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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 first thing she did when she left the shrine was find her way to a bar, and the Dusklight was the first one that came to mind. Gliding in with enough dark energy to encourage any wandering eyes to keep to themselves, Thal stormed to the bar's counter, tail flicking sharply behind her. Her boots clacked against the floor, buried in the ruckus of the other patrons.
Smacking a hand against the wood, she pinned the bartender with her piercing blue eyes. "Bourbon." He didn't seem bothered by the command, sliding a glass her way that he then filled with an amber liquid. When he stopped short of halfway, she gave him a withering look. Shrugging his shoulders, he filled it the rest of the way.
Without hesitation, she downed the glass like any other seasoned pirate, the liquid vanishing without a single flinch or sign of struggle. Offering the glass for him to refill, she said, "I'm looking for Athtaroth." She ground her teeth against the pronunciation, hoping that maybe they would associate it with the alcohol. Some words and phrases didn't give her any trouble - and she tried to focus on using those - but she couldn't escape using the man's name.
i tried to start caring like you and like them when you said that i was killing myself
He doesn’t expect to be summoned – and he has half a mind to bark to the poor soul that comes to find him that they should mind their own fucking business. At least, until they mention all the signs that Thalassa was downstairs. And as it turns out, not much gets him out of bed or the confines of his lover’s embrace in a state such as this except something he deems to be important. So, to the Captain he goes.
It's an honor, really.
His hair isn’t slicked back or held back by much more than the way it curves around his horns, the shirt pulled on may or may not be his – in a strange shift of character, he can’t very well get into his fine clothes with a broken shoulder he can’t move. So it’s a large shirt he’s sure he’s seen Danta wear similarly to a cloak, but it leaves him open and exposed. One arm is through the armhole, the other bound to his chest and in a sling, the very same bandages roping up along his collarbone and radiating dark, nasty bruising along his skin, broken up only by the very rough and very deep scars on his chest that are now visible – ones of an indicator that he hadn’t lied when he’d said Dygra had saved him.
“I’m afraid I’m not really myself today, but..” Comes the low drawl, his accent less manicured and postured and perfect and far more gravelly and sharp sounding – his thicker whitebrim tone out on the surface. But he slinks into the space in front of her beside the bartender that refills her bourbon, and his eyes are dark as they are tired, but he is pleased to see her. “I make exceptions for my favorite captain.” Gesturing with the one arm that actually does work, he nods to an empty booth in the dark corner, wondering if she’d prefer privacy over the formality of everyone else getting into their business.
The Ancient's arrival comes just as she downs her second drink, waiting for the bartender to fill it again. She takes in his rumpled appearance with a widening of her eyes. Without his tailored suits and styled hair, she'd have expected him to look weak or soft - but it does the complete opposite. He looks wild and dangerous, less controlled and more unhinged like a rabid dog released from its ornate cage. The bruises and scars peeking through his haphazard clothes suggest a close familiarity with brutality that would scare most people, and his tone begs for violence in its depth. Even as his eyes hold the same softness she'd come to recognize from him, they're dark and threatening. Thal is surprised he agreed to see her in such a state, and a kinder person would have left him to recover from whatever this is, but she's just been cursed and isn't feeling very kind.
His words reassure her somewhat, and she shares a thin smile as she rises to approach the indicated booth. "Good tho hear." The hard 't' of the word comes out a little soft, and she has to keep from sneering at Asta as if it's his fault. Her jaw clenches so tight it hurts. She has to pry it open with her tongue, hoping it's not too noticeable.
Taking her place on the plush cushions of the booth, she sets her full glass on the table. Thal doesn't skirt the conversation, diving right in as she leans forward. "What happened to you?" Maybe it's the subtle concern that laces her tone, but she's able to control the pronunciation a little better this time, the word only slightly slipping through her teeth like a sailor's lull.
i tried to start caring like you and like them when you said that i was killing myself
For everything that’s happening lately, the butcher is quite keen on Thalassa’s voice – noting a subtle difference in the speech pattern (and the fact she’s downed quite a few glasses already) before he gets her to join him in the dark booth. He sweeps over with the same impeccable posture, if not a bit stiff, only succumbing when he sits amongst the cushiony booth, relaxing against the back of it. A few seconds later he with draws a pipe, already full of tobacco (something he'd kept on the other side of the bar just in case, and gods if he isn’t lucky to have it now.)
