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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!
It's grounding in a way that so few minds are, to listen in as The Ark works things over until they seem clear to her. By feel is a rarity, and he can almost sense the phantom touch of her against his palms, whether flesh or wheel or rope, and when she smiles at him it's a startlingly easy thing to answer. "You've always been perfect, long before you looked like this or could sail the sky as well as the water," he says; there's a reason, after all, why his ship had always been his achilles, why he'd turn from a fight if it meant getting her home in one piece.
"Not by a long way," he agrees, of how much blood he'd spilled for The Ark. Whether to get her afloat and keep her there, or to protect the cargo she'd carried, or merely to make a point, she's right - it almost certainly won't be the last either. Especially not now.
His fingers tense at the warmth of her hand, just for a second, before he surrenders it to the touch of her fingers and her lips, the softness of her mouth something that already feels too good against his knuckles without even imagining how it might feel elsewhere. "I'd do it again a hundred times," he says simply. "Now c'mon - give sleep a go. You might like it."
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
She absorbs his words the way she’s always taken him in, not as praise to be weighed or tested, but as truth spoken from a place she recognizes as her own. Perfect, to her, has never meant polished or untouchable. It’s meant fit. Fit to weather. Fit to strain against. Fit to survive what the world throws and still keep moving. Jack is perfect to her in exactly that way, because he was never built for gentleness or ease, only for endurance and intention, and he has always expected the same of her. No lowered bar, no indulgent mercy, only trust that the other would rise, because they always had. Because they always would.
When he suggests sleep, it takes a moment for the idea to orient itself in her mind. The Ark exhales, something soft and tidal loosening through her, and lets herself sink down onto the bed, the unfamiliar give of it answering her weight in a way that feels strangely like settling into a calm port. Her fingers don’t let go of his hand; if anything, they curl more securely around it, as if some instinctive part of her knows not to drift too far just yet.
"So I just—" she begins, uncertainty flickering through the thought, and then a yawn catches her completely off guard. It opens her up from the inside out, wide and helpless, and the sensation that follows rolls through her like a slow, sun-warmed wave sliding over bare feet at the shore; heavy, gentle, inescapably kind. "Oh," she breathes, blinking up at him, ocean-blue eyes already glassing as her lashes start to drag. There’s genuine wonder in her voice now, softened and unguarded. "This feels...nice."
Her grip on his hand tightens faintly, a quiet tether, and she murmurs again—half drowsy, half amused, already slipping under—something that sounds very much like a complaint wrapped in affection. "I don't see why you don't do this more."
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze, but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
She settles in the bunk properly at last and Jack lets his hand remain hostage as she relaxes into the mattress and the pillows, his eyebrows raising in obvious amusement at the yawn that cuts through her words. "Oh," he agrees, stifling a quiet laugh and shifting to lay down beside her, a hand tucking beneath his head under one of the pillows. Her sleepiness is contagious, especially with the warmth and weight of another body in bed with him, and though Jack will never admit it, he's missed this.
"Believe me, love, I've tried," he mutters through a chuckle. Given the amount of magic he can conjure these days, sleep is more important to the Captain than it's ever been - which is why not getting any is a problem for more than just his mood. But she's already drifting off, Jack glancing across at her and watching as unconsciousness drags her down; he almost feels it, in fact, in the sway of the ship and the creak of the boards.
He doesn't know when he also drifts off. It's not right away, but neither is it in the early hours of the morning (a rarity right now), and the sun has long risen by the time he starts to stir. The air is already starting to grow stifling with the heat of it, and Jack's magic sweeps throughout the cabin in a soft, chill breeze to bring a fraction of relief. He doesn't move or open his eyes, though, too comfortable by far to consider such blasphemy.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
As sleep finally takes her, it doesn’t arrive as darkness but as rhythm. Only Jack, and Murphy up at the helm, would likely notice the change—the way the Ark begins to rock ever so slightly beneath them, not with tide or current but with something slower and steadier—a sway keyed to breath and The Ark's heartbeat. The ship eases into it as if humming herself into rest, the boards answering the quiet insistence of the woman asleep in the Captain’s bed. Under Murphy’s hands she becomes sweet and obedient, a physical lullaby that smooths the night into something gentler than it has any right to be.
In her dreams there is no cabin, no walls, no ceiling pressing down. There is only sea—endless and sunlit, bright enough to ache—waves shattering themselves joyfully against a hull that never falters, a prow that cleaves forward with purpose and certainty. Motion without resistance, freedom without question.
When Jack’s magic stirs the air at dawn, her reaction is immediate and instinctive. The Ark's heart kicks hard against her ribs, a sharp, startled rhythm, and her eyes fly open as she half-rises with a gasp, the phantom sensation of wind brushing her skin igniting the same old urge to go. For a split second her body wants canvas, wants altitude, wants the stretch and pull of momentum that has always meant alive.
Sleep-tousled hair spills over her shoulders, red darkened by shadow and dawn, her ocean-bright eyes softer now, unfocused as they search Jack’s face and slowly pull themselves back into this smaller, stranger reality. The distance between hull and skin takes a moment to reconcile, her mind stretching the way rigging does after a long night at anchor. Comfort registers next, deep, startling comfort brought on by warmth, weight, and the steady presence of Jack beside her.
Her lips curve, slow and knowing, and she settles back down again, the tension draining from her body like a tide slipping away from shore. Turning her head just enough to look at him properly, she studies him for a long, quiet moment, something reverent and faintly disbelieving passing through her gaze. "You’re still here," she says at last, knowing how rare it was for Jack to linger in bed these days. There’s awe in it, yes, but also the quiet certainty of someone who always knew how a story should go, even if she’s never woken up inside it before.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze, but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
The Ark lurches half upright in bed and Jack's magic hones in like a knife perfectly sharpened and ready to spill blood, even if he remains half curled on his side in the bunk. His eyes crack open, flinty in the morning light, and though nothing else in the room is out of place, the static that hums beneath his skin is ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. Only when sense filters through in the wake of instinct does he realise there's no danger, exactly, only the shock of something startlingly new, and slowly, as The Ark settles back down, his magic follows suit.
