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Character of the Season
Frail in body but dangerously quick of mind, Nikandr is the sort of character who proves that curiosity can be just as perilous as any weapon. A necromancer, inventor, and problem-solver with more ambition than self-preservation, Niki approaches the world like a puzzle box begging to be opened, even when what’s inside has teeth. Blunt, dry-witted, fiercely independent, and carrying a history best left partially buried, he has a knack for making even failure feel fascinating. Whether he’s raising the dead, moving across Caido to King's End, or experiencing a hangover for the first time, Nikandr brings a wonderfully strange spark to Caido, and we can’t wait to see what trouble his brilliant mind wanders into next.
Congratulations, Niki!
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!
“Ah, ah, ah!” Asta clicks toward Sicarius, loud enough to startle her but hopefully not bother the spirits and Flora – having crept out of the room relatively early, the Butcher’s down in the bar section, very evidently invested in vacation with how he’s got a glass and is pouring a knuckle or two of dark liquor within it. Nothing fancy, he wouldn’t dare to use her best spirits this early in the morning, but a little bit of day drinking sounded phenomenal when it came to warming one’s bones up. “We are guests, darling. And besides, you recall what trouble you got into back home when you tried to sneak around the bottles?” The chastise slips easily from his lips, gentle and soft toward the young but noodle-like dragonling made completely out of bones, one foot outstretched toward a bottle like she might tempt fate anyway.
It earns her a more pointed look, and with a puff of dark smoke from her lips she withdraws from the sea green bottle in question and precisely within reach of the Butcher to pluck her from the counter, lifting her to rest against his shoulders where she can finally settle. She wraps around his throat like a collar, leaving little puffs of dark hair sticking out from the back but for once the Butcher doesn’t seem to mind, not as he lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip, settling into the bar stool with the dragonling, indulging in the sunrise that starts to fill the Wildering House.
Spice's first nudge is cold and insistent against Flora’s cheek, the second is a scrape of tiny claws against the blanket, and by the third the little white dragon has worked herself into such an offended, whisper-hissing spiral that Flora’s lashes finally flutter apart beneath the golden wash of early morning. "What," she mumbles, voice still sweetly thick with sleep as she drags one hand out from beneath the pillow and blindly pats for the source of all this icy betrayal. The answer comes in a rush of frosty breath against her ear, followed by an indignant series of chirps that have Flora blinking up at the ceiling as the nearby spirits fill in the blanks. At that, the last of her drowsiness vanishes as cleanly as if someone has thrown open every shutter in the room.
"Oh my gods." Flora sits up so fast her curls tumble wildly around her face, her mouth already curving into a bright, delighted smile as Spice skitters triumphantly over the rumpled blankets. "They’re here?"
Never mind that Kaisel is still away in Halo, leaving half the bed empty and far too neat for Flora’s liking. Never mind that she’d gone to sleep early enough to miss the arrival entirely, which is, frankly, rude of her own exhaustion. The annual LongNight invasion of her home by her favourite monsters has apparently begun, and if Danta and Asta are downstairs, then breakfast is about to become either charming, inappropriate, alcoholic, or all three. Flora does not bother making herself presentable beyond sweeping her curls back with her fingers and tugging the oversized shirt of Kai’s more securely around her shoulders. It hangs loose over her sleeping shorts, soft and familiar and almost criminally comfortable, and with Spice perched like a small snowy gargoyle against her shoulder, she slips from the bedroom and pads down the hall and then down the staircase.
The kitchen is her first stop, because if Danta is awake, there is at least a reasonable chance that he's helping himself. Finding it empty only makes her brows lift, and with Spice leaning forward eagerly enough that Flora has to brace a hand against her chilly little body, the queen turns toward the bar instead.
"Asta!" Flora squeals, the sound ringing warmly through the bar as she beams at him adoringly. Her bare feet carry her across the floor without hesitation, curls bouncing, Kai’s shirt slipping off one shoulder. "I didn’t even hear you two come in last night!" Her eyes flick almost immediately to the bone-white creature coiled around his shoulders, and Spice, who until now has been a nosy little monarch in her own right, goes very still. Flora’s delighted smile only sharpens. "And hello to you too, obviously," she adds, leaning just enough to look at Sicarius properly without crowding her. "Gods, she’s gorgeous. She was from Dygra too, I assume?"
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
He’d hoped he’d stayed quiet long enough to let Flora sleep in, but as he sips from the drink and gets it down about halfway does Asta hear her approach. He’s dressed down as he often is on vacation, but still somewhat put together. His hair is pushed back, even if Sicarius is making it a mess, and rather than his traditional attire of waistcoats and vests, the Butcher sits at the stool by the bar with a ruffled and dark shirt, a pair of black pants, and equally dark sandals.
