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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!
"Are there very many like you? Or are they all mostly..." Rolling her wrist, Flora debates whether it's permissible to refer to the newbies as old-ascended, before opting for: "..newer?"
But then before their plans can be cemented more than they were, the mood shifts in a way the queen certainly wouldn't have predicted it would.
Flora gives her head a little shake to absolve the butcher of not knowing, not quite trusting the strength of her voice for a moment. However as his arm tightens around her she softens, and though moments before she'd been thinking of how he might soothe his tongue between her legs (and would his horns get in the way..?) now she adored him for entirely different reasons. "Thanks." She says in a small voice, once she's able, the word hardly more than a breath in the diminishing space between them.
Damping down her surprise as if not wanting a massive shift in her expression to somehow scare the moment away, as Asta's fingers loosen another button, the queen sits up. Setting down her wine glass, she twists in his lap to face him. Immediately her hands go towards his chest, though she stays her fingers before they can press against the pale slivers that uncomfortably marr the body below. "And your choice is to keep them covered?" Flora wonders, her aqua eyes flicking up from his chest and searching his gaze. Her question holds no judgment, only simple confirmation that she's gotten it right. You know, before she tries to drag his shirt off of him and then wonders why things are suddenly not going according to plan.
“Danta is as old as I am. And there is another that is older than even we are.” He informs her with a slight quirk of the corner of his lip. “I do not know of any others from then or before other than us.” Not that he met all of the Ancients in Caido, of course. But he has a good feeling a majority of them are ex-Ascended.
But the moment shifts and Astaroth finds himself far more of a comforting figure than anything else in this moment, allowing her the time without judgment to regain her voice, to speak when she is ready and to offer his own because she’d started the conversation. So as she readjusts and speaks in as quiet of a voice as he’s ever heard from her, the butcher’s hands return to his shirt more fully while her own stay just shy of running along the marred scar tissue.
Meeting her green tinged aqua eyes in the firelight, his fingers continue to unbutton until he can sweep away the red fabric, revealing the entirety of the marred scar tissue that criss crosses along his torso and up along toward his shoulders, scarred and healed so poorly that the edges are raised and hardened over muscle. “Yes.” The answer is easily given before he leans in a touch so her hands can press against the hot heat of his skin, offering the exploration even if his eyes don’t leave her own. “People ask questions, you see. Or they come up with fantastical stories of how I received them.” His horned head tilts a little. “I prefer to be thought of from my actions rather than the stories carved into my flesh.”
The Butcher of Whitebrim sounded far better than the cannibal tortured and eaten alive by gore crows because he couldn’t keep his mouth to himself.
Having held her breath as Asta's fingers went to work on the other buttons so that she'd not disrespect him (or embarrass herself) by gasping at the sight of his scars, Flora's eyes widened at the brutal history written across the butcher's body. Some of the strokes appeared succinct whereas others were written with a far lazier if not more punishing hand. Others still, those that appeared the oldest, had seemingly taken on a life of their own, twisting over muscle and bone like rotten tree roots.
Flora's eyes flicker back to Asta's as he confirms, such that he'll no doubt see the way her lips tremble ever so slightly as he presses himself against her hands. The gesture had no right to be as hot as it was, but gods if Flora wasn't quite sure that the sudden heat in her belly wasn't something that could burn someone capable of even walking through flames.
Softly her palms traced the raised topography as her fingertips pressed against the untouched flesh. Letting the pathways of previous torture dictate where her hands roamed, it was only after a few moments that she realized she'd been holding her breath. "I hate that." The queen says softly, knowing on some level what it was to be questioned based on your appearance or to have stories supplement truths people were too lazy or ignorant to find out for themselves. Suddenly Flora's eyes narrowed a touch, as a shiver of mischief found its way back into her gaze. "I take it you're okay with a little bit of pain then..?" She asks, glancing over his shoulder at her bag before tilting her head ever so slightly to the side.
It’s a lot, he knows, so he silently lets her take it all in – taking note of the widening of her eyes, the way her hand is soft and not even remotely calloused where they run along the hardened scar tissue. Her lip trembles, another note mentally made, but he doesn’t comment on it. Not since he’s simply letting her take a look and see precisely what he covers up beneath all of his fancy attire. (It’s important to note, too, that she hasn’t seen his back yet, where even more of the same scarring can be seen, stretching out like roots so similarly to his chest but covering more surface area).
Instead, he lets her trace and explore to her hearts content, not quite realizing she isn’t breathing – because he certainly is, in the way his chest rises and falls softly, adding more or less pressure depending on inhale or exhale. Only when her voice is heard does the butcher flash that sharp smile again, a touch softer this time because the air feels like it requires it. “I do as well.” It’s why he covers them up.
