Halo."
Dahlia hums her agreement and approval - an encyclopaedia and a treatise are not bad things to have, even if they are tools wielded for distraction rather than information in this moment. With a gentle nod, the plans are set in motion - for Vox and Rafael, for Pierce upon her council, for Everest to keep himself close - though she all but freezes at the too-gentle fingers that capture her jaw. "I can do that," she assures Dorian, the warmth of her skin ever at odds with her ivory complexion and the fire in her eyes.
It's a delicate balance; the smell of ozone before a lightning strike, the inhale before a scream, but he's gone again before that moment can be grasped and squeezed. Letting her breath go only when Dorian finally steps back again, the Reaper turns back to her desk despite the magnetic pull his touch produces within her, a soft thumb grazing the brutal splinters she's left in the wood. "As am I," she purrs, leaving her fingers to trail the varnish as she steps back around to sit. "It has been far too long since last we worked together."
~FIN
let me put my lips to something
let me wrap my teeth around the world