“Flora, darling!” Asta chimes back, laughing once he’s swallowed down the sip and sets the glass down. “And with the lovely Spice, as well.” Positive Sivarius’ arrival may have the pale frosty dragon feeling some type of way, Asta’s dark gaze brightens as he focuses back over to the Queen of Torchline. “We did not wish to wake you. Danta is still sleeping, though it isn’t the first time in the past few weeks I have snuck out of bed early.” Bouncing his brow playfully, the grin crosses his face and only scrunches the branded scar of lips against his cheek, stark against the line his beard typically went through.
Nodding at the mention of Sicarius, though, Asta tilts his head to try and get a glimpse of the dragonling from his peripheral and fails miserably with it, tail flicking idly behind him as he nods. “She was. Her name is Sicarius. I like to think she was a birthday gift.” He chuckles a low and warm sound, before he’s shifting and beckoning her to join him, happy to put together a mimosa or something else for her from her own bar, seeing as he’s woken her up. And all the while, Sicarius sits on his shoulders staring back at Flora and Spice with her dark pitless eyes, and a bit of eagerness to get to meet the frosty dragon. She’s young, though, wary in a way that Asta assumes most dragons are (how would he know, honestly?). “So, I have been dying to hear all about your ascension ever since the Peepholes.. What happened?” He grins over at her, grabbing a glass and juice and champagne, putting together a sparkly mimosa for the Hot Take with a little undercurrent of orange liqueur to make it a little sweeter and more orangey. "And yes, darling, before you ask; I do want to hear all of the gritty details."
Spice puffs up the instant Asta’s attention turns properly toward her, tiny white chest swelling with all the self-importance of a dragon approximately three seconds away from declaring war on a guest she has only just noticed. "Stop it, you," Flora whispers, bouncing one shoulder just enough to jostle the little creature out of her frosty little performance. "And please, I’m normally up early for a run anyway."
Her eyes catch, as they inevitably do, on the newest mark carved across his face, the branded scar of lips stark against his cheek where his beard no longer hides it. For all that Flora’s expression remains teasing, there’s a brief flicker of something softer beneath it, not curiosity exactly, because she knows better than to offer Asta anything so badly dressed, but the quiet calculation of someone who has seen enough of the other scars silvered across his body to guess this one likely did not hurt in the same way.
Spice, meanwhile, decides that diplomacy is not entirely beneath her and slips from Flora’s shoulder with a chilly little rustle of wings, hovering in the space between them with her nose stretched out as far as it will go toward Sicarius. Flora watches her with narrowed, fond suspicion, one hand hovering near the pale dragon as if she can somehow catch bad manners before they happen. "Be niiiice," she warns, drawing the word out in a singsong murmur that is very much aimed at Spice, though her smile twitches as if she already knows how useful the advice is likely to be. Then, as Asta begins assembling her drink with the easy entitlement of a man who has already made himself at home in exactly the correct way, Flora leans her hip against the bar and lifts her brows. "Okay, I’ll go first, but then I absolutely want to hear about how yours went."
Her gaze lingers mischievously on the kiss-shaped scar at his cheek, just long enough to make it clear she is filing every single detail away for later, before she clears her throat with theatrical delicacy and reaches for the mimosa. Taking a sip, Flora lets the orange and champagne fizz across her tongue before sighing with appropriate drama and settling more comfortably against the bar. "So, originally, I called Safrin down because I wanted to ask her about some magical items to try and deal with all the backstabbing bullshit going on." She lifts the glass slightly, her mouth quirking around the rim as she thinks of Colt and how she'd nearly had Asta throw her out on her ass, before she takes another sip.
"And Safrin basically told me there weren’t enough items in the world to do what I was after." Flora rolls her eyes, though there is more fondness there now than there might once have been, the memory still glittering with the strange unreality of it. Her shoulders rise and fall beneath the oversized shirt, the motion looser than the subject probably deserves, though the bright edge of her excitement keeps breaking through no matter how casually she tries to package it.
"I thought that was just going to be the end of it," she continues, tapping one nail lightly against the glass. "Like, okay, fabulous, no miracle accessories for Flora, boohoo, the end. And then she said something about how, with Hadama gone, it was such a shame Torchline didn’t have a demigod leading it." Flora pauses there for a second as her brows lift meaningfully. "Which I thought meant she was going to appoint someone else to rule with me," she says, her nose wrinkling at the memory. "So I’m standing there thinking, great, amazing, love that for me, but then..." Her smile blooms slowly, helplessly pleased and still a little stunned by its own truth. "Nope. All me."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
As Spice puffs up, Sicarius lowers herself – pitless eyes focused intensely on the frosty dragon as though she realizes she’s the youngest of them, and it’s enough of a back down that Asta’s appreciation and amusement flickers in his dark gaze briefly, hoping there wouldn’t be a reptilian cat-fight on their hands. It’s a similar smile that he shoots to Flora to hear that she’s usually up early for a run, conceding with an incline of his head. “Good.” He hums – not that he’s glad she’s up early and getting her exercise, but because he’s glad he hasn’t been too terrible of a house guest to have woken the host prematurely.