But, her aqua gaze harbors mischief so suddenly that the chaotic part of him can’t help but to be captivated by it, his horned head tilting as his spaded tail continues to flick in the water idly, noting the fact that she’s looking over her shoulder to her bag. And color him intrigued, of course, because his smile takes on a mischief of its own, his dark brow lifting. “What gave me away?” He drawls with a hint of amusement, though the flame reflected in the honey of his eyes seems to say what did you have in mind?
"Call it an educated guess." Flora hums in a low voice, her smile giving the words buoyancy as she pointedly looked towards a few newer wounds amidst the hellish landscape; ones rather suspiciously shaped like fingernail marks and teeth. "Wait here." Sliding her hands up towards his shoulders in order to use him to help her stand, the queen went to her bag, retrieving a small jar of something as well as another bottle of wine. Slipping out of her shoes while she was at it—Asta wouldn't have reason to be looking at her legs if she did her job right—the queen returned took a moment to quickly refill each of their glasses before discarding the empty bottle.
Moving to sit properly astride the butcher this time so long as there were no objections, Flora unscrewed the lid of the jar with a secretive little bend to her lips. "There was no need for sunscreen down here, so I brought this." The queen explains. "My nonna's recipe, from when I was younger." The balm inside was murky in colour, though if they held a candle up to it the different strains of burnt reds and deep lilacs would blaze to life. She'd brought it with the assumption that he'd be putting it on her, (topless was her hope), but the queen was more than happy to adjust to this new set of circumstances. She was quite flexible after all. "Now, you have to promise you're not going to cry out." Flora says warningly as her lips bowed into a devilish little smile. "We wouldn't want to disturb anyone else." How impolite that would be.
Careful of his shirt, Flora applies a conservative amount onto one of his more ghastly scars. Immediately the air would smell of cloves, cinnamon, and some secret third element reminiscent of dying embers and woodsmoke. Presumably, if Asta kept his scars hidden, he probably wasn't keen to have them touched either you don't count, Danta which likely explained why it was some had begun to twist over themselves, adding yet even more layers of tissue onto an already hard scar. "These ones will probably never fade," Flora continues, her touch still soft as she distributes the cream across a small section of his skin. "But there's no need for them to stay so stiff." Lifting her eyes to his, as the queen's smile blossoms again she presses with her thumb hard against the snaking line of one scar in a bid to force the skin below it to loosen and give up its hold on the matted tissue above. While her hands might not have been calloused that didn't mean there wasn't 37 strength in them, which no doubt Asta would realize given how little effort she seemed to be expending in relation to the pressure.
Color him entirely intrigued with the look Flora harbors, especially as her hands smooth up against his chest and she stands in a very swift movement, giving him quite a good look at her legs as she does so (though he’s starting to think she’s doing that on purpose, he’s slowly starting to figure it out), he does help her where he can to let her stand and drift back toward the bags, and the butcher leans back on an arm to keep his back from being so hunched.
Watching with honey dark eyes as she refills their glasses and returns with a jar of something, focusing between it and her face as she properly straddles him and a ghost of surprise blinks into his eyes for a moment before it’s gone. “What might that be?” If it wasn’t sunscreen (something of which Astaroth seems quite unlikely to wear in the first place), what may have prompted her to bring whatever this was? Her warning is met with a snort and a raise of his dark brow before he gives into her request with an incline of his head. “I vow to keep quiet.”
Any other thoughts on it die immediately as he smells it — the warmth of the ingredients quite soothing all things considered, and Astaroth sits up a little straighter toward her as her hands find his scars again, as the warm scent wrapped around the balm, the small section she starts with has his gaze focused wholly on her despite the path her hand takes. “I had not figured they would.” Fade completely. After all, they’d baked in the heat in an attempt to heal after being ripped open again and again.
But then — gods, he’s forgotten how strong she is, like she didn’t save his ass against that shitty tree when it decided to smack him around — her thumb presses in against one of the gnarled, hardened scars and his nostrils flare with the sharp exhale (somewhat relieved despite the pain of it), that he can’t help but to pant a soft exhale to the ease of which she presses against those hardened scars. “You truly do think of everything, Flora, darling.” He practically purrs, breath hitching each time she presses against a particularly hard scar.
Smiling approvingly, though gods no small part of her wants to see just how tight a hold the butcher has on himself and what it might look like when it wavers—or at least she thinks she wants that, anyway—the queen nods.
The flaring of his nostrils has Flora sipping in a delighted breath as if she might taste the combination of pain and pleasure she was striving to coax from him as her thumb continued to forge a hard line forward behind which her clever fingers moved softly as if to scatter any lingering discomfort. "I don't like the feeling of being caught unprepared." She answers with a small raise of one shoulder before her eyes fall back towards the tapestry of torture she was trying to unmake.
