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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!
Sing to me, I am not doing well Getting tired of my own words
It would seem that Astaroth's takeaway from earlier bouts with the stubborn little woman was to offer fewer options and ask less questions. Apparently the matter of where she was staying and what she was to do was not up for debate. The hand held out for her was given a long look; Maea hadn't felt this much like a stubborn youth for many a year.
"... fine." She found herself taking it anyway before she could talk herself out of it, and allowed him to lead the way through the crowded parlors and into the quiet hallways. There the relative stillness rang in her ears, a throbbing quiet that matched the numbness of her feet. Perhaps the guiding hand was more necessary than she'd thought; before they had even reached his room she was staggering along, too exhausted to pay much attention to where she was going. It was not a pleasant weariness however, but the nauseating, flickering kind of tired where awareness came in jarring flashes. Too alert to nod off in mid stride, too tired to think straight.
"My brother used to do this, when I was little," she murmured, leaning against the wall in the pause as the door was unlocked. "But maybe I shouldn't say that... anyone I think of as family tend to die or disappear."
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts
He doesn’t give her room to fight him, and she doesn’t even begin to start much to his relief. Asta’s arm is offered for her to stand and after a moment of contemplation, the pale woman takes it. And the butcher has nothing to say in the moment except a toothy smile, immediately guiding her toward the familiar path to his room. The sound of the bar and the commotion die away the further down they get.
“Used to do what, my dear?” He asks curiously as he starts to unlock the door, helping to guide her in once it’s open before he closes it behind them. “Luckily for you, darling, I don’t plan on vanishing or dying.” He shrugs lightly, moving to the fire to add a couple more logs to it, utilizing his fire magic to draw it up higher, to start to burn the newly added logs.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy /// everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
Sing to me, I am not doing well Getting tired of my own words
"This," she repeated vaguely, a she slipped through the open door. "Saving me from shit I should have been able to fix on my own, holding my hand, putting me to bed..." Sighing wistfully, Maea kicked off her shoes and headed straight for the bed to sit down. Perhaps she ought to be a bit more hesitant about it... but it felt rather pointless. If she hadn't been able to win the argument last time, she wouldn't stand a chance now.
"Are you going back to work?" she wondered, working on a button at the neck of the bartender uniform. Refraining from commenting on whether he'd be able to survive the curse of her presence or not, she was still undecided whether rest really was something she wanted. On one hand, if he left she would be able to sneak out again after a while. On the other, she would be alone...
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts
Scoffing at her words as she makes herself comfortable, Astaroth pauses before the floor length mirror to run a comb through his hair and inspect his attire for any tears from the scuffle. “Everyone needs help once in a while.” He murmurs casually, indifferent to her internal struggles. “I required help not that long ago. Dantalion was there to help.” His gaze lifts to peer at her from the reflection of the mirror, still incredibly casually, as if it were any other conversation.
As for whether he’s going back to work, he hums a touch as he considers it. “Somewhat. I must give an account of what happened to the soldiers where he is being kept.” The butcher shrugs lightly, but there’s still that tension bleeding from him that seems to suggest that isn’t the only thing he intends to do should he leave the room for it.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy /// everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
Sing to me, I am not doing well Getting tired of my own words
Meeting his gaze in the mirror, Maea could only hold it for a few moments before breaking off and looking down at her knees again. It didn't make her feel any better to know that he had been struggling. Quite the opposite, now she'd added stone to an already burdened person by freezing instead of fighting. And after all her lofty talk about rather dying than giving in - she was so sick of her own hypocrisy that it burned her throat.
"Oh." The tension in him was palpable. Recalling the way he had whispered to the red-haired man as he was led away, Maea bit her lip - and sucked in a hiss of pain as it aggravated the wound. Tasting blood, she debated whether say anything, but decided against it. "Alright. I'll just sleep then, I guess." Slumping down on the blanket, clothes still on, she closed her eyes and fought an overwhelming urge to drift off. But she wasn't going to; if Asta was leaving, she was going too. Whatever was up with him made her worried; it wasn't her usual style to pry, but this time she would make an exception.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts
“It would be good for you.” Astaroth comments, flashing her a toothy smile that she doesn’t see as she hunkers down into the bed on top of the blankets. He doesn’t say anything else, and instead moves to shed out of the shirt he currently wears, folding it neatly before he snatches up a white shirt, one a bit less fine and far more comfortable (and much easier to clean), before slipping it on and heading toward where Maea lays.
