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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!
Even with Deimos’ reassurance and soft snort of laughter, Icarus’ cheeks stayed slightly inflamed from his perceived misstep. He knew he wasn’t the only one in Halo with ache beating in his heart for a life that used to be, for people who are no longer here. He wouldn’t even be embarrassed to let the memory slip to most people, knowing they would fall on sympathetic, if not commiserating, ears. Still, the memories falling upon Deimos’ ears seem not just a breach of his conduct, but hard to fathom. Deimos has gone through no shortage of pain and loss in his storied life, no doubt had memories that also ripped through him sometimes. This was just a fact of nature, of love. But imagining the Warden, the Sword, with his magnitude of great powers and seemingly-unbreakable spirit, feeling breathless with pain and loss the same way a common soldier like Icarus did? The myth didn’t quite fit with the reality, even though logic and Icarus’ own time with the man demanded it did.
Icarus hopes Mort did appreciate the efforts. He hopes the God, with his gentle nature and open arms, made sure it didn’t hurt for the solider’s mother.
His fingers continues to weave his misfit flowers’ crown, filling in any holes and gaps with extra leafs as instructed. It’s shaping up to be a lopsided thing, but Icarus decides it has plenty of personality and gumption, and that always matters more than a pretty exterior. Every so often he’ll look up from his work to toss a silly face at Idalia, hoping to incite more of those happy-baby squeals.
”Is this right?” He asks, holding up his resilient crown of strange findings. It holds itself together well enough, plants interlocked, holding itself together in spite of it all. Studying Deimos’ significantly more well-crafted wreath, he grins, ”Is there anything you’re not good at?”, letting a slight tendril of teasing slip into his tone. It’s a line he’s toed many times before, pressing up against the wall of protocol and nearing to genuine, boyish affection; not quite on one side or another, it looks like affection either way.
Deimos had lived with so much loss that it bore into his bones just like the scars upon his flesh. Carved its aches and pains into him, let the anguish burn bitterly into his ichor and blood, so that it had sometimes flared far more brightly than any fire he’d ever hoped to achieve. Those notions came with wars, with death, with demise, with the way one tried so hard to protect everyone and everything and could never possibly do it all. Not everyone could come back on their shields. That he’d been at the center of multiple crusades and battles didn’t help, called upon again and again and committed to the fault lines, the fissures, the depths of desecration and vehemence just for the chance those he cherished would survive. His spirit certainly wasn’t unbreakable; it’d been consumed and fractured, and he’d wished for the world to swallow him whole more than once – but nowadays it wasn’t nearly as fragile. Not as brittle. Strong, enduring, formidable. Built over and over until those walls were tough and steeled, forged behind more than just nonchalance and adversity. And still, mired and rooted in trepidation; waiting for that next dam to break.
He put the finishing touches on his own crown, studying and examining it for any faults or defects, before tucking a stray leave or petal back into the clutches of stems and brethren. While Idalia giggled, he put his aside, shaking his head and snagging at more to repeat the process for Evie and Amhran’s, immediately going for more of the green hues.
When he looked at Icarus’s, with its interlocking measures and haphazard decrees, he granted a small smile. “Yes. You should go see,” jutting his jawline towards one of the greenhouse pools, in case Icarus wanted a reflection of his work. At the question though, he snorted, and even Idalia rendered another giggle and squeal. “Plenty,” but giving no inclination as to what those flaws might be, landing the notions with a smirk.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Icarus is pretty sure Deimos is lying about not being good at things, and suspects that if circumstances called for him to successfully backflip, that the Warden wound find a way to pull it off flawlessly on his first try. Whatever flaws and cracks the man is privy to, whatever grief and tragedy wrings his bones, Icarus only senses through his years serving under the man, from rumors in the barracks, from his own keen eye and sharp propensity to sense the things that hurt from where they linger in the shadows. Still, it all floats in the realm of inferences and keen observations; it’s not real. Icarus does not think someone like Deimos unfolds their depths to someone like him. And so, even with his gathered knowledge, the myth overlays what he knows of the man, leaving Icarus’ picture blurred and unfinished.
