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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!
// no sudden moves, don't make a sound they're out for blood this time around //
He despises the Crust. He always has. It’s his least favorite subsection of the Climb specifically because it harbored Angel’s End. It’s also his least favorite because it has the majority of the population of gore crows in its midst. Obviously the corvids can also be found deep below, but up here? Multitudes of nests and the open sky met them.
A perfect place to spread one’s wings if they were avian in nature. Of which, Astaroth is absolutely not.
But here he sits, looking worse and worse as the days drag on, waiting for Thalassa’s imminent arrival. The butcher is fidgety, twitchy and generally uncomfortable, with an attire that isn’t exactly the fine fabrics he traditionally wore. He’s dressed down, a loose shirt worn to be a touch baggy around his shoulders, still tucked into his pants at the very least. His tail whips like an upset felines as he spins the threaded cane against the lip of the jut of lava rock he’s standing beside, unsure whether or not she wished to practice magic or weaponry — so he’d brought both. An almost manic preparation of his magic, and a variety of weapons hidden on his person while the cane stole the show.
Half was for the training and half was for the peace of mind in regards to the crows, hoping that the sooner he gets done with this the sooner he can obtain the charm and actually get a good night’s sleep.
When Thal spots Asta, she's not surprised to see his gaunt features, the nerves fidgeting from flicking tail tip to the toying of his cane. She knows this isn't something fun for him, and she tries not to let her own intrigues with facing him make it seem like she's minimizing his suffering, so she schools her expression, clipped pace quick but not hurried as she makes her way to him.
The first word out of her mouth wasn't one she said often, but she offers it, nonetheless. "Sorry for the wait, my First Mate is still learning to navigate." He'd somehow been reading the map upside down, taking them away from Jack Tar by miles. In her preoccupation with the coming spar, she'd stupidly thought Spook might have the wherewithal to know that the 'N' goes at the top of the map. She wouldn't make the same mistake again, even if she had to tattoo the rose compass to his forehead.
Whatever the reason, she's here now, and Thal fluidly removes her cloak to set it on a nearby rock, the glinting of her various collection of daggers catching on the ashen sunlight. It's a sign that she's taking this just as seriously as he is, and that she plans to help him through it as quickly as possible. Especially as she squares up against him, no preamble or warm-ups, just a nod of her head and the steady blue of her gaze as she asks, "Are you ready?"
// no sudden moves, don't make a sound they're out for blood this time around //
The second he hears her arrival and her voice, the butcher turns — tail curling around his leg as he straightens and tries for an easy smile that seems partially more stressed than it had been the last time they’d seen each other. “That’s okay.” He hums, his accent thicker like it had been the night they’d drank and she’d gotten full view of his Halovian accent, unmarred by his usual tendencies to smooth it over.
She squares up quickly and Asta straightens a touch more, casting a glance over his shoulder toward the cracks and crevices to see if there were any corvids in sight. “Almost. Did you want to practice magic or weaponry?” He asks, distracting himself with the words as he spots a couple of gore crows not too far away bickering amongst themselves over the corpse of a lial. He drifts closer to them against his better judgement, his smile completely gone as he focuses on taking measured breaths, swallowing down the rising nausea until they’re close enough that the crows can watch and the butcher is wholly on edge, jaw set tight as he looks back to Thalassa.
The crows in question look up from their meal and arguments, blinking curiously at the pair before they return to the status quo.
She can hear in his voice how the strain of the last week has pulled his control from every external component to something coiled within, a tension that requires all of his faculties to keep under wraps. Thal might have commented on how nice it is to see him stripped down, to hear his accent poke through, but the truth is that it puts her on edge. Her mind screams of something wrong. Something that needs fixing. Something to protect against.
