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 black grains of the icy beach don't compact or slide the same way as a normal shore does. It's firm, hardened with the consistent chill of the bay dragging her teeth over it, glacial offerings left behind like hickey's on a lover's neck. Noticeable, marked, claimed with affection that won't stay quiet or hidden. So has it always been with the ocean and the beach, a push and pull that's timeless and infinite.
Iskra meanders along the remnants of the dark tide. He's not so foolish as to tiptoe among the base of the curling waves and the brine they fire off like it's a battlefield instead of a beach, but along the ridge where the sand stays drier and a little fluffier. Whenever he's feeling a little homesick, he has a habit of coming here. It's nowhere near resembling Torchline, but there's something to the sound of the waves breaking that always soothes, like a lullaby he can't remember how to sing but can hum along to when he hears it.
He's not necessarily in need of cheering up today, but it's become a bit of habit, wandering here every so often. Not to mention this is a nice open, empty space, a perfect place to practice the magic he can conjure without risk of burning down the very forest he depends upon. He does that now, lit match held in one hand, his other whipping fire from it's heat with a snap of his fingers and a target lined up in his sights. The flame reaches longer now, snarling against one of the larger ice deposits down the way with a hiss of steam, but otherwise little else to see from here. It's stronger than before, but not like the blazes he'd seen others produce, not one that can consume the ice without repeated efforts. Which, fine by him, so he snaps again.
Goose trots alongside him, uncaring of the arson attempts. He's scouring for dead sea life to rub against, maybe even munch on, depends how much Iskra will notice.
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself Always give too much of you to someone else I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends It'll never be too late to start again
the urge to disappear into the forest and become local folklore
The wind off the bay cut sharper than usual, dragging damp salt and the bite of ice into Damien’s coat. He kept his eyes low, watching the dark sand for the telltale signs of a sprung snare. The traps he set along the shoreline weren’t for anything big—mostly arctic fox or the odd hare that ventured too close—but they helped fill the lean spaces between hunts.
It was the flicker of orange against the muted horizon that made him slow. Fire didn’t belong here, not unless something had gone wrong, and the smell of singed brine confirmed it wasn’t some trick of the light. He followed it along the drier ridge of sand until a man came into view, the heat snapping off his hands toward a half-melted hulk of ice.
Damien stopped a short distance off, weighing the scene. The dog at the man’s side caught his attention first. A big, healthy-looking dog, nose to the ground in a way that spoke of mischief brewing. He recognized the man, though not supremely well; enough to put a name to the face and understand some of the meaning behind it.
“Not what I expected to find on this stretch,” he said finally, voice low enough to be carried off by the wind if the other wasn’t listening. His eyes cut toward the ice deposit steaming under the flames, then back to the dog. “Iskra, right? You just practicing?”
08-16-2025, 10:46 PM (This post was last modified: 08-19-2025, 06:04 PM by Iskra.)
ISKRA
Goose had scented the man's arrival, but otherwise found him too uninteresting to remark upon, carrying on his merry search. Thanks to the dog's discretion and the focus on his flame, Iskra startles faintly at the voice, having thought himself safely alone out here. A bit embarassing, honestly, to be caught mid-practice, ever feeling like he's behind where others had long surpassed. "H-hey!" he greets with a smile, shaking out the match in his hand. His attention flicks to the damn dog for a moment, who's continued fuck off attitude clues Iskra in on the marginal betrayal of not alerting him.
"Yeah—Damien, is it?" Iskra flexes his fingers a bit, like he's withdrawing the invisible cord of magic as much as the matches that he still needs to carry it, a sure sign of his training wheels. "I figured ice is the best thing to burn if I don't want anything to catch fire," he admits with a lopsided grin. "Could turn it into a very dramatic ice sculpting performance if I get good enough." A complete joke, but Iskra goes deadpan enough that Damien might take it to be serious, as if Iskra is out here working on his career as much as his skills.
"What brings you out here?" he assess with a lift of his 'brows, "because from one woodcutter to another, there ain't many trees here."
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself Always give too much of you to someone else I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends It'll never be too late to start again
the urge to disappear into the forest and become local folklore
Damien’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, at the thought of Iskra’s “ice sculpting performance.” Whether joking or not, the creativity struck him as interesting, and he found himself picturing it in his mind—flames tracing frozen columns and jagged shards, the hiss of steam like applause. “I’d be interested to see something like that,” he decided, voice calm but carrying a note of genuine curiosity.