“I had the misfortune of getting too close to an exploding rock.” He hums in that same, too deep, dangerous tone, but the smile he offers her is as tight (upset about the ordeal) as it is similar to his old self. The pipe is lifted to his lips and with a flicker of flame guided from the oil lamp off the wall, he takes a long and slow drag, exhaling it slowly through his nose as he fixes her with that glint in his gaze of curiosity. “What happened to you?” He counters, head tilting as the smoke curls slowly from where it had sunk into his mustache and beard.
A hush settles like a shroud, broken only by your uneven breathing. You pause, waiting for any sign of life, yet all that meets you is a heavy emptiness. The prickling certainty that you’re being watched saturates the air, unwilling to vanish no matter how hard you look for its source. This does not count as a Random Event for levelling or MP. There will be no further admin/re intervention.
Not trusting her voice, Thal let's her eyes do the talking. They're narrow and sharp, clearly questioning his excuse with an unspoken, 'Suuure. A rock.' She wouldn't push, but she doesn't know why he'd hide such a thing unless it's a source of embarrassment. Maybe the rock was oddly human shaped.
Despite her own predicament, she's not feeling quite as close-lipped, bitterness curling her lips up in a humorless smile. "I prayed for Dygra." Offering her hand like a delicious morsel of food (or information in this case), Thal completes her phrase. "Goth a curthe." Closing her fist, she tips back her glass to keep from grinding her teeth into harmless nubs. There's no way he didn't notice it now, the way her words are thick with the disobedience of her own tongue, distorting her words like a funhouse mirror.
Thal swears someone hears her, their gaze blazing into her skin with enough judgement to disrupt her breathing. Looking around to pin the culprit with a threatening look, she's met with nothing but the bustling of the bar. No one pays them any mind except for an occasional curious glance for the Butcher's sake, which is immediately aborted with appropriate fear.
When she turns back to Asta, her expression is barely contained fury, daring him to say something about her situation.
i tried to start caring like you and like them when you said that i was killing myself
Her unspoken judgment is enough to spark a soft snort from the butcher – both amused and yet not, shaking his head slightly. “Lightning struck a rock and turned it into a projectile. I took quite the brunt, I will have you know.” He explains with that same sharp tone, this time a touch of frustration lingers in the way his nose wrinkles – as if embarrassed to have let it happen in the first place.
As for her, though, he watches with that calculating, quiet gaze of his as the smoke from his pipe curls around his nose before he takes another slow drag – brows pinching as he takes in the information and his own gaze flits to the rest of the Dusklight as the feeling settles. He has to keep from clenching his sharp teeth, too, but when he finds nothing out of the ordinary, the butcher leans forward – his elbow bracing on the top of the table toward her. “That is.. Terrible. Did they tell you how to rid yourself of it?” The spirits, he means, because in no way could he see Dygra cursing a loyal follower.
Running her eyes along his injuries again, she leans forward with interest. "Hmm. Did you geth whath you wanthed?" In other words, 'Was it worth it?' After all, nobody picks a fight like that without a purpose. The situation would be even more painful if he'd failed in his goal. Similar to how she had.
Thal looks down into her glass again, swirling the liquid as she tilts the glass along the wooden table. A sigh prefaces, "Yeah... Thongue twithterth." The irony is not lost on her, and she has to wonder if her jawline will sharpen with all this teeth grinding. That, or her teeth might fall out, making her an even more formidable pirate.