Thal has to push past the urge, pasting an intentionally playful expression on her face. "Why limit ourselves? Let's use both." Just pure instinct and openness to help him through the spar. She'll be whatever he needs, a formidable opponent, a teasing distraction, or a supportive friend. Unsheathing one her obsidian daggers from her belt, her eyes scan the nearby gore crows, ready to intervene if they get any funny ideas. But when her gaze falls back on Asta, their blue depths are shockingly compassionate, a steely dose of encouragement that says, You can do this.
// no sudden moves, don't make a sound they're out for blood this time around //
She trails after him, even if the distance isn’t very far, and not unlike when he’d had to stay the night here, he finds his steps slowing the closer to the two corvids he gets. But they’re a good enough distance away he’s positive it’ll work for the quest, while still being as far away as possible.
He doesn’t turn his back to them, but he stands sideways, able to watch them out of the corner of his eyes as Thalassa prepares herself. Finding the compassion in the fiery blue of her gaze, it bolsters him, humming a low note and a nod. “Both it is.”
He doesn’t give any other warning before he eyes her stance and the blade in her hand, clicking the button of the cane so the blade becomes limp and coils against the lava rock. Summing a burst of fire into his hands, he launches the fireball toward her right side, lifting the cane to ready the whip portion for the next attack.
Noticing the way he keeps the crows within eyesight, Thal decides to maintain the same line of attack, at least giving him that comfort, although she won't hold back regardless. Her multitudes of daggers of daggers are ready to strike, her fingers steadily still. The thrill of adrenaline is a familiar feeling that she absorbs, directing into the appropriate channels to heighten and enhance without hindrance.
When Asta strikes, she's ready for him, bolting forward on quick feet to close the distance between them. Throwing her daggers may be the better choice, but fighting against his weapon makes her think closer quarters might give her an advantage. She uses her own fire magic with a flicker of her gaze, pushing the flames around her figure to obscure it as she lunges through, aiming for his upper arm with a controlled precision.
// no sudden moves, don't make a sound they're out for blood this time around //
Distraction is a terrible game for a man known as the Butcher of Whitebrim. And it’s precisely what gets her the upper hand in this battle — half focused on the wings of the corvids he can see moving in the distance and Thalassa as a near fiery shadow, gunning for him.
Hissing out a sound as her blade hits his shoulder, blood burns to the surface and dampens the shirt that covers it with a slice of the fabric to show for it. But, with the realization and the sharp burst of pain, it focuses him better.
Not unlike a shark might, he zeroes in on her, the bladed whip coming down in a strike with a sharp arc to try and meet her halfway before she can get away, turning himself out and away to try and gain some distance.
She'd meant to control her strike enough to prevent bloodshed, but the fire makes it hard to gauge her distance, and she feels as his skin gives way beneath her blade. The obsidian dagger bursts into flames, indicating her successful hit, although she doesn't feel the usual sense of victory. Wanting to pit her skills against a friend doesn't mean she has any intention of actually hurting them. Thal is vividly reminded of all the times she'd unintentionally injured Hadama, guilt welling in her chest.
There isn't much time to wallow as Asta narrows in his focus, a downward trajectory of his whip rushing for her. Thal drops to a roll, attempting to make it past to swipe out her leg against his. If she hits, she doubts it'll be hard enough to drop him (although that would be quite a feat). In her movement, she notes the sticky warmth of blood on her forearm, faintly aware that she hadn't fully dodged the blades of his weapon.
// no sudden moves, don't make a sound they're out for blood this time around //
He doesn’t mind it, to be honest. He’s always been more of the ruthless kind, and if you couldn’t train without drawing some blood from a friend, then when would you truly be prepared for a fight? So if anything, it draws his focus and attention enough to return the favor, even as he feels the dull thump of her leg against his.
He keeps his balance, grits his jaw, and keeps his weight on the same leg she’d tried to strike out at. Using this moment, and perhaps a show that the more playful side is still there, the shadow cast by her fire reaches out to smack her leg to try and push her slightly off balance — granting the butcher a faint smirk as he draws the whip back and away from Thal.