He glanced down at the sand, then back toward the distant dark water, letting a faint, humorless chuckle slip out. “Yeah, this isn’t my usual haunt. I was checking on some trap lines before Deepfrost rolls in.” His gaze swept the stretch of bay again. No footprints but their own, no sign of hare or fox just yet, though he didn’t seem disappointed. “Not much roams out here. It’s good exercise, at least.” He shrugged, the motion casual, almost indifferent—but there was a certain comfort in the routine, the simple pragmatics of it.
Damien’s eyes flicked back to Iskra, noting the way he flexed his fingers, the casual concentration that clearly spoke of a man still learning but eager to improve. “If you want,” he began, his voice steady but there was an edge to it, a little glint in his eye - of something like knowing or maybe mischief, “we could spar a little. It'd help me pass the time, and you can... test your limits more." Whether Iskra wanted to continue along the line of fire was maybe a different matter. Damien wasn't sure he could withstand that kind of onslaught, even in practice. But he let the offer hang in the air, choosing to to take it in stride.
A laugh shakes free at Damien's acceptance of the idea, head tilting back a bit with the force of it. "You might have to hold onto that interest, not quite ready for a performance yet." A shrug offered then, like a new notion arrived. "Who knows, could talk Deimos into some handy artwork during the annual deepfrost festival here." A favored tradition if he does say so.
"Ahhh, hunting" he says with a knowing nod as his arms fold against his chest, leaning back on his heels as he settles for the conversation. "Do it from time to time myself, but more partial to whittling pieces of wood that catch my eye." Like anyone, he knows enough to survive and pitch in, but Goose is admittedly the better hunter of the two. The whittling doesn't have much benefit except soothing his mind and burning time, something he's always needed in equal measure, and he finds it more absorptive than the quiet wandering to take a life, a pattern that allows too many of his darker thoughts to surface. "More liable to be the one getting hunted out here," Iskra agrees, knowing, as he's sure Damien does too, that where prey is scarce the predators that do linger become more bold. This certainly seems like a place ursurs might haunt when swapping from fish to forest creature for their menu.
His head tilts at the offer of a spar though, a curious twitch curling up one edge of his mouth. As long as they've known each other, kept on the fringes of work and in passing, he did not expect their moment of bonding to be over fighting. Then again, Iskra had not done much fighting ever, or much bonding, so perhaps after all these years he's finally learning how adults make friends, a challenge he never had as a child. "Sure," Iskra agrees, his hands falling back to his side as he more properly angles towards Damien. "Since neither of us can heal, I'm guessing?" He arches a 'brow in question, never certain who has picked up what new trick in their walks amongst Caido. "Perhaps best if we stick to hand to hand."
He'd received some lessons in his youth from his very capable parents, and had watched soldiers in the barracks, using it as exercise more than a warrior's regiment, so he could at least hold his own. One foot slides back, weight balancing over his legs in preparedness, gaze set on Damien. "When you're ready."
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself Always give too much of you to someone else I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends It'll never be too late to start again
the urge to disappear into the forest and become local folklore
“It has my vote… if that means anything,” Damien rumbled in support, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. Joke or not, the fire show had stuck in his head, and he wasn’t the sort to let go of a good image once it caught.
On the matter of hunting, he gave a low sound of agreement. “It certainly comes with its own risks,” he said, his tone steady but carrying the weight of lived experience. The long, frozen trails. The waiting. The not knowing if the thing stalking you had more hunger than you did. His gaze flicked toward Goose, then back to Iskra, and the corner of his mouth ticked up again. “Unlike whittling.” The playful glint in his eyes betrayed the jab, though there was no real sting in it. Truth be told, he’d taken a knife to wood more than once himself. It passed the hours. Smoothed out the edges of nights that might otherwise get too long, too quiet.
But small talk only stretched so far. At the mention of healing, Damien splayed his hands, the gesture plain. “No magic. I just bring brute strength.” A shrug followed, casual, though the truth of it sat like iron in his shoulders. “Probably for the best,” he agreed, of sticking to hand-to-hand, a rugged smile breaking through, amused.
Iskra angled himself like a man who’d learned the shape of a fight in training yards and lessons, carrying something formal in the way his weight shifted back, balanced and ready. Damien’s eyes tracked him, reading the posture, the careful placement of feet and hips. He didn’t mirror it. That wasn’t necessarily his way, not that he didn't respect the form. He’d never been taught the clean lines of a stance; his knowledge came from sudden fights in alleys, the snap-decisions of survival, from putting meat on the table and driving predators back with nothing but nerve and force.