Unless the butcher possessed the same sort of telepathy that Jack did, it'd be up to him to decide if what Flora did next was cruel for the pain it caused, was intentional for the pleasure it inspired, or if she simply had no idea of her own strength. Having already given the butcher a taste of what it was she had planned, after dipping her fingers into a bit more of the ointment she moved toward his shoulder where it looked like something lash-shaped had struck him again and again and again. Using the heel of one hand she pressed at its base, her other arm sliding around his shoulder as if for leverage, before she properly leaned into the movement. Her palm ground against the scarred flesh in an attempt to break up the fibrous tissues beneath in an unrelenting wave of force. Despite the way her body tensed around his as she focused, her expression remained relaxed, playful even as her eyes drifted between Asta's and the breaths hitching past his lips.
He has a very tight hold over himself — though with his relatively recent bloodlust hunt and the fact it was a person — makes him relatively tame at this present moment. That, and she’s the Queen of Torchline. She’d saved his hide. She’d called down a goddess to heal him. All things she didn’t have to do, but chose to do anyway. “You and me both.” He practically purrs to her as her hands work against the scarring, the strength behind them noted even if they weren’t calloused or rough like one might expect given the power behind them.
The butcher does not harbor the same magic that Jack has, thankfully, so he’s unaware of her plans as they start to go into motion. More ointment, a more pointed spot picked above on a shoulder that has him nearly holding his breath in anticipation. Now, he truly does expect it to feel like the previous test massages, only when she starts to utilize both hands does Astaroth’s composure start to break little by little.
There’s a light haze that enters the butcher’s dark gaze, the way his body both tenses and relaxes, the way his tail immediately departs from flicking in the water to wind around her middle where the spaded end rests against her thigh, where both of his hands now abandon keeping his posture straightened in the effort of keeping her close to continue, there’s the grunt of sound that passes by his lips with a whispered curse. But there’s no pushing away, no attempts to try and hide the way her hands move both so devilishly and wonderfully.
For a man that has delved out a lot of pain in his life, it shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is for him that so long as true torture isn’t involved, he actually quite likes it. “I never thanked you, you know. Officially.After the tree ordeal.” His tone has taken on a grittier hum, broken up by the hitching of his breathing. “Now it seems I have multiple things to be thankful for.” Focusing a bit more, his warm hands splay against the small of her back, dark eyes focused somewhat intensely on her own aqua ones.
"Something else we both have in common, mm?" Flora hums affectionately, her gaze sultry and warm in the glow of the candles.
While the queen might not possess any of the predatory instincts that her parents and the man whom she's curled around literally do, that doesn't change the fact that she's able to temper her pressure in time with the quickening of Asta's heart or how her eyes are intentionally focusing on the change in the size of his pupils or the shape of his mouth. One didn't need to eat people or even be a hunter to be skilled in the chase, and gods but if this wasn't Flora's favourite part of the entire game.
Having never had a tail coiled around her before, Flora finds the sensation utterly undescribable, and as the butcher's large hands fit around the small of her back, it's the queen's turn to have her breath catch in her throat. Blood rushes into her cheeks before banding across her nose such that the resulting contrast with her eyes made them look all the more blue for the flare of heat.
"No, you didn't, did you?" Flora agrees with a crooked smile. Because I closed the thread before you could. "I suppose now will just have to do." So saying, the Doubletake switches from using the heel of her hand to her thumb again so that the pressure might be that much more focused and intense. Waiting for another one of those heated grunts to leave his lips, Flora will lean forward to capture it against her own as if entitled to the sound. Arching her back into his hands, the muscles of her stomach taut between the coil of his tail and her hips pressed down against his own, with her lips as much as her hands she sought to feel the roughening of his accent this time in response to the pain, rather than simply hearing it.
Something else in common, indeed. Her hands feel like magic, both painful and soothing, all wrapped in the nice concise scent of clove, woodsmoke, cinnamon. His hands at the small of her back widen, helping to keep her precisely where she is, giving her all the boost she needs to continue to work at the rough, gnarled scar tissue.
Dark eyes find her even brighter blues, another huff escaping him briefly before her thumb replaces the pressure of the palm of her hand, a more pinpointed sharp pain that does succeed in having that gasp of a sound pass by his lips — a sound that he finds immediately muffled when she leans in and presses her lips to his own, and surprise paints every inch of his body. Not that he’s going to act like he’s been caught unaware.
