From Attuned to Ascended to Ancient, Kiada Njovu-Reyes has been reborn several times throughout her short life, but her fighting spirit has never once been diminished. With beauty, grace and a quick wit, Kiada is the whole package wrapped in an infectious smile. Recent endeavours have found her in the heart of the Hollowed Grounds, aiding the region and bettering it for her new Ancient kin, and whatever she does next, we know it's sure to pack a punch.
Congratulations, Kiada!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Never one to miss out on little cultural traditions, Astaroth is continuing his exploration before heading back home to the Grounds after the tournament. It’s the following day of it, and truthfully the movement helps with the soreness of Asta’s old bones (and whatever proclivities he’d gotten up to in the previous night, the thread hasn’t gotten that far along just yet), he has a handful of stones as he peers out to the still water.
It's warmer here than anywhere else (excluding the Climb of course), but the Ancient still stands tall with his tailored suit nicely placed, put together with the cane that rests in one hand that he leans on as he sifts through the colorful stones, horned head tilting as the sunlight glints along the prongs like oil fire. Choosing the deepest red out of the three, Asta flicks that one into the water, listening to it splash, and watches it sink as he makes his little wish.
The tournament, and circumstances extenuating and surrounding it, had kept him relatively busy, mostly in regards to how often he visited the infirmary. He wasn’t certain it could be heralded much of a vacation, considering how often he was carrying and healing wounds, but time away from home gave him some moments of pause and reflection.
And sometimes he simply liked to visit old haunts – nostalgic and melancholic when the situations called for it. The Miana Pool had been an enigma, a legend, a story snagged and caught within the well; and perhaps one of the few times so many citizens and inhabitants of Caido had worked together for a singular cause. Before wars and away from infections and diseases...perhaps a foretelling of things happening now.
He wasn’t alone, but he didn’t recognize the other man as he sidled along the opposing side of the water. He gave a polite nod of his head, crouching slightly to grab hold of a singular white stone, and pondered over its depths. His thumb rotated over the smooth polish more than once, thoughts segmenting on fortunes, on the way they’d been able to carve their lives recently, and on a very hushed, long and low breath, the Sword gave it a little toss, listening to the noise as the rock hit the water.
Out of sight and out of mind
Make everything alright
So let the sky and sea collide
Just not in our lifetime
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
With his wish said internally and silently, the Ancient lifts his chin from the small dip he’d taken in order to make the wish, only to let his dark gaze land on the very man he’d bet on in the tournament, when Dantalion and he had been taking bets. It’s with a small amount of surprise, hidden by charming grin and a snakelike quality that he waits to speak until after he thinks Deimos has finished tossing the stone and make his wish.
“Congratulations on winning your fights.” The voice rumbles out in greeting, cane clicking against the ground as he drifts a little bit closer in earshot. “You are quite formidable.” He compliments, knowing and understanding power when he sees it. Though it isn’t in a way to slink in to become best friends with the warden – that spot is reserved already for Dantalion, as far as Astaroth knows, but he can compliment and offer respect where its garnered.
The Sword had held no expectation of conversing – simply passing through while other tournament battles forged onward. Later, he could dig into the parameters surrounding Ru and Seren’s exchange, the volley between Sah and Hadama, and other proportions – for then the stranger hastened a congratulations, and he was forced to do something other than revel in silence.
Sometimes he forgot he could be instantly recognized; too enamored with the prospects of simply disappearing into midsts of people, places, and shadows. It’d been too many years since he could truly hasten towards corners and be ignored, and likely after the latest display…he tried not to wrinkle his nose. “Thank you,” rumbled from his throat instead. Then his eyes narrowed, examining and scrutinizing much like the stranger seemed to be committing to him, and the Warden gave nothing away save for his still stance; watching, waiting. “Who are you?”
Out of sight and out of mind
Make everything alright
So let the sky and sea collide
Just not in our lifetime
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
It helps that Astaroth has other means to know who Deimos is – given those he surrounds himself with. And with watching the tournament, the pieces just fall together too perfectly that he can’t help but to have to offer congratulations and respect where it’s garnered. Deimos was a champion, as far as he was concerned, and not someone that Astaroth was inclined on getting into trouble with.