The prickling of her neck makes her suspicious, adding, "Maybe they followed me. Thomething feelth.... off." Her blue eyes scan the bar again, looking for anything that might be out of the ordinary, yet she sees nothing, again. It just makes her more frustrated, fraying at the short fuse of her anger tonight. "They probably jutht want tho thee me thay, 'If a dog chewth thoes, whothe thoes doeth he choothe?'" She says it pointedly towards the opening of the booth, only loud enough for any 'spirits' that may have decided to buy a front row seat to her suffering. The bitter tone washes down with another gulp of her bourbon.
i tried to start caring like you and like them when you said that i was killing myself
She does bring up a valuable point, and it does well to smooth down the figurative feathers that have been ruffled from the memory – thinking back on it with a slow nod that he doesn’t try to cause more pain to the bruising that radiates up through his neck. “I would say it was indeed worth it, if that is what you are asking.” The smile twists a touch softer, despite how he flips the question onto her.
Leaning forward in spite of the terrible feeling that remains, the butcher’s focus is back on the captain, taking in each and every word she says, parsing them between the lisp. “Tongue twisters, mm?” He muses, leaning back a little when she too says something feels off. Shaking his head, he huffs a quiet sigh. “It is not just you. It has been happening here lately, though I am unsure why.” Just the other day with Danta and him, he’d experienced the very same thing.
As for the short fuse she boasts, Astaroth knows all too well what that’s like, and he does a beautiful job stifling the urge to let his smile blink into full blown amusement as she tries to give the tongue twister a chance. Parsing it, though, his head tilts, dark hair falling from where it’s tucked behind his antler. “Hmm, I am happy to help you practice it, if that is what you would prefer.” He raises a brow toward her, watching the display before him as he realizes the amount of alcohol she’s downing would likely help very little in not trying to slur or lisp.
At first, the redirected question and following smile make her think he's making fun of her, but its softness eases the bristling of her pride. She still narrows her eyes as she lightly shrugs her shoulders. "Good." As long as Asta feels the prize is worth the injuries, she can't say she pities him. If anything, he should wear the injuries with pride; he earned them.
Thal takes another sip of her bourbon to calm the creepy sense of being watched. "I haven'th notithed much on the thea. I wonder if other platheth ('places' for those that don't speak lisp) are feeling the thame." She can't tell if he's having difficulty understanding her, but Thal tries to ignore the lisp, hoping if she doesn't acknowledge it, other people won't either. It's easier than picking her words.
The alcohol may not be good for the control of her tongue (although she'd need a lot more to be drunk), but it's certainly helping with her mood. She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her dark horns to calm the anger boiling within. It isn't Asta's fault, and his offer for assistance reminds her of that. "Ath long ath you don'th laugh." It's soft and gently threatening, but still permission. She's going to have to practice at some point, and it might as well be in the company of a friend. Leaning back with another sigh, she swirls her drink again. "It'th the 'eth' thoundth that are really getthing me." Considering she can't even say the letter 'S,' she'll just have to hope that the Butcher understands her abomination of pronunciations.
i tried to start caring like you and like them when you said that i was killing myself
“Mm, I haven’t ventured out to ask. I have been occupied, as I am sure you can see.” He admits with a hint of amusement to his face, gesturing once more to the broken shoulder and collarbone in a slightly dramatic flare that only has the open shirt widening a touch, showing the extent of the gnarled, rootlike scars that are carved and rough into his skin to see how they extend all along his chest toward his stomach, winding around toward his back.
It makes the scars on his arms appear like nothing, despite their pale slashes against his tanned skin.
Watching her as his offer is made – one in good faith and without an ulterior motive, the butcher settles and nods, keeping that soft twist of his sharp smile aimed at her. “Would you like to practice here in the open or in my office?” He asks, taking note of which letter seemed to be more difficult for her to pronounce. It makes him wonder briefly how her Zs are. “I do have quite a collection of bourbon there.” A tempting offer, perhaps?