So he presses back into the kiss, letting her steal the groan that escapes his throat. She presses into him and he remains like a pillar beneath her even as she presses her hips down. He doesn’t react much at all, until he breaks the kiss to press his forehead to hers, careful to make sure his horns don’t knock into her. “Flora,” he pauses, his dark gaze focusing down at the hands that cover his chest. “I, mm, I am not sure if this is a good idea for you.” He breathes, withdrawing slightly to look up at her with an apology flickering in his dark gaze.
That he's stiff against her, and not necessarily in the way she was intending, doesn't deter the queen. She expects it, really, given the differences in their life experiences shall we call, since age is just a number, and perhaps because of how quickly things have come about. But he's hot, she certainly is, and given that they're more or less secluded in their little section of the hot springs, why not? To that end she presses her thumb harder against him, the fingers of the opposite hand pulling to tighten the skin of his shoulder as if she might force his teeth to part and allow her tongue entry.
She wants to feel the edges of his teeth for herself.
But then he's pulling back away from her, his horns making it feel as if she was tucked beneath some woodland canopy. Flora expects to see dark arousal in his eyes and the reluctant flush of someone forcing themselves to slow down for reasons of propriety. What she sees instead are eyes that are focused on her hands (not even her breasts, god Asta), before they rise with a sheen of apology rather than desire. Biting at the inside of her cheek to still the sudden flare of insecurity and rejection his caution inspires in her, Flora gives her head a little shake before laughing softly in his arms.
"And why's that?" She purrs against him. "You've seen how well I can hold my own." Flora points out, raising a brow and softly brushing her nose against his as her fingers continue to mercilessly tug at the scar tissue. That at least, she knew he liked.
He doesn’t mean to spark insecurity, and it isn’t a full rejection — he simply doesn’t want to hurt her. It’s a mantra that has bloomed in his mind for years, broken up only so suddenly by Danta’s ability to handle him. And while he doesn’t doubt the Doubletake’s ability to handle anything, she isn’t Ancient, she may not understand, least of all the fact that he’d just as soon like to devour her supple thighs in more than the way she hopes he’d appreciate them.
Her head shakes regardless and the laugh blooms out of her, and the apology remains even as it darkens with the haze of the pain her fingers still spark against the rough scarring. (He does like it, don’t you fret Flora). “I am positive you are more than capable, darling, but I… Am a different kind of beast.” The admission flows easily, breathily as his breathing continues to randomly hitch with the movement of her hand. “I do not trust myself more often than not.” Does that explain it better? He can’t tell, his mind is fuzzy because of the way her hands continue to move in such delightful ways.
“I have a tendency to… mm.. How do I say it.” His head tilts, dragging his nose against hers again, lips so close to her own perfectly painted ones. “Do you know anything about the Ancient’s blood lusts?” Maybe it was safer to start there.
"If I'm as capable as you say, what does it matter what kind of beast you are?" Flora wonders a touch defiantly, and whether or not she's aware of the Pavlovian implications of what her hands are doing, the sharp pressure of her thumb gives way to the dull grating of her palm. She doesn't stop of course, but the star-bright pain was reserved only for when his mouth was against hers. For now, at least.
Resisting the urge to flop petulantly in Asta's arms and whine that she didn't want a discussion, she only wanted to fuck him right here and now, Flora instead takes a measured breath and tries to recall what Isla had told her previously about her inclinations as an ancient. "Like an insatiable hunger." She murmured softly, her body quivering for a moment in his arms if only because between the pair of them, hers required no convincing at all of what was to come and instead pleaded to feel his mouth against hers once more. "And not something that can be ignored. Isla..." The nearness of him, the heat from the pools, the fire the butcher had unknowingly kindled in her belly, all had the queen swallowing hard in an effort to keep herself from losing her train of thought in the honeyed blackness of the butcher's eyes. "...hunts. I suppose the other ancients have their own ways of satisfying it."
“Because it does matter.” Astaroth rumbles, keeping the close distance between them even as he wars with himself whether or not this is a good idea. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the clove scent intermixed with candle smoke, woodsmoke, and Flora’s own perfume in an indulgent swarm.
He listens as she explains, though, and she nails it pretty much on the head to his delight — because gods that made it a smidge easier. “Doing this sparks mine, darling, because it is impossible for me to not draw blood.” He hums, hands splaying a bit further along her lower back, his dark eyes focusing on her with more of an intensity akin to a predator than the apology before. “And I have a history of going too far.” A dangerous line to run, if one didn’t know how to handle him.
So he’d warded it off. It had been easy with how far and in between the butcher even sparked the feeling. “I am nicknamed the butcher for a reason, as much as I wish things were different at times.” Does he know if she knows that’s his little moniker? No, but he feels as though it sells the point.