Not that he has any reason to get into trouble with the Warden, but anyway.
“You’re welcome.” He offers chipperly, sharp teeth flashing an easy smile as he settles, planting the cane between his feet, hands coming together to clasp above it on the handle. “I am Astaroth.” He says, inclining in a little bow of greeting, before he draws back up to his full height and perfect posture. “From the Climb, now the Hollowed Grounds.” As evident by the oily sheen of horns sprouting from his head as well as the tail that flicks idly behind him.
Remaining in his crouch, the predacious ease of his stature lent to scrutinizing, quiet, speculative, taking anything in that he could, either offered or not. Ancient. Cane – either weaponry, a necessity, or both, mannerisms of bowing ventures caused his eyes to narrow slightly. The Climb, now Hollowed footholds. Intriguing in some way – how the Grounds had become another realm welcoming and inviting; and perhaps, in the aftermath of the war, they’d needed something, someone, other than Ascended hovering around its doors. It had struggled mightily, and for good reason, for a long while.
He rose to his full stature thereafter, regarding a few more pebbles but doing nothing with them. He could feel the restlessness growing, uncertain on any other pragmatics with this stranger. “And how are you finding the Grounds?” became an offered rumble instead.
Out of sight and out of mind
Make everything alright
So let the sky and sea collide
Just not in our lifetime
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Content to indulge in the easy conversation here, Astaroth has heard that Deimos rules Halo. And with it, perhaps a familiarity with his accent – older than some of the accents amongst the region, but with a distinct lull of Whitebrim, but far more proper than any of his potential distant relatives harbored. “Quite lovely, actually, thank you for asking.” He hums, grin spreading a little, teeth sharp (filed down a fraction on the edges, aside from the fangs that were wholly sharp).
“Deepfrost and the snows make it colder, but not impossible to traverse.” He offers, adjusting the cane a little as he glances back over toward the water where the two men had made their wishes. “Though I will admit, I am excited for Flowerbirth to arrive already.” Yes, he’s aware it’s only been Deepfrost for all of the span of like, 5 minutes, but still. It’s cold. And he’s quite lizardlike in how he’s drawn to heat.
Deimos might have noticed or recognized the accent more had he interacted beyond futile moments with the Whitebrim cannibals. One had been within a damned and doomed cave, somewhat splintered between grumbles, and ultimately forgotten as death took him, and multitudes of others, swiftly. Any other course had been remedied across the remains of Whitebrim’s huts and locales with fire and flame, destruction and menace, aiming to ensure none of them returned. Not many had been around to complain about the various ventures.
Unaware one in front of him had survived, throughout whatever means and measures noteworthy, his brow arched, taking in the information. Kiada and Danta had told him as much prior, and with the bonfire, he figured most of the Ancients would be just fine throughout the wintry season. Though he indulged with a snort, knowing how traumatic it used to be. “At least you will not have to worry about LongNight,” and the monsters that had followed in its wake. On an air of restlessness, he snagged at the pebbles down by his feet, rolling them around his palm.
Out of sight and out of mind
Make everything alright
So let the sky and sea collide
Just not in our lifetime
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Astaroth’s from a time that was the essential predecessor of the Whitebrim, not the likes that Wardens in the past had done much about. In fact, each one had their own separate tribes, different lives fighting for the same things. Astaroth’s tribe eventually died out, the second sourcing food had become impossible, which had led to his departure. And, despite the damage and everything else he’d sustained before becoming Ancient, likely the only survivor of it.
“I keep hearing rumors about it, but I’m afraid I am not well versed in the history of the Hollowed Grounds.” He offers with a polite smile, inclining his head in case Deimos felt the urge to explain. He knows it had something to do with the Voice, a beast of a new god that he’s still unfamiliar with, but one that had rivaled enough to create a whole war between the gods.
The Sword wasn’t surprised to hear the rumors still lingered; for three hundred years LongNight had made a distinct and traumatic impact on the Grounds. Stories and myths, truths and caution, passed down for years upon years, to keep the lingering souls safe. And while some had likely met it with utter indifference, for it was how the world had been, the scores out Outlanders infiltrating had made it clear that it shouldn’t have made it a normal distinction.