He uses his Peter Pan to try and smack Thal’s leg!
Magic: Peter Pan | Can control their own shadow. Shadows are 2D, have a strength of 10 and can weakly effect physical objects around them (within the natural range of the shadow, shadows are flat so they can hit things, but not grab them).
Type: Grey | Rank: Upgraded
To no one's surprise, the tower of a man doesn't fall from the flick of her leg that compares to the size of his forearm. She at least gets a grimace, but she barely notices it before it shifts to a smirk, a gentle shove of her legs pushing her off balance, her hands reaching out to catch her from faceplanting on the stone ground. Knowing exactly what did it, Thal can't help the chuckle that breaks through her seriousness, just glad to see that Asta isn't panicking.
From her very low position, she decides that she can play a little dirty too. Shoving her hands into the ground, she aims an elbow at the back of his knee. She might not be able to make him fall, but she could at least drop him down a peg, her own evil grin spreading across her face.
// no sudden moves, don't make a sound they're out for blood this time around //
He twists as he watches her get off balance, a certain smugness to his attention now even as he temporarily forgets about the gore crows in the distance. It won’t last, but for the time being it’s enough for him to click the button on his cane and bring the broken chunks of blades back into one solid piece. It’s also precisely the time that Thal decides to take advantage of the fact he’s more of a willowy beanpole than a heavy statue, and her elbow meets his knee.
Huffing a sound, it has him stumble slightly – his knee buckling as he uses the cane to retain his balance. Right when he’s about to push up off of it and slide the flat part of the blade toward her to try and push her away with the least amount of damage, one of the gore crows begins to croak its argument again, causing Astaroth to flinch sharply and stumble in his motions.
“Fuck.” Comes the hissed out curse, the sharpening again of his jaw as his tail whips sharply and he tries to regain his balance to spin toward Thal, even if it means putting his back toward the corvids.
There's a greater level of satisfaction that blooms in her chest as Asta's leg gives way, the satisfaction of bringing down a larger opponent. She can't help the light laugh that escapes, not as torn up about an attack that leaves skin intact. However, as his movement to counterattack stutters, her own motions slow in silent assessment, the humor leaving her.
Hearing the croak of the crow, Thal instinctually twists around his other side so that she's between him and the murder again, letting him see them behind her figure as she gathers flames in her hands. There's a determination in her eyes that she tries to share with him, a final push to finish their spar so he can achieve everything he's so close to grasping. Partially to block his view of the corvids, and partially just because, she blasts her flames towards his head.
// no sudden moves, don't make a sound they're out for blood this time around //
She moves just as quickly, so that when he twists around to face her she’s already moved to block his line of sight from the corvids. It’s enough of a surprise that he can’t quite understand it right this split second, but there’s a glimpse of something in the tired dark of his eyes that says he understands. A silent you’re right meshed with a thank you.
They’re so close, and all he has to do is get through this and he’d be free.
But before he can comment on it, fire blasts toward his head and the butcher instinctively drops, even if it would do nothing to him – letting the fire burn against the tines of his horns. This time, though, with him dropped enough to be eye level with her, the butcher aims himself forward to simply tackle her to the ground in a scuffle.
She spots the recognition in his eyes a moment before she sends her flames crashing towards him. Just as it was meant to obscure his vision, it does the same to her, distracting her gaze enough not to notice the ducking tackle until it's too late, his body colliding with hers in a grunt of pressed air.
Thal instinctually grabs for his head and horns, trying to prevent herself from being thrown too far - not that she minds too much around the laughter that bubbles in her chest. It's hard to tell what's so funny, her lack of breath, Asta's hunched form plowing into her, or the murder of crows cheering them on behind her. Whatever it is, by the time she's landing on the ground, she's having difficulty analyzing her next move through the strange haze of humor. All she can think to do is try and twist their bodies so that she trades positions with him, hopefully ending up on top in the end.