Tugging up the blanket over her, he turns toward the door. “I shan’t be long.” Comes the quiet murmur, leaving the cane behind in his room before he steps out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him. Still threaded with tension, a quick dip to the bar to tell them where he’s going, and Astaroth vanishes toward the prison in bundles of clothes, quite easily despite the cold that chases after him.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy /// everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
Sing to me, I am not doing well Getting tired of my own words
Humming something unintelligible, she didn't have to feign the soft sigh of comfort as the blanket was pulled up over her. It was a sweet gesture, and almost made her change her mind about following him. Almost.
Waiting for a moment until the sound of his footsteps had faded outside, Maea got up and pulled the shoes back on. Stealing a cloak from his hangers she pulled the hood over her head and glamored away her tail before slipping out into the corridor. Making her way across the Dusklight wasn't easy, but the real test came when she reached the door. Opening it went against everything she had been taught for over twenty years, and if it hadn't been for a group of revelers pushing past, she might have balked and turned back. As it was the got caught up in their wake, followed through the doorway - and found herself outside in the biting cold, with black night pressing down on the fires in windows and streetlights.
Panic burned in her chest as she tailed the Butcher off through the streets, his tracks easy enough to pick out due to sheer size and depth in the snow. She caught the back of him as he disappeared through the door to the Ironbolt penitentiary. Making her way around the building, she looked for a window to peer in through; the chance of finding another entrance was slim, but at least she should be able to see what he was up to. Straining against a jaw-creaking yawn, she raked her teeth against her lip again; the pain brought her some clarity, and with bated breath Maea cozied up against the wall to peer inside.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts
Perhaps he should have known better. Either way, he thinks nothing of it as he trudges through the snow, a circle of flame around him to keep him warm enough for the trek. Relief only swells in his shoulders by the time he enters the penitentiary, and unknowing of his stalker does Astaroth easily charm the guards, words unheard until he’s slipped further in.
The general idea is the same, though, the fact they won’t need to worry about the prisoner for that much longer, paid in extra to let him take the prisoner out and away, though just how is left for the Butcher’s own discretion. The fox haired man is still cuffed, only bearing different ones this time as Astaroth guides him toward a different cell, and through the window Maea won’t be able to hear any of the words the butcher says, but it does appear as if he’s talking — all while he sheds his outer layers and begins to roll his sleeves up.
The general idea, though, is that the fox haired man picked the wrong establishment. This particular room, sound proof and far enough away from the other offenders, Astaroth has free reign as he enters the cell with that same too toothy smile and tension, with a knife that suddenly finds itself lodged into the other man’s shoulder. Blood spills and Astaroth’s tail waves like a content cat, drawing forward to pin the cuffed man to the bars, hand pulling out the knife to let the blood spill before he uses the bloody blade to lift the other man’s chin up, snarling something before his other hand moves to press against the bleeding wound, relishing in the touch of the hot blood.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy /// everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
Sing to me, I am not doing well Getting tired of my own words
Her bad feeling proved well founded. With a sinking feeling Maea watched Asta smile and charm his way past the guards and into an adjacent room. Shifting position to another window, she watched with increasing worry how her friend - the confessed cannibal, the same person who had just saved her from a terrible experience and tucked her in like they were actual family - reached for a knife.
Clapping a hand over her mouth to suppress a cry as the blade was flung at the man, her stomach roiled as the saw the way Asta acted. This was more than just interrogation; more than punishment or simple duty. He was enjoying it. The blood, the pain - she couldn't hear anything but there was no mistaking the screams that had to be tearing up the man's throat, nor the fear in his eyes.
It was awful. Horrifying beyond words. She had to stop it, stop him - and yet, she couldn't bring herself to move a muscle. Transfixed, she stared at the scene as it unfolded, unable to look away.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts
He is relishing it. It fills that gap of his bloodlust tenfold which had started when the fight broke out in the first place. And not unlike the last ice mage that had taken out his anger on him, this one will certainly meet the same fate. The blood is sticky as it coats his hand, warm enough to spur him further, enough that he (unfortunately for Maea to bear witness) leans forward to tear away a portion of the man’s clothes along his collarbone and shoulder, diving in immediately with those sharp teeth to bite a chunk of flesh out of his skin.
