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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!
We are sometimes losing it // one fight, baby, then we run for the fun of it
She thought she could find what she wanted in King's End, having run there with her tail between her legs when the Family overtook Stormbreak. Seasons passed, she did fine, but then one letter turned everything on its head:
Ellyra, I miss you. I'm freaking out. Stormbreak is going to fall out of the sky and I don't know if I can do it without you. Lena is dead, and you know I've never gotten along much with the other nurses here. Torchline?
Lena dead. The city falling. A plea.
She packed it all up and headed for the first skyship to Torchline.
Ellyra paced the length of the Kaiholo dock until the pattern of weathered planks had carved itself into her memory. Three steps, a pause. Four more, then she turned sharply, skirt snapping. The air was thick with salt, the cries of gulls slicing through the steady hush of surf, but she barely heard them. Her eyes kept lifting to the horizon, to every sail that broke the line between sea and sky, only to fall again when the shapes coming off the ship didn't resemble her friend Mary.
She worried the leather strap of her satchel until it creaked. A ship creaked into its berth and she flinched, shoulders tightening, breath catching at the bottom of her throat before she forced it out. Time stretched cruelly. She checked the sun’s slow climb, then the water, then the crowd, as if her friend might simply materialize if she looked hard enough. Why wasn't she here yet? King's End was so much further away and Ellyra had made it.
The docks are a blistering ribbon of sun-bleached planks beneath Flora’s feet, every step setting up another protest from the wheelbarrow she’s muscling along toward the ships, its weight a stubborn, sloshing argument she doesn’t have the energy to win politely. Bottled fountain water clinks and knocks together with each jolt, glass sweating as much as she is, the heat slicking her spine and gathering at her temples until a trickle finds its way down between her shoulder blades. LongHeat has no mercy, and Torchline never pretends otherwise. She’s in shorts and a tank top, hair scraped up with more determination than grace, looking far less like a queen than a woman who’s been awake too long and volunteered for one more necessary thing because someone had to.
"Careful with that pallet—no, not there, yes—Stormbreak, all of it," she calls over her shoulder, voice carrying easily despite the grit in it, hands tightening on the handles as another question sails her way and she answers without turning, momentum carrying her forward through the press of sailors and merchants and the glittering, dangerous friendliness the port wears like a smile. The smell of salt and pitch and sun-warmed rope coats the air, hels cutting overhead, and Flora keeps moving because stopping would mean noticing just how tired she is.
The dock dips without warning, a treacherous knot in the planks catching the wheel at the worst angle, and the barrow lurches hard enough to steal a sharp curse from her. "Fuck—" Glass clatters, the sound bright and accusing, and several bottles bounce free, skittering across the boards with a wild little dance that sends them rolling toward a woman standing just beyond the wheelbarrow’s nose.
Flora brakes herself with a grunt, already crouching, fingers darting out to corral what she can before the rest make a break for it, sweat darkening her temples as she looks up with a crooked, apologetic grin that’s more weary than charming but sincere all the same. "Sorry," she says breathlessly, snagging one bottle and then another as they continue to escape her grasp, glass clicking softly as they roll on.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22? Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
We are sometimes losing it // one fight, baby, then we run for the fun of it
Her pacing had gone mostly undisturbed up until this point. She had kept herself aside, trying to stay out of the way of the hustle and bustle. There were so many people on the docks, moving supplies and filling skyships. Then there were people already coming in off skyships, some getting off at the dock and being directed into the city while some went from one skyship to another (reinforcements from other regions, Ellyra supposed). But now, she was most definitely in the way.
"Oh, shit." She gasped without a breath after Flora's fuck and spun around. Glass clanked and rolled around, the vials and bottles of different sizes and varieties moving like scuttling mice across the boardwalk. Ellyra jumped forward, body going down into a crouch without much thought to try and gather the bottles. Her hazel eyes flicked around and her hands grabbed wildly, all the while she tried to steady herself and her breath as she assisted the woman. "No, no, I'm sorry I shouldn't have been standing in the way--" she shook her head to dismiss Flora's apology as she tucked bottles into her shirt, looking for any more.
She stood, carrying them over to the wheelbarrow the woman -- the queen, though she didn't recognize her at first -- had filled to the absolute brim. She placed the bottles back in carefully, but her eyebrows knit together as she finally focused on what was just inside the bottles. Was this...just water? Her head tilted as she placed them in, but she didn't audibly question Flora, she just simply flicked hazel eyes towards her, brows still together.
