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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!
Taking the commitment to camping to heart, the Oerwoud seems like the perfect place. It gives them a proper chance to scout out the most recent fuckerys of the world, and all the while, he can make a statement about how a city boy can embrace and conquer nature, should he so choose. Even the beach with all its damn sand is something he only complains about once in a while now.
"Alright, I've got all the essentials," he informs her, not bothering to look up from his deep dive into his backpack. "Water, snacks, matches, pajamas, weapons, pillows, or the ones that I could fit in here anyway, aaaand the camera." He's got a glimpse of each item as he ticks it off, although the pillows prove encompassing and require some digging around. Satisfied, he glances up at her, the backdrop of the twisting forest and semblances of trails amid the roots and boughs awaiting behind her like some version of an invitation to get lost. Behind him, the Sugartide rests like a safe haven, and not for the first time, he wonders how far they have to get from her hull to properly consider it camping.
Shifting the backpack around and settling it on his shoulders, Kaisel smooths out his hunter green hoodie. Flora's name is stitched down the back of the left arm in an embossed fashion with plain and thick lettering, barely visible because the color is the same as the body. Similarly, Hot Take follows the same pattern on the right arm. Beneath, his tight, nearly black pants narrow down into his boots. "We have enough light to head in and scout out a good camping spot." He motions in a general direction behind her, squinting briefly to get his bearings on what actually matches the map he'd been perusing as prep for this. "I also memorized some camp songs we can sing as we go. Supposed to drive off predators, or something."
Haters on my back like a backpack
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
Flora watches Kaisel inventory the backpack with a smugness that grows harder to hide with every new item that appears from it. Water, snacks, matches, pajamas, weapons, pillows, a camera; at this point the thing is less a bag and more a portable breach in reality, and she has to wonder whether he’s packed a second, smaller Sugartide in there just in case. Given that the real Sugartide rests only a short distance behind them, all polished safety and familiar comfort, Flora does briefly consider pointing out that staying aboard technically counts as camping. They would still be outside, they would still be sleeping somewhere that was not their house, there could even be bugs if Kaisel felt strongly enough about the authenticity of the experience.
But he’s so earnestly determined to prove that he can conquer nature when he puts his mind to it that she keeps the thought to herself. Sand hasn’t managed to drive him away from the beach, bugs apparently haven’t broken him either, and now that he's standing at the mouth of a damp underground jungle with a backpack that could probably sustain a small village, she wants to see who wins out between hostile jungle and optimistic himbo.
Like his, Flora's clothes are practical without giving up anything important: fitted cargo pants tucked into rubber boots, a black crop top beneath a light rain jacket, and her curls pulled into a high ponytail so that they stay out of the wet glow and tangled roots ahead. When she glances over at her husband, the smile that catches at one corner of her mouth is crooked enough to make the question on her tongue feel less like curiosity and more like the first of several tests she has just invented for him. "And what counts as a good spot, do you think?" she asks, lifting one brow.
At the mention of predators, Flora turns in a small flourish, catching the bottom of her jacket and pulling it aside just enough to show the daggers strapped against her thigh. "Oh, I’ve got predators covered," she says, letting the fabric fall back into place with a little shrug. Her smile warms as she looks toward the twisting paths beneath the roots. "I’m always down for a sing-along, though."
Fatefully, I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
The SMUG creeps over the bond like a neighbor's overgrown tree, reaching out until the branches are rasping down the side of the house he built out of concentration and serious business. He ignores it, at first, the same way anyone does when noises can easily be attributed to a settling structure or the wind outside, even when they're starring in a horror movie (especially then, actually). It proves relentless, and it's part of what drags his attention up at long last from the inner folds of his backpack and all its treasures.
Taking more traits from the thriller stars, Kaisel fails to get a proper read on it, and a frown dapples his expression briefly. "What?" It's less a question and more a doorway cracking open on doubt. "Did I forget something important?" He cranes his neck around to peer back at the Sugartide as if he can see through her boards into all the missing pieces of survival still tucked away in an expired game of hide and seek within the quarters. His lips press together, breath humming over a malformed though. "You know, I almost packed some firewood, because I know what you're thinking. What if all the wood we collect around the campsite is too wet and won't light and is super smoky instead?" His brows lift in emphasis of the predicament this would cause as he swings his gaze back upon her. Confidence reseats itself with a small smile, a finger holding itself up, shushing the air. "But then I thought we could just hold each other for warmth so we'd be fine." He shrugs, clearly convinced they could tackle whatever the woods saw fit to throw at them, as long as it was them.
With packing firmly resolved and backpack settled behind him, all that remains is to actually go. "Height," comes the swift response of someone whose Stormbreak roots show themselves without even trying. "Don't want to get trapped in any valleys or ravines, and we'd have a better vantage point. Then, uuuuh, somewhere flat enough to get comfortable." He's half of the mind to find a way to rig their tent up in the tree canopies, creating some relative of a hammock. If glamping includes pillows though, suspending yourself several feet above the ground between trees feels like it would be something other than camping, which isn't what they're here to do.
His gaze drops to the whirl of steel and fabric, drawn by the motion less than the open appreciation of just how deadly she can be. Never mind how well she can hide it, which is its own admirable talent. "I'm hoping the loud singing means we don't have to resort to that." It's liable to wake up the whole area and send everything running, or so he hopes. It could ring a dinner bell instead, in which case she'd be doing her best pineapple impression. "But if it does, I'd love nothing more than to watch you be the hero to my damsel." He'd be sure to give an appropriate wail as well, once it seemed they'd actually survive whatever it is. She'd recognize it at once as his almost-fell-in-the-shower scream.