It’s proof that those teeth are just as sharp as they look, though, for when he draws back and swallows down the bite, Astaroth seems to practically vibrate, the butcher immediately stepping away to collect a few other items, bandages of sorts that he returns to the man to tie up the wounds, to keep the blood from dripping further onto the floor, and a gag to prevent him from speaking as he regards the other man with a critical eye, poised and content despite the blood drying on his face.
The cells are reinforced to keep powerful prisoners, at least, but it means Astaroth harbors no magical ability either, so he makes up for it in the unique way he wields the knife. And after only a moment of consideration does Astaroth rush the man again, slicing and collecting bits and pieces of the man until he takes just enough pity to put the man out of his misery.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy /// everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
Sing to me, I am not doing well Getting tired of my own words
The paralysis held only for so long. It was the nausea that snapped her out of it. Sick to her stomach, Maea tore away from the window and ran, stumbling and staggering off into an alley where she doubled over and retched. Over and over, unable to rid herself of the image of that gaping wound in her assailants throat, nor of the blood on Astaroth's face, she kept heaving even when there was nothing left in her gut to expel.
With the sour taste still in her mouth she began to make her way back towards the Dusklight. But partway there, her feet began to drag and she stopped, slumped against a wall. Going back... to what? To sleep in the bed of the monster who was busy feasting on human flesh at this very moment? Back to the house of a leader who knew what was going on and chose to do nothing about it? How could she possibly look either of them in the eye after this? It was sick, twisted, so utterly cruel that she wanted to scream in horror – and the worst part was that she once again had done nothing to stop it.
And these were the people that she had laughed and smiled with, so happy to be accepted. Choking on a near hysterical laugh, Maea sank to the ground and buried her head in the folds of the cloak. Cold be damned; she couldn't go back. Couldn't think of anywhere else to go; clearly she didn't belong in this place, yet there was nowhere else for her either. Had burned too many bridges - gods knew what options remained.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts
Everything goes swiftly for the butcher, and everything speeds up the second Maea’s not there. And even as he makes the trek back after having cleaned up, bundled back in his outer clothes, face free of blood aside from a slight stain on his cheek above the beard, does Astaroth return to the dark outside cold. The tension is gone, and in its place a different kind of buzzing beneath his skin. His posture returned and his steps light and easy, he’s halfway to the Dusklight when he notices someone slumped outside.
And how could he miss it? It was his cloak, after all. So he zeroes in on the figure, stepping over to crouch before her, head tilting as he reaches out to gently prod her shoulder. “Maea, darling, I told you to get some sleep. Whatever are you doing out here?” He asks, knowing fully well how she initially refused any idea to escape to the outdoors during Longnight here in the Grounds.
Waiting with far more patience than he usually has, Astaroth watches her curiously.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy /// everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
Sing to me, I am not doing well Getting tired of my own words
Upset beyond tears, too exhausted to fall asleep, a sluggish kind of haze had settled over the pale woman that only partly due to the cold. Her own thoughts were too loud, despair warring against doubt over the fractured shards of hope now scattered about her feet. The didn't hear him coming. And when he touched her, and she realized who it was, Maea flinched back like she'd been burned. Her head snapped up like a startled horse, face ashen in the dark; she stared at Asta, at the little spot of crimson still clinging to his face.
What was the doing here? Gods, if she only knew. It seemed so stupid now. "You were acting strange... I was worried about you." Her voice came out hoarse and quiet, barely more than a whisper; and the couldn't look at him.
Pushing herself up to stand, her joints felt stiff and sluggish; petrification would set in soon. That was the third fucking mistake this night.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts
She flinches back from his touch and he withdraws his hand with a look of confusion and concern that crosses the Butcher’s face. His head tilts as she explains before an easy smile coaxes its way onto his face. “There was no need to worry… I get that way after large fights. It simply sparks the bloodlust, that’s all.” His voice is gentle and collected. “So I spent an extra moment to satisfy it. I am fine now.” He informs her.
She moves to stand and he offers his arm again for her, blissfully unaware of what she’d witnessed. She’s sluggish and slow, though, and so he sparks some fire from a nearby lantern to try and warm her up. “Come, let’s get you back, mm?” He asks, leaving it up for her to take his arm or not, to make the last little trek back to the Dusklight.
Astaroth
i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy, i'm crazy /// everybody in the world knows i'm a little twisted