He unshouldered his coat, the heavy fur-lined weight of it hitting the black sand with a muffled thud. The air gnawed at his arms through the thinner layer beneath, but that was fine. He wanted to feel it. Wanted the cold to bite as much as Iskra’s fists might.
Damien set his feet, not square, not precise—looser, coiled, like a man about to shoulder into a door. And with no more warning than a sharp breath, he moved, momentum carrying him forward in the first swing. No grace, no fancy step, just raw force meant to test the other man’s footing, to see if he could knock him off balance before either of them even got warmed up.
The saying that it all comes back to you, like riding a bike, has some truth to it. However to build muscle memory, you need to have put in the work for there to be something to remember. Iskra's kept up his physical fitness, but the mentality of fighting, of breath and balance, patience and guarding, those remain rather rusty and poorly worn in even when they were polished.
Damien comes like a freight train, all raw power and no finesse, but that hardly matters when Iskra's in much the same boat (or on much the same track?). Instead of weaving or dodging, he holds out a hand to take the blow, bent at the elbow and tucked near his hip to give him the most control and strength, something learned from logs rather than blows. His feet slide back over the sand with the force of it sinking into him, breath still squished out with a grunt and a wheeze.
Iskra shoves his palm out and to the side to help redirect some of Damien's momentum and power, and he swings with his own jab towards the man's side, where it ought to be exposed from the leading sweep of the redirected arm. Of course plenty of ways for Damien to recover and shield the opening, but that's the shiny hole Iskra spots and targets, a penny put down on the rails.
1/4 Iskra tries to redirect the punch and jabs at Damien's side
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself Always give too much of you to someone else I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends It'll never be too late to start again
the urge to disappear into the forest and become local folklore
The redirection jolted Damien’s shoulder off its line, his weight sliding harder into the sand than he’d meant. Before he could reset, the jab caught him square in the side, a blunt shock that stole half his breath and twisted a grimace across his face. The hit was solid. Iskra had found his opening cleanly enough.
But pain, Damien knew, wasn’t the end of a fight—it was a reminder you were in one. He let the force roll through him instead of bracing against it, turning with the blow so the momentum carried him around. His boots dug into the gritty black sand, carving a groove as he twisted his torso back into balance.
The next move wasn’t clean or textbook. He ducked his head and drove in low, shoulder angled toward Iskra’s midsection in an attempt to quite literally bull him back, to close the distance before the other man could reset for another strike. Sand scattered underfoot as he pressed the attack, more brute force than form, the kind of move born of scuffles where there was no ring, no rules, just the instinct to take ground and keep it.
The satisfaction of a successful hit is short lived as Damien twists, likely as accustomed to bruising as Iskra is. Turns out the woods don't take kindly to falling to the saw, rooting pain as a patchwork of purple and yellow dapples across their skin as the last chance to grow something meaningful.
Sand scatters like a muffled flock of birds, skimming from one spot on the ground to the next, as the two men move in a circle of guard and opportunity. Damien's return is swift, barely held at bay by the connection Iskra makes, and it takes every bit of core strength for Iskra not to be sent toppling back with the sudden, low bull rush. More granulated flocks flutter free as Iskra is forced to walk back with the heave, the least attractive moonwalk imaginable as he struggles to keep pace with the drive.
He grapples with the other man's shoulders like they're the horns of the matter, but with momentum and angles on his side, Damien is as unstoppable as the surf. Iskra drives down an elbow instead across his back, meaning to buckle the hold with something pointed enough to bring about a falter of step, enough for Iskra to regain footing and sink lower into his knees, if all goes well.
2/4 Iskra is shoved back and hits an elbow into Damien's back
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself Always give too much of you to someone else I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends It'll never be too late to start again
the urge to disappear into the forest and become local folklore
The elbow cracked down sharp across Damien’s back, driving a grunt out of him and forcing his spine to bow under the blow. Pain flared like a hot wire, cutting through the momentum he’d been leaning on, but he didn’t let go. If anything, it only made his grip tighten, his boots gouging trenches into the sand as he staggered forward a step under the impact.
The hit had the intended effect. It slowed him, bent his drive off-kilter, made him stumble just enough to break the clean line of his push. But Damien wasn’t above taking a stumble and turning it into leverage. Instead of trying to square up again, he let the falter roll through his legs and dropped his weight suddenly, dragging at Iskra’s balance as he went.
One arm hooked low, aiming to snag behind Iskra’s knee as he collapsed down into the sand. Not graceful, not clever, just the kind of dirty scrabble-move you learned when the choice was between eating snow or making sure the other guy did first. If it landed, the whole mess of them would go down together in a spray of black grit and cold air, a tangle of limbs and grit-teeth effort.
