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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!
Every confession made, promise laid down at your bedside
Snow had a way of softening the world in Hearthfall. Even the old workshop at the end of Lantern Street with its paint peeling, its windows glowing with warm amber light, looked almost magical beneath the first real storm of the season. Inside, the toymaker moved with quiet precision, sanding the curve of a wooden reindeer no larger than his palm.
The town beyond his door was stirring into its yearly sparkle. Garlands were being strung between lampposts, bells tied with ribbon clinked softly in the wind, and the bakery across the square was already rolling out their peppermint treats for the after-school rush. Every window seemed to hold a warm glow. Hearthfall embraced the holidays the way it embraced everything: gently, earnestly, as though the season itself were a promise.
Noah paused to flex his fingers, the familiar ache of long hours settling into his knuckles. The workshop smelled of cedar shavings and warm varnish, a scent that wrapped around him like a cloak. Tall shelves lined the walls, filled with toys in every stage of becoming—half-painted tops, wooden trains waiting for wheels, dolls with blank faces ready for their first smiles.
At the frost-rimmed window, he could see children racing across the square, leaving looping trails in the snow as they shouted and laughed, released early from their prisons schoolday because of the snow storm. He wondered which one of those running chidlren would get this deer in their stocking.
He returned to the bench, selecting a fresh block of wood. The storm whispered at the eaves, and Noah let its rhythm guide his hands as another creation began to take shape.
Oh it has been an absolute nightmare ever since she’d shown up. The plane was late, first of all, and upon her landing, Rexanna had found out that the main sponsor of the charity gala had backed out. It had sent her boss into a whirlwind of dramatics, all of which the young woman took to mean she needed to work her ass off to try and find a way to save the gala.
That evening and the next morning was spent with copious amounts of caffeine and the hope that someone would say yes, but she meets wall after wall to the point where she very nearly loses the hope that often seemed to yawn open in the quaint little towns like this.
Very nearly at her wits end, she sat in the hotel lobby scouring through the local yellow pages when she stumbles across a name — one that had not been on her previous list — and with a sparkle of hope renewed in her golden heart, the young woman’s determination takes root.
Marching out into the snow with the protection of a sapphire hued scarf that matches her eyes, warm wool gloves, and a fitted jacket that certainly doesn’t scream small town chic, she deftly avoids getting distracted until she’s standing outside the toy maker’s shop.
Schooling her features and running a hand through her hair, she pushes open the door and places a bright smile on her painted lips, a glitter of excitement reflecting in her gaze as she spies the multitudes of toys lining the shelves as she steps up to the counter, snow melting in the dark waves of curls in her hair.
Every confession made, promise laid down at your bedside
The bell over the workshop door chimed. It was light and familiar, the kind of sound Noah barely registered anymore. He didn’t lift his head from the small wooden sleigh he was carving, thumb steady on the curve of the blade as he eased another ribbon from the block.
Visitors came and went, mostly neighbors picking up gifts or repairs, so he didn't even turn his head at first. Without looking up, he nodded toward the wall of finished toys beside the window. "Your order’s over there, Gerty." he called, voice even, hands still moving in their careful rhythm.
Noah set the sleigh down but didn’t turn right away. He brushed sawdust from his palm, hand brushing against his apron. When he finally looked over his shoulder, the chisel still balanced loosely in one hand, the sight meeting him did not fit the name he’d spoken. Noah blinked. "You’re not Gerty." A beat passed, heat climbing faintly into his ears. With a quiet clearing of his throat, Noah set down the chisel.
The low timber of the toymaker’s voice reaches her, her painted lips parting to speak when she hears the tone – like she’s an expected customer that’s come to pick up her previously placed order. She isn’t, though, and she debates whether she should correct him or just start talking about what she’s looking for, when she notices him putting things down like he’s about to stand up.
Amusement curls in the corners of her lips, slow and easy as he turns to face her and realizes that she isn’t who he’d thought she was. “I’m not, no.” She agrees with a soft laugh, her smile brightening to try and alleviate him of any worries or embarrassment. “I’m actually looking for some help, if you’ve got the time.” Her smile twists to that of a slight wince, leaning against the counter at her hip as she looks up at all the toys surrounding the room.
