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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!
The Barracks might as well have been a ghost in his mind too, just as much as the rest of the Grounds, both new and old, as he approached. Gone were portions of what he’d created in the past; the wood likely burned in the aftermath of the Spark Bird sieges, if not during the onslaughts against the LongNight monsters, then subsequently replaced. The structure itself was the same shell, but upon stepping in, the alterations were enough to make him realize any lasting impact he’d contorted had vanished into the years gone by.
And that was fine – time moved and labored on, and all the memories stored here were going to be just that.
Taking a deep breath and shaking his mind free of the lingering enigmas and phantoms, he snagged at a whip, and began to make his way out towards the training grounds themselves; the route still memorized. Zuriel and Belial meandered their way outside anyway, lingering by gates and fencing, and he glanced around to see if Astaroth had set anything up yet.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
Parting for the moment for Deimos to continue what he did actually enter the Inner Quarter for, it allows Asta the moment to evade any other crows that may make an appearance on the trek to the Barracks (luckily not a long one before he’s enclosed in it). He sets his bag down and does spend the time setting up the area for a few targets laid out, some choices of weaponry in case they wanted to try something else — but the butcher knows he’ll focus on utilizing the whip.
Unaware of everything Deimos has done for the Barracks in the previous years, the Sword will find the butcher out on the field, sizing up one of the dummies and testing the weight of the whip in his hand, its end coiled against the ground not unlike how his tail curls with his contemplation. Distracted away from the target with the sound of steps approaching, the butcher peels himself from the inspection to glance back at Deimos with a smile to see the whip in his possession too. “I tried to ensure that the targets were far enough apart to prevent us from accidentally harming each other, however if you have a better idea, please feel free to make adjustments.”
His eyes flickered to the targets at hand, nodding at the Ancient’s effectiveness. “Works for me. I can always make them move around too when we feel more confident.” He wrinkled his nose for juvenile emphasis, before meandering towards an effigy he now claimed.
Having almost no experience with the weapon, he raised his arm and gave a few more experimental flicks. The lash danced around in a variety of directions, and his head tilted, studying the refraction and ripple of movement, attempting to get an idea of control and composure with the object, well before he flung it near anything. He alternated portions of speed once or twice too, laughing when he heard a crack resound from the quick and swift motions, giving a boyish smirk and intending to do it again, only overhead this time. “This is amusing,” he regarded towards Astaroth, though that might’ve been conveyed already by his actions alone.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
“I will never say no to the potential of variety.” Astaroth hums with an accented chuckle as he moves toward the one he’s picked for himself – the whip equally as tested in his hand with far less control over it than he anticipates. But there’s a certain motion, a particular way to shift and adjust the way he snaps the whip that would make it react in a much more expected way – which is about the time that the loud crack is heard from Deimos’ own testing.
A bark of a laugh leaves him a bit louder, his shark toothed grin looking over toward the Sword in approval as the crack occurs again. “It is far different than what I’m used to.” He agrees, horned head tilting enough to keep the horn from getting in the way as he coils it up to begin trying to focus on his training dummy. “However, no less entertaining.” And terrifying, the second he had those bladed portions attached.
Gods it would hurt.
Coiling and stretching briefly before he makes his claim, the butcher shifts his posture just so, so that when he pulls the whip back in that arcing fashion and swings his arm forward again, it misses his target but resounds with his own loud crack that echoes through the Barracks.
He tested it a few more times, some for pure entertainment, and some for truly gaining aspects on how to maneuver the object. More than once he was surprised by its trajectory, but with a little less, or more, force, he could start to implement it by degrees. Nothing of any sort of mastery, but certainly in the direction he wanted it to go in.
Eventually he advanced towards his target, grinning back at Astaroth. “Agreed.” It was no blade, spear, staff, or bow, but he could see where, if in the right hands, it could be formidable and voracious. No wonder it was utilized in torturous events.
Opting not to go that route, he watched the Ancient try his first; the loud crack resounding and reverberating, but not touching the effigy. Tilting his head a fraction, the Sword narrowed his eyes in focus and concentration, maneuvering his delicately; and while it touched the target, it certainly didn’t have a lot of oomph behind it. He snorted, then strived again to do the same, but with power and ferocity.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
In agreement and settled in to concentrate — because gods would they need it — the butcher watches as his whip misses the intended target, cracking an echo through the training arena. A dismissive snort leaves the butcher despite the smile that remains on his face, twisting up the corners of his lips. And he coils it back up as he watches Deimos take his shot.
It’s more on target than Asta’s had been, but without the crack and the force. But it’s a start, as they all end up being, and the butcher focuses again as he twists his body enough and flicks the main portion of the whip in time with the way his tail sweeps out for the additional balance.
This time when he flicks the whip, it’s a mixture of pure luck as it lashes out, smacking the target right in its side with a loud pop that has a bit of the feathery stuffing within it flaring out into the air.
In hindsight, they probably wouldn’t need the targets to move, based on how everything was going currently. But Deimos was having a good time foolishly trying with a new weapon, and his eyes glanced over to watch the rotation of movements again from Astaroth. On this interval, he had a much more encouraging round, and the Sword gave a snort of approval as tufts of stuffing dissipated into the air.