There’s so much that burns at the back of his throat to say, to ask, but his flower crown is finished and it needs to be witnessed. He follows the jut of Deimos’ chin towards the pool and carries the crown over. It coronates itself on his head, settling into his dark wreath of curls, and after only taking a second to gather his courage, Icarus peeks his head into the shining mirror of water.
He looks the same as he always does, his hair windswept even as it’s tied back, his eyes dark and empty. The curve of his mouth is a severe slash across his face, and he tries to pull it into something a little more befitting of someone wearing a whimsical flower crown. He looks tired, he thinks. He looks like his father.
Icarus pulls away from the pool a bit hastily. ”Looks good to me,” he says, and he’s not even lying; the crown fit nicely on his head, the mismatched flowers working together in a strange harmony. He could say something in that lightly familiar tone about how he had a good teacher, but the crown on his head feels like it’s too delicate to be jostled by true words hidden in insincerity.
”Thank you. For your instruction,” He says instead, and then gestures to the crown in Deimos’ large hands. ”Are you going to try yours?”
The Sword kept many things closed off – purposeful, strategic. Furtive measures had been necessary during war efforts and it was a habit he carried on to this day. Preferences of avoidance, nonchalance, humor, and self-deprecation had become universal tools of evasion – the same could be said for this interval too.
Upon Icarus’s return from inspection, Deimos had already started on Amhran and Evie’s crowns, flooding the stems with an intermingling of cool colors, many the same as his and Idalia’s, but granting a little more into the verdantry – mixing greens, berries, and leaves much more heavily into the mixture. Glancing up, he nodded, affixing that same smile that harbored many things under the surface. “You are welcome.”
At the inquiry though, he glanced back at his circlet, already placed aside. “Later, perhaps, when I finish all of these.” Reflections of what came first and foremost, and it had never been a crown. Hands occupied, twisting and turning in loops of stems, he tosseled Idalia’s curly locks on top of her head quite purposefully, listening to her giggle again. “Have you been to any of the festivals before?”
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Deimos's smile is, as always, just slightly unknowable even through its friendliness, and for Icarus' own preservation in this particular lovely moment, he chooses not to try and dissect whatever depths are under it. For once, he tries to just let himself exist, feeling the warm press of the green house air against his often so-cold skin and the crown under his fingers. Idalia lets out a squealing, charming giggle when Deimos tussles her hair, and all thoughts of scrutiny fly out his head.
"No, never," He admits lightly, without embarrassment. These past few years of soldiering and duty had utterly subsumed him, burying grief and pain in commitment and pride and discipline. Though sometimes other soldiers would try to cajole or convince him, he was too quiet, too stubbornly distant, too young. This year, though, they had insisted with the excuses of tradition and drinking, telling him he wasn't really a soldier if he didn't get wasted, and certainly not one from Halo. The Flowerbirth festival was the perfect place to welcome the new year with one's first drink. At least that's what they said.
He drifted back over to Deimos and Idalia, waving a pointer finger in a mesmerizing pattern before booping the baby's nose lightly. Would it be appropriate to ask Deimos if he needed a babysitter? Probably not. But this baby had him so enamored it may be worth a try.
“I’m assuming you’ve been to at least a few?” He would never dare to call the storied commander old, but the slight tease is there if one were to squint for it.
Ignoring the potential quip; he had been to at least a few, but given how long he’d been in Caido, it was still probably less than many of the Naturals. As Icarus neared and confused Idalia with sudden, swift movements, the youth launched back into the Sword’s chest when the soldier booped her in the nose – earning a wide-eyed wail from the infant. Likely from surprise and shock, but Deimos’ gaze narrowed, warnings everywhere with no subtlety required, while he offered low rumbles and turned her back over in the carrier, checking her to ensure no damage had been orchestrated; bewilderment the source of it all.
