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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 rain beats heavily on Finch's back, plastering his dark hair to his pale face, but he strolls through the narrow rows of the port like it's a nice stroll on a summer's day. The recent unyielding, unending downpour of the sluggish start to Flowerbirth has made Rae's Fingers a desolately uninhabitable place to linger, the stone walls slick and floor unforgiving. The etched markings on the wall had slid under his fingers but led him true, wading through an inch of dark, murky water, towards Jack's promised cache, the rusted lock somehow even more rusted and stagnant and difficult than the last. When Finch coaxed it open -- because of course he had, though his fingers were shaking from the cold -- it was, as promised, totally empty and devoid of maps, coin, or any other treasure.
It was a soundly miserable process, one which lead him to think this was just an elaborate punishment Jack set up for him rather than any real quest to gather information.
Rain drips down the hollows of his cheek, dancing down the line of his jagged scar before linking on his jaw. He could be hurrying somewhere, back to his little hole in the wall to get dried off, but what's the point? He's only going to get wet again. Under him, his feet splash soundlessly through puddles, the excess of water squelching miserably into already-soaked socks and settling in between his toes. Lithe, scarred, and slightly-scraped fingers rub the water out of his eyes as he sighs, wondering if he was cursed from birth or just an unlucky bastard.
It's not a life he would wish upon anyone. Though, this last foray was so miserable, it would be enough to scare off any aspiring thief with grand dreams about the life. With that, he snorts out a little laugh under his breath, thinking of those two troublemaking twins. He can imagine their shouting voices echoing down the Fingers, complaining about the damp and slipperiness, but having a grand time of it anyway.
He hopes those two have come to their senses, but they probably haven't.
Today's shenanigans are fairly innocuous at least, given the rain; Carlo is learning that people don't like to linger about outside when there's a downpour, and non-existent pockets are difficult to practice picking, so he and his brother are forced to find other ways to amuse themselves. Ways that don't involve elaborate schemes for ice cream, pretending to be anyone else's brother, or climbing the sides of buildings.
The rain slicker he wears is far too large, folded several times at the sleeves and with the hem fanned out around him where he's crouched on the boards, the hood pulled so far over his head so as to make it look like he's wearing a bucket beneath it. It's also a cheerful green in colour, making him rather impossible to miss, but that's fine today.
"I think I've done it," he announces to Calan with a quick smile, folding the last bit of wax paper to present to his twin their entertainment for the day: a serviceable paper boat. "Let's give it a maiden voyage." Holding it out for his brother to do the honours, he points towards a quick-running stream of water snaking vaguely downwards beside them.
If Carlo’s lime-green slicker doesn’t give away their position from halfway across Kaiholo Port, Calan’s identical yellow one certainly does. The sleeves have been rolled back with considerably less success than his brother’s, leaving damp cuffs to slip against his wrists whenever he moves, and the hood keeps falling low enough over his eyes that he has to tip his whole head back to see properly. It’s irritating, but not irritating enough to ruin the operation.
At the sight of the little boat, any complaint vanishes behind a toothy grin. Calan accepts it with both hands, far more delicately than he's ever held anything that isn't breakable, stolen, or liable to bite him, and lowers it toward the rushing ribbon of rainwater besides the boards. He doesn't let it go straight away, but instead pinches the tiny mast Carlo has folded into place. Hunching close beneath his dripping hood, he clears his throat with the solemn importance of someone addressing a crowd rather than a small scrap of wax paper. "Now listen," he tells it quietly. "You're goin' into dangerous waters. There'll be whirlpools, probably pirates, and defintely sewer monsters. Don't trust anybody wearin' a hat bigger than theirs should be, and if you find treasure, bring it back here since we're your captains." Then, with a sharp little flick of his fingers, Calan releases the mast.
"Godspeed," he calls after it, drawing the word out as the boat is wooooooooooooooshed forward, bobbing madly over the uneven boards and bouncing down the stream as though it’s already discovered something important. Calan rises into a crouch to follow it, one hand shoving his hood back from his eyes as he squints after its bright little voyage. "That’s actually a really good boat," he tells Carlo, sounding almost surprised by it. "I bet it finds all sorts of treasure."
Finch spies two rain-slickered figures by the water and grins to himself, despite the absolutely horrible shit day he's been having and the pain that races through his heart at the sight. Him and another, back when they were that small, used to race paper boats down that stream and come up with stories that attributed their victories. One boat was blessed, the other was cursed, and they'd bicker until the two ended up rolling around in the water, trying to sit on the other's back, thoroughly and utterly soaked.
He breathes through the memory like someone would a stab wound, and all pain triggered immediately flees and is replaced with surprise as one adjusts their hood to reveal an all-too familiar mischievous face. Someone up there had to be laughing at him, right? He scowls at the odds, curing whoever had the sense of humor to send them in his direction just as he was wondering about them, and wearing the shadows of a memory no less.
Finch should keep walking. If he approached them, he'd definitely be veering too far into creeper territory, after approaching them at the Feast. Nope, he was going to keep walking and get warm and dry in his own little hole-in-the-wall apartment and not think about them anymore. He isn't their brother, even though he'd worn that title for a moment. It didn't count. But they could catch a cold in this weather, and someone really should make sure they were alright.
He sighs, scrubbing his hands down his exhausted face. Ambling forward, silent even as his feet drops through puddles on the ground, he calls out, "You know, your boats will last longer if you melt some candle wax on 'em."