Out of that same inherent restlessness, he permitted the air to bob the pebbles back and forth, unpredictable little waves of motions while he glanced down into the tiny rivulets of the pool. “There is quite a bit of it,” and mostly suffering, at least from the tomes and tales he’d heard. “The Voice released monsters during LongNight. Prior experiments of hers. Unless one was quiet, found safety or shelter, they were often victims.” A short synopsis, but enough to fill in some details.
Out of sight and out of mind
Make everything alright
So let the sky and sea collide
Just not in our lifetime
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
He’s heard that it had gone on for centuries – of monsters in the night, crawling and clawing at doors, pretending to be loved ones. Yet he is eager to hear what the Sword has to say, dark eyes glittering in curiosity as the story is told to him – however much he’s willing to share, given everything. “I see.” Astaroth murmurs, head cocking slightly as his gaze takes in the moving ripples of the water within the proximity of the Sword, gaze flicking back up toward his face. “I have not heard much of the Voice either.” A quiet admission, though his body language suggests that if Deimos doesn’t want to share tidbits on the New God, he didn’t have to.
“I had heard there had been a war, however, between the Old Gods and New Gods.” His tone takes on a curious tone toward the end – nose wrinkling under the thought. Though, for him, Dygra was the only goddess that mattered and who cared. Astaroth was content to continue to think so, even in a world surrounded by heralds and other big gods. They had never answered him before, yet Dygra had welcomed him with open arms.
Perhaps the Hollowed Grounds had a lack of discussion over the Voice out of pure necessity and trauma, they simply didn’t wish to converse about it, or the Ancient simply hadn’t asked the multitudes. His head tilted, brow arching at the significance of the statement, and knowing he didn’t have the right verbosity for the all the details. “Supposedly she was once an Abandoned, though they had a different name for it then.” Acquired, maybe, though he’d have to consult again into lore. “And gained multitudes of power,” threatening the Old Gods, and quite a few others in the interim, if the mythos had been passed along correctly. He let out a long sigh, the breath passing over the stones and leaving them to launch and leap about under his Air machinations.
“They placed her behind the barrier, along with many people, for hundreds of years.” His eyes narrowed, quite and speculative, mind roaming back over tomes and stories told to the Outlanders who’d been snagged behind the makeshift walls as well. “Once she was freed, more issues seemed to arise.” And so the Ascended gained all the parameters of animosity again and again. “There was,” a war, in this case, which made him wonder where this man had been within the timeframe. Tucked away and hidden?
Out of sight and out of mind
Make everything alright
So let the sky and sea collide
Just not in our lifetime
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Listening with a strict amount of attention offered to the Sword, Astaroth soaks up the information like a dry flower would take to water. Abandoned, a term new to him, has him pulling thoughts together from what he knew then versus what he knows now. “Acquired?” He asks, because that is the term that he had once known, even if he wasn’t born as such.
But dark brows rise and a sharp grin forms, snorting lightly at the idea of someone managing to rival the deities, because his goddess was one of the old ones, a hidden one for a time, as he’s come to learn. “I had heard about her barrier and the war, though alas it was after I’d fallen into my stone slumber.” A slight wince leaves him, before he shakes his head and the nostalgia vanishes. “Evidently I had fallen into it centuries before that.” Unbeknownst to him, of course.
“Yes,” when the Acquired name had been an echo of his thoughts. His eyes moved over to Astaroth briefly, pondering over timelines and frameworks, before they glanced back at the pool and the modest ripples unfurling.
He ignored the grin; having been a participant in the war made him much less endeared towards any emotions along its parallels; save for the habitual nonchalance he reserved for the battlefield. His brow arched at the notion of stone slumbers though, having heard Kiada mention it more than once due to issues with lack of heat. Now was his turn for some meticulous prying, though in retrospect it had much more to do with the Harpy than anything else; just in case measures always a heady machination through his mind. “How were you awakened?”
Out of sight and out of mind
Make everything alright
So let the sky and sea collide
Just not in our lifetime