On a huff of a sigh, she seemed to quiet down, and he shook his head, placing the crown back down on the table as he went to mollify and appease. “Yes,” he signified at first, offering a few more berries as a distraction and watching as the tears changed into quiet sniffles. “There. No harm done,” he murmured to her, taking a long breath and trying to redirect the barrage of shielding and protective filaments pulsing through his veins. Easier said than done, perhaps, but he’d been equipped to handle eons in the chaos; this was naught. “Just keep your wits about you when you go.” Fun and merriment, amusements and excursions to be had, but he’d been in enough dangerous situations, and a horrendous Fiat Lux before, to warrant the caution.
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
As Idalia starts to wail at his touch, Icarus flinches back like his hand had graced a hot poker. He could not look more aghast at the product of his own actions if he had taken a life with his bare hands, and utter horror of what he’s done fills his eyes. Deimos’ body shifts into the defensive, the way Icarus has seen it done against imaginary enemies and opponents in the drills he runs, and he shirks back instinctively, his own shoulders curving into the set of defense.
”Sorry,” He said quietly, his voice cracking halfway through the word. Color rises to his cheeks again and in a violent, crashing wave, he's once again reminded of his station. The line he was so had been toeing, so carefully disrupted in the unreality of this warm and green haven once again solidifies in front of him. Without his conscious direction, his body shifts and adjusts, moving itself once again to stand at ease as it had when he first set his eyes on Deimos as the man soothes the crying baby. "I don't mean..." He trails off, eyes casting downward.
As Deimos warns him, Icarus takes it in with all the gravity and seriousness of an order given, nodding gravely. The words sound like a rebuke and a warning mixed into one dire statement, and the young soldier nods, his flower crown loose and almost forgotten in his hand. "Of course, sir," He murmurs, voice hard and set. He hadn't been planning on doing anything irresponsible, but dread begins to curl in his stomach for the capacity he could have for things going horribly wrong; after all, this moment of fun had curled into itself and died, just like seemingly all the others had before it.
He feels caught now, half-soldier, half-boy, unsure of he should leave without being dismissed and unsure if Deimos even thinks he needs to dismiss him. Another apology burns at the back of his throat, but for what, he's not even sure.
Deimos extended a long, long sigh that went more inward; because trying to mollify the situation for both infant and soldier was already going to be substantial. Idalia, for her part, was pacified by food, tears already drying by the initial upset. Icarus was going to be a tad more difficult, and just by glancing at the younger warrior, the Sword could see multitudes of walls clambering away. His rumble took on a calmer tone, an ease in the gravel, backing off his own earlier striving for protection and threat assessment. “I know. It is okay. She did not understand either.” Maybe it meant they needed to direct more attention towards Idalia at home with certain situations – but by now she was already back to cooing, finishing off the berries with rapt instinct and nary a sniffle.
Turning her back around and ensuring all was well within the carrier, next he turned his attention back upon Icarus. The warning had probably been ill-timed, but he didn’t want him going into something with the potential for disaster, especially with everything going on as of late, with no preparation in sight. Could things be fun and uplifting? Certainly. Was there room for debauchery? Always. But those age-old inclinations of possibilities always reared their ugly head back into his trepidation and apprehension; he’d seen and experienced too much to always believe the world would be bright and airy, wondrous and kind.
The point might have been well passed over by now though, based on the present. He opted for redirection and resetting then, gaze going towards the tangleweed still existing outside the greenhouse – probably waiting for some opportune person, or daft ningo, to pass by. “Do you want to see if you can hit it from in here?” he opted with a twist of his head, jawline jutting towards the ridiculous creature. “I have had many working on control through other barriers.”