Sicarius starts to move as Asta does, making her way back down toward the bar to give Spice the upperhand above her, her own long nose outstretched up, body hunched down as she makes a little grating squeak up at the other companion, tail twitching back and forth as she flattens her front legs down in a very young attempt to try and get Spice to play with her. And all the while, Asta focuses on the drink with constant little glances at his own companion to make sure she’s also behaving herself.
“Deal, darling.” Asta purrs with a small crooked smile, finishing off the mimosa and handing it off to her before he takes up his own glass of dark liquor, settling into the chair to listen with rapt attention. “Ah, yes, in regard to the poacher I assume.” It’s rhetorical, because the Butcher isn’t intending on interrupting Flora too much, but he takes another sip before a low chuckle leaves him to hear Safrin’s response. It felt like a Dygra kind of answer, if he’s being honest, but he hangs on her every word as she unveils it for him, painting the picture with a nod of his head.
It’s a lot of emotions that he can imagine got all knotted up until the final unveiling, like Safrin had been wrapping this present precisely in how she knew Flora would find it most surprising and appreciative, so he can’t help but to lift his glass of liquor in a small little toast to her. “That is a whirlwind, isn’t it?” He hums, shooting a grin back at her. “I do not know Safrin well, but given what I do know of her, it is not surprising that she would see your brilliant potential.” Inclining his head, mirroring her smile in a dazzling display of happiness for his friend. “How was the change? How different did you feel?” Then, suddenly, leaning forward a touch in a way that almost startles Sicarius, he grins at Flora. “Did your veins feel like they were filled with stardust?” It was reminiscent of the feeling he’d had when Safrin had healed him with the dreadful wicker woman, only he can imagine it upped to a ten thousandth degree.
The moment Sicarius lowers herself, Spice’s entire demeanour shifts with the unbearable speed of someone who has won a war entirely in her own head. Her little chest deflates, her wings loosen, and by the time the younger dragonling creeps down toward the bar with that scraping little squeak, Spice has decided that graciousness is obviously the next most queenly option. She launches herself from the air in a flutter of white wings and lands on the bar only to throw herself dramatically onto her back, talons curled toward her chest, before exhaling a playful plume of frosty breath toward Sicarius.
"Oh, babe." Flora exhales the laugh around a smile, drawing in a breath as if she can still feel the shape of that moment beneath her skin. "It didn’t just feel like my veins were filled with stardust. It felt like all of me had been remade all at once, like every single tiny piece of me suddenly remembered it was supposed to be more than it had been." Her fingers curl around the stem of the glass, entirely unable to pretend toward modesty even for sport. "It was incredible." The word lands with all the force of her delight, bright and unabashed and glittering with the kind of satisfaction that has nothing to apologize for. Then her brows bounce, mischief immediately returning as though she has only just remembered the best part.
"And now, instead of the Doubletake, I’m the Hot Take." Flora gives this the theatrical weight it deserves. "Because I can take memories and replay them." Her grin turns fiendish, pleased in a way that is half queen and half gossip with divine backing, and she leans in slightly over the bar. "So no more he-said-she-said bullshit, no more tragic little one-sided retellings where everyone conveniently forgets the exact part where they were being the asshole, and no more pretending someone didn’t say something when I can simply pull the receipt out of their head." The smugness lingers for another second before softening, the sharp glitter of it warming into something more fond, more personal as Flora’s gaze settles on Asta. "But it also means I can do this."
Turning slightly, Flora lets the memory rise, old and alcohol-warm and preserved with the hazy intimacy of a night that had, at the time, felt ridiculous and harmless and entirely too full of feelings everyone involved had been pretending not to have. The bar around them does not vanish so much as gain another layer, the present shimmered through with the back room of the Hanged Man years ago, all low light and spilled liquor and the muffled sound of Asta’s karaoke carrying from outside. Danta is there as Flora remembers him, leaning against the wall mid-conversation, loose-limbed and sharp-edged and drunk enough that honesty has found a crack to slip through, his expression conflicted in a way he likely would have denied if he'd been given the chance.
"He’s not my friend, you know?" memory-Danta says, the words carrying with all their old, tangled uncertainty, his voice snagging slightly around feelings that had not yet learned how to stand in the open. "He’s just...mine."
Flora looks back to Asta with a grin that is softer than it has any right to be, especially given the wicked little sparkle still alive in her eyes. "It’s kind of nice," she says, swirling her mimosa, "being able to show people the parts of conversations they weren’t there for."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