The topic of creepy eyes and shadowy figures is one she's happy to leave behind, glancing down at the scars that become more exposed with each movement. Some may feel pity or disgust for the display, but Thal isn't bothered by the gnarled appearance, knowing that it's a visual representation of all that he's overcome to transform into the man before her. So she doesn't hide the way her eyes dip to the opening of his shirt before lifting back up with a playful grin. "Watsch outh. If you keep thowing that musch thkin, I mighth think you were theduthing me." Apparently the 'CH's also give her trouble (don't worry Asta, the 'Z's will be just as tricky), but she hides the irritating information with a joking wink.
Although his offer to relocate to his office doesn't help the joke. Her cheeks stretch into a wider smile to fight the laugh that tries to escape. Perhaps it's the alcohol kicking in, or the fact that Asta is being such a polite and accommodating gentleman about the strange situation, but she can feel the anger dissipating by the second. Annoyance and frustration still tinge her actions and mood, but none of it is directed at the Burcher when she says, "That'th a fanthathtic idea." Thal downs the dregs of her current beverage and moves to the edge of the booth, ready to follow him.
i tried to start caring like you and like them when you said that i was killing myself
Admittedly, it takes a lot to get through the butcher’s bad moods. But Deepfrost has made him softer, and being injured to the point he can’t even utilize one of his arms has him a touch on edge in a way that has him choosing not to pick fights at the present moment. So when he hears Thalassa’s comment, it takes him by such surprise that he blinks at her for a moment as if unaware she’s just said what she just has, before a low chuckle leaves him and his smile turns into something more playful and fun rather than sheer soft politeness he’d offered her earlier. “Ah, but we are in a brothel, is it not part of my job to allow people the idea of what ifs?” He teases, humming another soft laugh beneath his breath as he slips out of the booth.
Content to have her follow him, he waits for a moment until she’s ready, before he picks a path through the throngs of people – drifting further toward the back where the light has become darker and the Dusklight has gotten headier with all kinds of actions often done in a brothel. But the butcher pays it little attention, slipping toward the back to hold the door open for her to slip into before him. Once the door closes behind them, the back rooms are quiet and warm, and he guides her to his office – across from the Theocrats door – into a warm and comfortable room with a fireplace already going that he stokes a touch higher now that it’s just them. Warmth flares and he sends sparks of flame to the oil lamps all around, gesturing for her to take a seat in the comfortably cushioned seats before he sits at his desk on the opposite side, flanked by the flickering flame of the fireplace behind him.
Withdrawing his favorite bottle as of late – a Halovian whiskey that’s bound to be stronger than the bourbon at the bar, he lets her inspect it before he pulls out the two glasses to accompany it. “So… Where do you place your tongue now when you try to pronounce an ‘S’?” He asks, dark gaze flitting up to her as his horns and the flame cast a long dark shadow against his ornate wooden desk.
Thal notices the shift in his smile, the way he seems to ease with the joke. It's a pleasant change that makes her own grin soften. At least his humor has survived his injuries. Eyes twinkling, she shrugs her shoulders. "Hmmm... then we'll have tho leth them imathine." And being in a brothel, she has no doubt that the patrons have quite the imaginations. So as she follows Asta out of the main bar, she sways her hips seductively, shooting a few men flirtatious winks. Let them wonder.
The back rooms aren't really what she would have expected, at least not in comparison to the rest of the Dusklight; but Thal supposes this is the 'business' side of things. It's expected to be more composed and welcoming. She actually doesn't mind it, enjoying the quieter atmosphere that loosens the feeling of being watched. And as Asta flares the flames and lights the sconces, she appreciates the warmth that fights against the Deepfrost weather just outside. She settles into the chair with the comfort and confidence of her title, feet dangling over its side to show off the heeled leather boots that lace to her upper calves. Her arm drapes over the other side as she waits for Asta to offer her a glass of the delicious looking liquid. In the meantime, she takes in his office, not hesitating to answer his question. "It'th thtill againtht the tip of my teeth, but it thlipth through." Like trying to hold wet soap tightly in her hands, the harder she tries, the more it slips out of her grasp.
She can already feel some of the words improving with the practice, gaining a semblance of their original intensity. Hopefully, between the two of them, she can kick this issue to the curb before many others find out.