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Icarus takes the redirection for what it is, allowing his shoulders to leach out some of the tension that had built in them though still finding comfort residing in his taut, ready solider’s stance. Deimos’ question acts as a salve to Icarus’ guilty conscience; it’s not a rebuke, or an order, or a demand for Icarus to prove himself to the Warden in this moment. Icarus doesn’t know what to call it, but it’s certainly comforting, more of a return to form than whatever haze of reminiscence he had been lingering in before he ruined it. Though it’s not a dare — it doesn’t have the flavor of it — Icarus can recognize a Task, a fun one at that, and one that could potentially push his skills closer to his desired level of competence. Another gleam of tension leaves the set of his jaw as his mind begins to tick and calculate the necessary aspects for the Completion Of The Task.
Icarus follows Deimos’ gaze to the tumbleweed outside, unobtrusively sitting outside the greenhouse, just an innocent murderous plant hoping to snag someone in those writhing vines. He gets a little competitive gleam in his dark eyes, the one that spells trouble, and his wrist begins to move in that twisting spiraling way it always does when he’s channeling magic. With a flick of one of them, a little tendril of water forms outside the greenhouse and like a snake shoots out at the tumbleweed-thing, striking into the center of it and dispersing into air once done.
The young soldier flinches less as the thing bursts apart into a cloud of plants and vines and presumably-unpleasant detritus, anticipating its implosion, and he allows a small, proud smile to creep onto his face before glancing up at his commander for assessment.
”How’s that, sir?” he asks, and it’s the kind of question that could be smug and boasting in the asking but Icarus asks it with such earnestness that even if someone looked at the question funny, they’d only find his genuine desire to know the answer.
Deimos knew warfare and he knew calm; both went hand in hand sometimes, the understanding and comprehension of how far composure and coolheaded portions could prevail. No provocations, no goading, despite being prone to it when the amusement struck; just an opportunity for the other to settle away from rattling potentials. So he watched out of the corner of his eye as the warrior adhered, being mindful to let his focus pinpoint and punctuate from Idalia, to Icarus, to the flower crowns, hands occupied by the simplicity of the task.
He nearly snorted and caught himself as the water encompassed the weed into naught immediately; it’d been a ready presumption based on prior encounters, but he knew the youth wouldn’t find his humor very worthwhile presently, and so he inclined his head only in small portions upon the soldier’s return, finishing up on Amhran’s crown before moving onto Evie’s. “Very good.”
Then he pondered over a peace offering – wondering if Icarus would readily snatch it up to prove himself or simply to assist – Deimos more of the sort to want to ensure others and individuals knew what they were doing amidst the footholds of Halo, when push came to shove. “I was hoping to take some out on the Tundra soon for a mock-hunt, if you are interested.” And before the inquiry came, he arched his brow. “It would not be to maul an ursur or a frost giant.”
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
The young solider blooms under the compliment, face suddenly resembling one of the colorful flowers residing in the greenhouse. He’s not unprofessional enough to let his young face curve into a boyish smile — he’s not sure he has it in him to do that anymore, missing that piece of hardware from what he’s seen — but his eyes brighten and his shoulders push back a modicum, tall and set. ”Thank you, sir” He breathes out, still in that quiet way of his, but a little bit of pride leaks in to his tone.
At the mention of the hunt, Icarus’ stomach lurches in a mix of pride and anticipation, and his back straightens more just a touch. It feels like he’s passed one level of a test to move onto the next, and his eyes shine with a kind of resolve. With Deimos’ arched brow comes the answer to an implied counter-argument Icarus wasn’t sure he was going to ask, but it doesn’t lessen his excitement or determination that he’ll be far from action. Deimos seems to recognize the itch for hard-headed big-heartedness in Icarus, and the young soldier would have gone off into blood and battles if it were up to him, but more oft than not, he was relegated to the training grounds while the others went out and did the actual, dangerous work of helping their home. In his sulkiest moments he resents it, and in his most rational, he understands, but either way, the preemptive response sends a little stab through that part of him that wants to help. But there is a relief with the knowledge he won’t be sent after any ursurs, Icarus’ ursur shift giving him a kind of kinship with the wild animals he has never been able to slough.
”I would be interested,” He says, and tries not to let the excitement show too clearly on his face.