The hunter between the pair of them is certainly capable of springing his snares. Damien's grasp around his knee and the drop of his weight is enough to top Iskra's balance out of favor, and with a grunt of effort he stumbles and slips onto his back. He thuds against the sand with enough force to make breath hard to catch, and for a moment he just reels, face scrunching up with the reverberation of his landing humming through him.
He's aware he has limited time though, and a now distinct disadvantage. If he's not fast, or careful, Damien could put him into an inescapable hold, which he certainly seems more wrestler than boxer so Iskra doesn't both to doubt the woodsman can. Iskra wrenches up with the force he has, his feet and lower back pushing off the sand and kicking his hips up in an attempt to upset Damien's balance. He simultaneously shoves off with one arm, fingers gliding over dark sand, as he attempts to twist and roll Damien off him.
3/4 Iskra falls to his back and tries to shove/twist Damien off
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself Always give too much of you to someone else I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends It'll never be too late to start again
the urge to disappear into the forest and become local folklore
Damien goes with the motion, because fighting a man trying to buck you off is like straddling a half-broke horse—you don’t win by stiffening up, you win by feeling the shift and using it. The jolt of Iskra’s motions sends him sliding, ribs grinding against the sand, but Damien’s weight doesn’t vanish; it slips instead, rolling with the shove so that when the sand clears from their vision he’s not sprawling loose but hooked, one arm snared around Iskra’s shoulder, the other cinched hard at the crook of his elbow. They hit the turn together, breath hot and ragged, tangled like two wolves in the same snare.
His knee digs down, not cruel but firm, the practiced weight of a man who knows how to keep something pinned without breaking it. The smell of iron-laced salt rides the back of his tongue as he growls low through his teeth, sweat dampening his temple. “You don’t stay down easy,” he mutters, the words half a test, half a grudging respect, as if measuring how long the other man can keep kicking before the sand itself decides which of them it belongs to.
The tide hushes close by, rhythm steady, and Damien rides it in his grip—press and yield, tighten and let slip—like he’s learned in the cold wilds that survival is rarely about standing tallest. It’s about staying on top long enough to make the other bastard blink first.
(Training 4/4 don't ask me to describe this move lmao)
Being on top gives Damien too much control, an unfortunate aspect Iskra cannot seem to change as they roll together, the other man's grip cinching down like a sprung trap that refuses to give to the captured beast. Iskra grumbles through the effort, fighting with the power of his arms, leaning back with the strength of his neck, teeth grit to the force.
Damien's knee is a pinpoint of weight and pressure that Iskra writhes against. He tries to swing his one leg around and catch anything he can strike with his heel, or hook it against something and sweep, especially this damn knee on him. He can't really see well though, Damien pressed close, the short distance making it harder to move anything in a meaningful manner. "Yeah, and you've got a grip like iron," Iskra laughs, the sound brief as he fights to conserve the breath on something other than respect and humor.
Nearby Goose has taken note and lingers close, his nose poking in and an exploratory tongue darting out for both men's faces, particularly chasing their nostrils.
4/4 Iskra wiggles around and tries to kick/sweep with his leg. Goose says break it up and licks their faces.
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself Always give too much of you to someone else I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends It'll never be too late to start again
the urge to disappear into the forest and become local folklore
The scrape of sand underfoot and the jolt of Iskra’s leg snapping around nearly unseated Damien, and for a heartbeat he fought the instinct to tighten, to overpower. But the motion was precise enough, and the shift of weight just enough—suddenly the world tilted beneath him, and with a grunt, Damien found himself sliding free, the pressure on Iskra easing as they tumbled apart.
He landed hard, back pressed to the black sand, lungs sucking at the cold air, tasting grit and salt on his tongue. Goose’s enthusiastic intrusion, tongue darting and nose nudging, broke the tension entirely, and Damien couldn’t help the low chuckle that rumbled from his chest. “Alright, alright,” he gently shooed the dog's nose away to save his nostrils from the slobber.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking over at Iskra and letting the sand run through his fingers, letting the faint ache in his side roll off as part of the fun. “Not bad,” he said, voice low and rough, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You win this one,” he added, panting a bit to catch his breath, the faintest edge of a grin tugging at his lips, “but next time you try the fire trick, you bring it proper. I’ll be first to applaud — after I stop making you kiss the sand, that is.”
Aria (snow leopard cub) is always with Damien unless stated otherwise.
