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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!
Deimos tilted his head and couldn’t help but laugh; not expecting a fyrhund variation of the Ancient to start going after the effigy. The tail whipped much like the armament, striking along the bottom layer of the target, given the circumstances, the Sword decided to up the ante.
Snickering, manifestation of Air and his mastery, control, snagged at the blank faced canvas again, but made it nearly dart towards Astaroth, near his right shoulder, rather than away, giving that presumption of a prey opting to fight, rather than clinging to flight mode. An illusion in some mannerisms, but certainly something the Ancient would be experienced with when it came to hunting proportions and possibilities.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
The fyrhund within him thoroughly enjoys this challenge – and it’s evident in the wag of his tail behind him – the flat spaded portion flicking back and forth as he has to learn to be quicker with recalling the whip. No longer does he curl it up, instead he simply makes the gesture of drawing it back, the ends dragging across the ground with little, easy bounces, before he’s ready to strike again.
Only this time, Deimos pulls it toward him, and falling back into his baser instincts, the butcher uses the handle to smack it in its chest as he sidesteps, flicking the whip back around with a crack that will hopefully come into contact with the dummy’s side for daring to come close. And all alongside the shenanigans, the butcher’s dark chuckle vibrates from his chest of pure delight.
Thoroughly amused, and content to see challenges presented in learning mannerisms and opportunities, rather than some he’d handled in the past where failure seemed to corrupt any motivation; he watched as the butcher inveigled and snatched at the manufactured beast again.
More machinations followed though, because now the Sword didn’t want to be outdone in their playful exercise. “Try this then,” he murmured, and utilized the Air magic once more, casting a wider, more encompassing wake. It lifted and launched the target, much so like an overly large, comical bird, hovering several feet above the Ancient’s head – then darting back and forth; animated prey proportions without the actual wings and avian aspect that might have startled.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
Ah, if there’s one thing the butcher hates, it’s having something overhead. Now, while it is a training session and there aren’t any wings to listen to the beats of (or the cries of meat and eyes) it does make it easier. But it still sparks that discomfort and quiet panic within his gut that the butcher easily masks up with the utilization of the whip – no longer waiting for it to be wound up before he uses it.
In a repeat of before, he drags it back quickly, the sound snaking across the ground before he’s flicking his wrist and arm up above his head, creating a cracking sound as he aims for the training dummy’s chest again, while fire sparks in the palm of his other hand as if he’s tempering himself from adding it to the weaponry. He refrains, though, because they had agreed upon it being simply a weapon’s training.
Waiting to see if there was any residual apprehension, the Sword persisted – watching, insistent on the hovering figure looming off to the side. The cracking sound unfurled rapidly, Deimos wasn’t surprised, the fire sizzling nearby giving him an arched brow and an adequate pause.
Taking the warnings for what they were, inherent or not, the Warden lowered the beast, as if it were mortally wounded and close to perishing, circling in an eventual death-spiral haze. Should the Ancient continue to choose in gnarling and ravaging it, it would likely soon fall – or Deimos could be granting him the complementary trickery he was known for. It depended on Astaroth’s actions and regards.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
While there is some apprehension, it breeds an invigorated focus. One that has the butcher keeping that free hand full of fire just in case despite knowing he’d agreed to not use magic. Ah, but then the beast lowers, the fire sparks out, and any stress that lingers in his chest begins to dissipate. And while he’s positive that Deimos would not be using it to torment him, he does know the man enough to know that he was formidable.
That it would be a learning experiment and experience. And so, in lieu of that, the butcher snags the whip back to trail behind him in a quick motion, arcing over his front to make a slash – watching as the end of the whip began to unfurl in an intense crack that would hopefully smack right against the effigy’s torso whether it remained closer to the ground or lifted up high again.
If Deimos tormented anyone, it would be those that threatened his land, family, and extended loved ones – otherwise he needn’t bothered. There certainly was a distinction between amusements and plotted derision, and he reserved the latter for those who’d earned his condemnation and abhorrence. Astaroth was neither of those things, so once the Ancient seemed to settle, the Sword understood he’d found a noteworthy balance, and not to press any further.
The crack resounded and reverberated once more, and his head tilted, amused, as more stuffing flew out of the effigy’s chest. Certainly not a mortal wound, but a painful one nonetheless, and probably would’ve had enemies yielding or evading. On such a note, he ensured that it landed, in a bit of a crumpled heap, and then seemingly started to limp away. “Might as well finish it off,” he murmured, with a wrinkle of his nose and a light grin.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
The fact that Deimos makes it like a game of sorts – so different from what he’s used to – has the butcher snorting in response as he starts to relax now that it isn’t above him. Stuffing flies out again, floating in the air on wisps of wind likely from Deimos’ conjurations. The whip is drawn back as he watches the effigy drop like it’s been hurt, before it limps away and the Sword’s tone sparks a deep laugh to escape Asta.
“Might as well, mm?” Casting a glance sidelong toward the Sword, Astaroth steps forward as he draws the whip back, hearing it zip through the air with the brisk movement of his wrist. He takes two calculating steps and aims another slash against the effigy, this time in the opposite way to create an X across the dummy’s chest.
12-10-2024, 07:24 AM (This post was last modified: 12-11-2024, 04:46 AM by Deimos.)
remember that you can't save everyone
remember that you have to try
The Sword enjoyed his challenges, competitions, and games; making them angled amusements rather than overt drilling; making them foundational, educational, but still engaging. He’d learned through a variety of methods and means, but experimenting with altering dynamics, placing individuals in situations where muscle memory could be honed, and where the mind had to think rather than simply move around, were his favorites. So he’d do the same for his constituents.
Astaroth had seemed to have found some level of composure again anyway, so Deimos snorted at the layered response – watching as whip crackled and undulated, striking in another X; showing the Ancient’s own humor as he completed the X. Refraining from uttering a horrifically awful dad joke, he instead motioned for the Air to dissipate, and the target fell over; playfully mangled and destroyed. Shaking his head and inspecting the level of stuffing flown from the now gaping ‘wounds’ on the effigy, he laughed. “Should not have to worry about that one,” by way of a quip, beginning to manifest his creation magic again to repair the carved out portions. “Was that sufficient enough for you?”
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
He really doesn’t expect the dramatics of it – but as a lover for things a touch over the top, the butcher has nothing but amusement and appreciation left in him for watching Deimos’ antics with his magic. The X is created, with more stuffing flying into the air like snow, drifting against the wind magic that Deimos utilizes before it starts to fall along with the effigy.
And honestly, the whole thing is almost comical – Astaroth humming a deep accented chuckle under his breath as he curls up the whip and stretches out his arm. “I do not think it’s going anywhere.” The butcher flashes a shark toothed grin toward Deimos while he adds to the joke, before he nods his horned head. “It was perfect, truly. Though I worry how sore I will be tomorrow.” He laments – ah, but in the sake of growing stronger all while having fun? It was worth it.
Thoroughly amused, and content with the training exchange, he nodded towards the Ancient. “Good. And thank you for the invitation.” Eyeing the weapon now back in his hands, after rearranging some knots and threads in the effigy and righting the target back to its usual spot, he flicked the lash a couple more times. “Not sure I will be using this often, but it was still amusing.” And an encouragement of growth, to learn something new. Complacency had never been his forte anyway.
Gathering up his companions, and making sure to return the armament, he nodded towards Astaroth. “I should be heading home. Take care,” and with that, could do exactly as he said, motioning with his flock towards the skyport.