Picking up several more flowers and vines, given the need for many green hues amongst Evie’s crown, he tilted his head vaguely, an anchor of patience and calm. Given her day, perhaps that quiet resolve urged Idalia’s eyes to go fluttering closed, berries finished, stomach full, safety secured in her father’s orbit. Nonetheless, he still listened, waiting for Icarus’s denial or acceptance – and presuming much of the latter. The Sword knew ambition, the need of proving oneself time and time again to the masses, or the grating, incessant pull of trying to instill strength, day after day, becoming a little better by each moment. He’d been much the same way, before he learned for himself what war meant, and how much it carved into one’s soul. How much it lingered, stayed, and scarred. How sometimes it felt like the few things he could always comprehend. Battle did something to them all; but he’d never want to toss them into the midst of it without ever preparing for the inevitable.
It was why they practiced with armaments and trebuchets and walked perimeters, ran beside walls and greeted their citizens. It was why they instilled shelter and sanctuary, knew each and every route and street, and then took their strides out to the tundra or extended their wings over verdant valleys. Ready, at a moment’s notice, for whatever sprung.
At the agreement, Deimos grinned, and then glanced back at his wares, fingers roaming back over leaves before placing another blue in the mix. “Good. I know you already have your magic, but it will probably be wise to bring your favored weapon and shield.”
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
Icarus nods, mind already racing in preparation for the hunt. His water magic was a dependable ally in a fight, but he'd never relied on his as his main weapon or defense, choosing instead to let it assist him as he fought with sword and shield rather than wielding it foremost. For all his mastery of the thing, years of practice spinning water into ice and back again and learning the shape of it in his bones, he's never seen it as more than just an extension of his body, of his skills. Perhaps this hunt will teach him how to wield it more creatively, as a weapon and defense in itself, instead of something he uses to enhance those things. Nevertheless, he plans to bring what Deimos instructed, though he wonders how much use of it Deimos will permit him to have.
It's not that he itches for blood and battle -- no, he remembers the dragons sieging the Citadel too well to long for something like it -- but rather, he yearns for purpose. What use is a soldier if they aren't wielded to protect or defend? He'll never begrudge training and preparation, well-aware of how they can turn the tide between life and death, but he wishes to do something worthwhile with what he's learned. To help. The young soldier knows the Warden has something of that spark in him as well, which frustrates him all the more when he's left on the training fields or ordered him away from action. Though, Icarus wonders, while looking at that grin, if this likeness is exactly why Deimos doesn't push him into the heart of the hurting.
"Thank you, sir. I'll work hard to be a worthwhile addition to the hunt," Is what he says instead of I'll make you proud or I won't let you down. He resists asking when they leave, not trying to look too eager or seem irresponsible in his desire to go.
The Sword found it practical to have many means and methods when it came to fighting. Hence why he’d trained across multitudes; from weapons to Attuned shifts to the magic always flourishing and eager under the skin. Moments called for many things – and he’d been in enough scores and scorches to know he didn’t care to leave anything to chance. Not when lives were on the line.
Others might have balked at the way he protected, ensured they didn’t see something they weren’t prepared for, but they were also alive, and he’d argue that was far better than being sent to an early grave. There were too many of those already – Mort’s Realm full of friends and allies.
Perhaps the others would prove themselves capable, honed for a battlefield of monsters and tactics rendered to ensure they came home. Maybe they wouldn’t, and there’d be more training, more opportunities on later ends.
Twining another loop of leaves and stems, his fingers were quick and light, plucking some white blossoms to intermingle amongst Evie’s green, blue, and pondering over a dash of gold when Icarus’s serious tones fell over the greenhouse again. “I have several more I need to ask, and some that have already agreed,” he rendered without looking up, brows furrowing in concentration while he peeled an aureate hued flower to place right in the center. Only when he’d segmented and coordinated everything in his particular design, did he tilt his head and glance at the soldier again. “But it should be relatively soon, if that works for you.”
think about this you have the ability to survive anything