Which might’ve been all he needed to incite some seriousness into his motions. Striving to repeat the same process as before, only with more force, the whip resounded with a vital crack as well, and he watched as it came on a striking claim of the effigy’s lower arm; which would’ve been a painful sting across one’s skin.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
It’s honestly a better result than he’d been anticipating – he still finds it confusing and difficult to figure out just how to move the whip in a way that makes it so it aims exactly where he wants. He finds that it takes a lot of quick short movements to get it to go, like it’s an extension from the wrist, and that’s what seems to have the best result. Of course, it’s only the first hit, but he cements the thoughts to his memory to try again as he watches the feathers flutter in the air before falling in a slow swooping pattern.
Coiling up the whip again as he watches Deimos take his strike again, the butcher snorts a delighted sound to see it smack against the training dummy’s lower arm, the grin tugging on his face as he focuses back on his to test it out again. This time, he’s more fluid – his willowy frame making it easier to flow with it rather than try to control it. It rises like a snake, lashing out in an slash that dents into the dummy’s chest. No crack this time but the audible sound of it smacking into the thicker, sturdier portion of its chest.
Biding his time and winding the whip back into a formation he found comfortable, he still watched Astaroth perform his next motion; no resounding crack, but certainly a dominion of fortitude as it lanced against the target’s chest. Tilting his head, wishing he’d concentrated more on the movement to see how it had developed, he took a long breath, and figured he’d continue with the trial and error proceedings.
On this interval, rather than utilizing all the power in his muscular breadth, he opted for minor motions through his wrist; and it snorted when the proceedings unraveled in a much more expansive array of wavering around by the whip. Amused, he tried again, snaking it across the ground, until it could reach upwards and strike at the effigy’s abdomen.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
It’s a strange thing to wield, unruly as it appears to be. But as Astaroth slips the whip back toward him, trailing it out behind him, he finds it isn’t all that difficult to get used to the motions. Straight up and down, higher to try and make the loop above his head to crack (though he imagines he’ll be doing less of that when the bladed portions are attached). If anything, it’s to be a slicing extension, and he treats it as such in this practice.
Watching as Deimos takes his turn and the whip acts more like a snake than anything else, a low rumble of a laugh escapes him to see the success of it striking at the training dummy’s stomach. He waits comfortably as the Sword returns the whip to a starting position – stepping forward this time to stretch the whip out a little bit further. His hand motions continue to follow the same pattern, lifting up and to the side slightly, able to unfurl the whip’s end to slash across the abdomen.
A too happy smirk blossoms on his face to see his success, though, in spite of the soreness his arm is starting to feel.
Their turns taken back and forth in a silent oath to ensuring neither of them were in the way of each other, the Sword watched Astaroth’s demonstration once more, eyes catching the extension, the slashing repetition. Though potentially wild and chaotic, it held its own particular brand of deviousness; maiming, ripping, and tearing without the need of a blade. “I can see why so many have used it before.” A comment, not about torture, because he wasn’t aware of how much the Ancient might’ve gone through in the past, and Deimos had been held captive before as well; though never with the whip slashed across him. “Nasty little thing.”
He went for swiftness again, flicking his wrist as his own armament encountered the air in a resounding crack, before spilling across the upper chest of the effigy. Stuffing tore and burst in little flurries, and while amused, the Warden was reminded of why he favored the blade. At least those weapons were quick to dispel if done correctly – the whip seemed to be a slow burn of acrimony and derision. Contemplating, and needing the movement, his inquiry rumbled along after the lash. “Want to try against a moving target now?”
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
“As can I.” Astaroth hums, his amusement vibrant in his tone as he watches the training dummy he’d assaulted with the blunt, yet sharp edge of the whip. “It harbors a certain balance of normality amongst chaos that is lovely.” Drawing up the whip so Deimos can take his turn, the sharp smile that greets him is almost as apologetic as it is honest. Dygra was the goddess of entropy, and Astaroth embodied a certain distinguished chaos that he thrived for when it came to his goddess. He imagines it isn’t that surprising to hear the words fall from his lips.
At any rate, his grin widens as he watches Deimos take his next move – embracing the sound of the crack as something just as beautiful as the slash is as it whips across the training dummy. Before he has a moment to figure out just how he wanted to attack this time, he stretches out his arms in the interim, when the Sword’s question reaches him. A shark toothed grin is shot over at the other man, inclining his head in agreement. “I would be delighted to try.”
Given that Deimos had often lived within the realm of chaos for so long that it often felt normal, he snorted at the statement. The whip’s arrangement had been enough to keep movements and motions interesting and intriguing, honing his concentration, and he enjoyed relishing in something new, different, foreign; never a creature of complacency.
When the agreement came forward about a target no longer still, the Sword gave a wry grin. Placing his own whip in a back pocket, he snagged at his Mastered Air incantations, compelling their power through the rapid contortion and control. His initial notions were for Astaroth’s effigy – so that it began to lightly maneuver, twist, and turn in front of the Ancient, a certain prey aspect and unpredictability he thought the other man might appreciate.
oh wouldn't that be lovely? you would torture me whisper me the reasons that you hated me
Oh, and appreciate it he absolutely does. Ancient’s didn’t often have the same characteristics as their animals shifts like the Attuned had ingrained within them – but it didn’t mean that they didn’t have any. So when the training dummy begins to move, twisting and turning and shifting lightly, the butcher’s grin broadens and the fyrhund that thrived alongside his soul starts to come to play.
His tail weaves behind him in an almost perfect harmony to the form of his whip as he twists it, utilizing his arm like he had before, aiming to strike the moving training dummy in an attempt to pre-assume where it would be the second the end of the whip came launching out. It’s a swift and graceful movement, and before even a second passes the butcher is waiting to see if it hits – tail still waving eagerly behind him.