Flora shakes her head almost immediately, curls coming loose at her temples as she reaches for another bottle and tucks it back into the wheelbarrow with a clink that sounds louder than it should. "No, no, don’t apologize, there isn’t a good place to stand anywhere on this dock right now," she says, breath still uneven but tone firm in that gently decisive way that brooks no argument. "It’s a full-contact sport just being out here today."
A soft, tired laugh slips out of her as she straightens a fraction, palm pressing briefly to her thigh before she bends again, scooping up the last of the runaway bottles. Sweat beads along her hairline and trails down the curve of her neck, the heat clinging to her like a second skin, and she gives Ellyra a grateful look as the other woman carefully slots glass back into place. "Thanks."
When the wheelbarrow is whole again, Flora rises fully, shoulders rolling back with a long, audible sigh that empties more than just her lungs. For a moment her expression slackens, exhaustion written plainly across her face, before she schools it into something warmer and more present, a smile tugged into place with practiced ease. She wipes the back of her wrist across her brow and nods toward the crowded docks and the skyships beyond. "Sooo," she asks, voice easy despite the fatigue threading through it, "are you coming or going, or waiting on someone?"
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22? Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
We are sometimes losing it // one fight, baby, then we run for the fun of it
Ellyra’s fingers lingered on the rim of the wheelbarrow a heartbeat too long, as if the solid curve of wood might anchor her. The question made her swallow, throat tight, and she glanced past Flora toward the open water where the skyships came and went in a steady, indifferent rhythm.
“Uh, coming. And waiting, really.” she said, the word slipping out quicker than she intended them to. She bit the inside of her lip, just at the corner, before shaking her head slightly that sent her bangs down from their jail behind her ears. "I came from King's End because my friend from Stormbreak wrote me. I told her I'd meet her here, but she's..." Ellyra trailed off, lifting a hand to gesture at the very full and very busy port, but very empty space next to her.
“She was supposed to be on one of the early runs. Clinic transfer.” A pause. “We're nurses." Ellyra’s eyes flicked over the crowd again, counting uniforms, healers’ whites, the familiar cut of Stormbreak cloaks. She breathed out through her nose. "But now I'm just here and making myself useful by getting trampled and spilling people’s supplies.” Hazel eyes finally returned to Flora, searching her face, as she let a breath of a nervous laugh leave her.
Flora straightens as she listens, the last of the humour easing out of her expression and leaving something steadier in its place, something attentive. She nods almost immediately, once and then again, as if anchoring the reassurance there between them before Ellyra can talk herself into something darker. "I really wouldn’t worry yet," she says, voice calm and certain in a way that feels earned rather than performative. "Stormbreak’s skyport is probably an absolute mess right now. Transfers, evacuations, triage runs layered on top of one another. Even the early ships aren’t early when everything’s a priority."
When Ellyra turns the blame back on herself, Flora shakes her head again, more decisively this time, a curl slipping free to stick damply against her cheek. "That part’s on me," she adds without hesitation, thumb hooking back toward the wheelbarrow as if it’s an unruly accomplice. "I nearly ran you."
She shifts her grip on the handles and tips her chin toward the line of crates and skyships waiting to be loaded, the work visibly endless, the rhythm of it relentless. "If you want something to do while you wait, you’re more than welcome to help with the water transfer," Flora offers. "Keeps your hands busy and your thoughts from spiralling. Orrrrr," she continues, shrugging easily, "if you’d rather stay right here in case she comes through any second, I totally get it. I won’t drag you into manual labour against your will."
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22? Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
We are sometimes losing it // one fight, baby, then we run for the fun of it
Ellyra’s gaze followed the line of crates Flora indicated, the stacked barrels and sloshing glass catching the light as dockhands moved them with practiced efficiency. For a moment she stayed still, weighing the distance between the ships and the stretch of dock behind her, as if her friend might choose that exact second to appear the moment Ellyra stepped away. Her jaw tightened, then relaxed.
"You're right." She said with a full and deliberate exhale, grounding herself to her decision. She shifted her hands from the strap of her satchel to lifting, moving the hair tie off her wrist in one swift motion and pulling back her thick blonde hair in a rough bun. "I can help.” Somehow Flora knew her. Knew the way that if she stayed here, pacing and waiting, that her worry would gnaw and claw and slowly and surely consume every part of her being before she could regain control of it.
The work claimed her quickly. The rhythm of it quieted the sharp edge in her chest, gave her something solid to press against. Still, her attention never fully left the dock. Between movements, her gaze flicked up. If her friend appeared, she’d see her. She had to believe that. Ellyra kept moving, kept helping, trusting motion to keep her anchored until the moment the crowd finally parted and proved her right.