“I’m in a pinch to try and find someone to help with a gala I’m putting on for the Cathmax Company. I just arrived and our main donor for the toys can’t help anymore.” She puffs out a sigh that inflates her cheeks before her sapphire gaze drops to Noah with an apologetic yet somehow pleading look. “And I’ve called everywhere and nobody can help out on such short notice and I’m pretty sure my boss is going to wring my neck out for it.” There is a little bit of worry in her tone and her smile that creeps in before she sighs. “You’re kind of my last hope, honestly.” She admits quieter, finally taking the toymaker in and the strong build of the man, the delicate designs drawn from his hands, the wood shavings that cling to his clothes of a man hard at work.
Every confession made, promise laid down at your bedside
Noah wasn’t sure what he expected her to say—but it certainly wasn’t that.
For a moment he simply blinked at her, trying to align the pieces: the elegant woman dripping snow onto his floor, the bright smile masking strain, the word gala spoken like it belonged somewhere with chandeliers rather than crooked old rafters. His workshop felt suddenly too small, too rustic, too him.
And she was looking at him as though he might be able to fix the very thing unraveling her day.
He cleared his throat again, slower this time, and straightened from the workbench. He could feel the heat in his ears and was certain the color was drifting to his cheeks, and the very awareness of that probably made it turn more to crimson than a soft whisper of blush. “Help,” he echoed, as if testing the word, “with a… gala.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the shelves—rows of toys in various stages, his commitments for the coming week, his ideas for the next new thing, or the nostaligc old favorites he kept stocked year round. He couldn’t help but think that the sheer volume of toys necessary for such an event would look differently than his. Instead of hand carved wood they would be made of plastic from dye molds. Instead of hand painted details they would boast the bright, even, and perfect color from their manufacturer.
He flicked his glacier eyes back to her.
She looked tired beneath that bright polish, the kind of tired that wasn’t from the storm but from running headlong into problems no one else could solve. Noah was familiar with that look. The pleading look in her eyes tugged at something quiet inside him. He’d never been good with people in distress—words tended to tangle if he tried too hard—but he knew what it was like looking at someone that felt like the last hope.
”How many toys are we talking?” he asked, stepping out from behind his counter, more present now. His voice steadied. ”And what kind of deadline?”
Her mention of her boss wringing her neck earned the faintest flicker of a smile from him. He gestured toward a shelf of finished pieces—sleek wooden tops, painted whistles, a row of small animals that rocked when nudged. “If it’s for a charity event, I can donate some of these outright. And… if you need more, well…”
He blinks at her and her cheeks – already rosy from the cold outside – darkens a shade in terms of embarrassment, like she’d crossed a line when she’d come to talk to him about it. She keeps that naïve hope placed on her face, though, the smile of opportunity in her smile that he might be able to help her even if she was asking for what was essentially the world from a stranger.
“Yeah.” She says a little softer, like she knows it’s a lot to ask for. Her gaze follows his to the shelves of wooden toys, the kind that felt more homey than the true test of capitalism. The ones that would stay for years rather than be tossed out next Christmas when the plastic warped or bent or molded – not a childhood heirloom one could hold onto despite it’s dents and scuffs in the surface of a well loved toy.
He steps around the counter and she straightens, looking up at him - god he’s tall – and her smile grows a touch brighter as he asks her more specifics, like he’s actually considering helping her. Her posture straightens and she fumbles around for her phone in her pocket, tugging off a leather glove with pale teeth so she can unlock the phone to look at the specific email. “We need at least thirty.. Which is a lot, I know.” She reaches up with that pale hand, a perfect manicure on her fingernails of dark red with white stripes to make it look like a candy cane that rakes through her curled and slightly damp hair. “I’m not a toymaker, but…” She looks up at him then with a deep determination in her sapphire gaze. “I’m happy to help however you need it.” She murmurs, eyes widening a little in her quiet plea.