Tugging his backpack on tighter, thumbs hook around each strap and the rest of his hand hangs there. He nods as though her enthusiasm is only proper, declaring it "natural karaoke," and steps forward into the jungle for her to follow. His voice lifts before long, declaring it a repeat after me song.
"Blaaack socks,
They never get dirty.
The longer you wear them,
the blacker they get!
Ooooone day,
I think I will wash them.
But something keeps telling me,
Not yet, not yet, not yet!"
The instant his worries turn to wet wood, Flora’s thoughts slip straight into the gutter. It is far too easy, really, and the brows she raises at him are already halfway to skeptical by the time he finishes outlining the dangers of smoke and poor fire-starting conditions. Her smile unfurls slowly, all bright innocence in the shape of something that very plainly isn’t. "That’s funny. The wood I normally work with does end up getting quite wet, but it still works just fine for me."
The look she sends him is coquettish enough to be almost sweet, lashes lowered and mouth tilted just so, while the pulse she lets unfurl through their bond is anything but. It is a deliberate, low heat that has no interest in pretending she is talking about firewood anymore. At his proposed solution of simply holding each other for warmth, Flora rolls her eyes with all the adoring exasperation of someone who finds his answer ridiculous solely because it is difficult not to love. "Mmmm," she says, as though weighing it seriously, "that sounds like a fairly compelling reason to get cold, to me."
"Height?" The word comes out with a small pinch between her brows as she glances toward the tangled dark ahead. "Er...I mean, maybe if you’re worried about flooding?" Her gaze returns to him, one brow arched. "But not whether it’s dry? Or if there are obvious signs of predators around? Or how close we are to fresh water?" It isn’t that she expects him to have every answer; quite the opposite, really. Testing him is more fun when he has enough confidence to answer first.
When he admits he's hoping the singing will save them from the need for steel, Flora turns just enough for her jacket to sway aside and the daggers at her thigh to flash in the damp, strange light. "Aww," she says, grinning at her husband. "But I like using my daggers." Then she starts after him without waiting to be convinced otherwise, boots finding their way over the roots and uneven ground.
"Blaaack socks," she sings after him, putting such solemn emphasis into the first line that her voice is already trembling with laughter before she reaches the part about them never getting dirty. She keeps going anyway, obediently dragging out the words about the socks getting blacker and blacker, until the final not yet, not yet, not yet dissolves into bright laughter that follows them down the narrow path. "Babe, that’s ridiculous," Flora says when she can breathe again, though it is not just the song she means. "Did they teach that in Stormbreak Boy Scouts, or did you learn it in the Dragoons?" Her head shakes as she snorts under her breath, then lengthens her stride so she can wedge herself alongside him despite the roots’ apparent determination to keep the trail too narrow for it. "Because that is absolutely going to make predators come toward us, especially since you sound like something dying. It’s like you’re serenading them before their meal."
Flora has to angle a shoulder past a low-slung root, her boots picking carefully through the wet dark beneath them, before glancing at Kai over her shoulder with her mouth still curled around the remnants of a laugh. "And I’m no expert," she adds dryly, "I just grew up in a magical and dangerous forest. But usually the best way to avoid predators is to be quiet and avoid their dens and hunting areas."
Fatefully, I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
There are times, rare times, where innuendo escapes him. This is one of them. Entirely engrossed in the mechanics of wood and heat, he's unaware of the opportunity he just handed her until she turns back around on him. For a moment, he is slack-jawed with the realization, stunned to be caught so unawares by it. That quickly eases into a wide, face-consuming grin, one that presses underneath his eyes so even they find the shape of glee. "Hardwood does best when it's wet, you're right." It's unfair, really, that he can't catch hold of the feelings that cross through the link any better than he can wind. He'd like to snatch up one of those little, teasing pulses, the way he might steal her hand when it slips in to prod or press, hauling her closer to him for taking the risk. This distance allows her all the same ability to pester with none of the risk, other than his own fireflies of heat lighting up through the channel, bright and brief.
He can tell immediately by her tone that he's made a choice. Not the wrong one, exactly, but not the right one either. His next step comes less sure, gaze slipping over her way in time to witness her lay out every other consideration into the neat order of someone holding the study guide. "Well, I mean," he fumbles for a moment, hands leaving his straps to try and roll up his thoughts into something better as they gesture in front of him. "Obviously those are super important too. I thought you wanted the less obvious answers." The secret, challenging answers, not just the ones he forgot.
As they sing and hike, they wind around and through the fingers of tree roots frozen on an old grip of soil no longer there. The buoyancy of happiness that lifts her lyrics higher, lilting like a stream of bubbles, each popping beneath the words at varying times and heights, infects his own. Even though camp songs don't usually see much change in pitch or require an inclination for musical talent, his flat approach to singing is made all the worse for laughter's interruptions, leaving the woods echoing with a joy that feels slightly, hauntingly, out of place as they go. "Great song right?" He grins, completely aware of its absurdity and loving it for that reason. "Catchy too, you're gonna be singing it in the shower when we get home, just you watch." An earworm that pops up at the most random times for him.
Reaching for a stick they pass on the ground, Kaisel spins it around experimentally in his hand. It's a touch wet. "Something like scouts," he agrees, thwacking his stick against a root. "A bunch of Dragoon boys and two of the dads took us every so often during Longheat to go practice weapons, and hunting, and stuff. We sang often when traveling from one place to another."
"Woo000000ooaw." The word is drawn out with disbelief and drama. "That's so botanist of you to assume every forest is the same." His eyebrows lift with the accusation, though his mouth can't hold the shape of condemning her for long, a laugh soon spilling free. "Maybe it was because we were in a bigger group whenever we sang them, so it made us sound large and scary, all singing in unison, but it's definitely a survival tactic." The survival might have been the adult trying to corral a herd of young boys.
Haters on my back like a backpack
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