Blinking, he focuses back on her properly just as her voice sweeps softly through the air, Jack running a hand across his face and rolling onto his back to arch his back and stretch. "I am," he mutters, voice quiet and sleep rough. "...I slept." Without dreams, without waking; he'd slept hard and slept well, and only now as wakefulness starts to pull him into the world more firmly does he realise it. "I feel good."
Glancing across at her, he raises a brow. "Did the wind wake you?" He gestures to the soft breeze still circulating around the cabin.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
The Ark’s gaze follows the length of Jack’s stretch, the slow arch of him like a familiar motion seen from a new angle, and without thinking, she mirrors it. Her back curves, long and liquid, the linen of his shirt pulling tight over her breasts—a sensation that ripples through her in a way that feels like sunlight shivering across a calm surface—before instinct carries her the rest of the way: arms sweeping overhead, fingers flexing, her whole body drawing taut and elegant before easing back into the mattress with a quiet, satisfied exhale. A small hum slips from her throat, pleased and unguarded. "Good," she murmurs, the word warm and full, like a hold properly loaded.
When he asks about the wind, her smile turns unmistakably feline. She nods once, blue eyes bright, the answer a simple, eager, "yes," shaped less like a complaint and more like an indulgence. The way she looks at him—eyes focused, the faint lift of her brows—makes it clear she didn’t mind the feeling of wind in her sails first thing at all.
As she settles closer again, contentment rolls through her in slow, steady waves, and somewhere deep in her chest—where a keel should be, where a heart now is—the feeling takes on a quiet certainty. This, she seems to think without needing to say it, is a very good way to wake up.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze, but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
It is good - it feels good, and Jack glances across at her as she follows suit in a mimicry of a stretch that soon turns into the real thing. The effortless arch of her body, breasts and hips and pale skin kissed by the morning light, is enough to have other parts of him considering a good morning, the Captain almost rolling his eyes at himself as he gazes away again, rolling into a lazy sitting position. "I'll keep that in mind for the future," he says, feathering his fingers back through his hair. Whether that means he'll stop or that he'll make a habit of it is anyone's guess.
For now, though, a very good way to wake up or no, Jack glances down at The Ark with something quietly wicked in his smile, and he nods towards the cabin door. "Wanna go to the beach?" He asks it like he's asking her to do something salacious or illegal, and honestly given how things often end up for the Captain, that might just be the case. "It's your choice how you sail." Whether up on the deck with him like this, or cutting through the morning as sail and prow.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
The Ark’s first instinct at the word beach is a flicker of remembered discomfort—the memory of grit grinding along her keel—but it passes almost as soon as it arrives, smoothed away by curiosity and the promise she made herself. She had asked to see the world the way Jack does, and that means stepping where a hull never would, letting unfamiliar textures test her balance and her patience alike.
Her nod is immediate, bright-eyed and eager, the sort of agreement that belongs to tide and weather rather than thought. When she sits up beside him, the sheets slide and whisper like retreating surf, Jack’s shirt riding up her hips, her legs still half-hidden as if the bed itself is reluctant to let her go. She considers Jack for a second, before a smile comes, slow and knowing, the kind that carries heat beneath it. "I want to stay with you like this," she says, voice easy, certain, already decided. But her gaze dips, taking in the awkward tangle of blankets, the way Jack's shirt hides much of her, and something playful sharpens in her eyes. Stretching out one arm, she reaches instinctively and somewhere deep in her bones the ship answers, listing just enough to be felt, a lazy sway like a cat rolling in the sun.
Her fingers curl, as if around an invisible wheel. "I want you to sail me like this," she adds, emphasis warm and deliberate, the words carrying the weight of canvas and command alike. There is nothing coy in it, only trust and invitation braided together—the same way she has always given herself to him, whether as wood and wind or flesh and breath—waiting to see where he’ll choose to take her. "Unless you don't think you can," she tacks on mischievously.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze, but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
"It won't be as bad as that," Jack assures her, though how she deals with sand between her toes is something they'll have to figure out later. He's a little more alert already as she agrees and sits up, the Captain unable to resist not stealing a glance or two at her even as he pulls himself out of his bunk. With another stretch, this one popping his back deliciously, he pads across the cabin on bare feet to drag on a fresh shirt, flashing her a sly smile over his shoulder.
"I know I can," he purrs back, barely catching himself as the ship lists gently beneath his feet, Jack swearing softly under his breath and absently fastening his buttons. "C'mon," he invites, caring little for what she's wearing all of a sudden or how much the crew might be able to see besides that, "let's eat that horizon for breakfast."
Tugging on his boots and heading for the door, he'll wait for her to be as ready as she cares to be before leading them back through the corridor and up to the deck. Up here the light is golden and the sky blue and welcoming, and beneath them the Greatwood is a sea of forest green and birdsong.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
The Ark doesn’t hesitate. At Jack’s invitation she moves with the same instantaneous eagerness she always had when he stepped onto her deck with intent written in his spine, out of the bed and into motion before the idea can cool. Bare feet meet boards with a familiar certainty, the linen of his shirt skimming her thighs, clinging where it shouldn’t and refusing to hide the generous curves beneath it. There’s no self-consciousness in her at all, only purpose, the way she’s always worn herself whether she was all mast and hull or flesh warmed by morning light.
She falls into stride beside him easily, long legs matching his without thought, as though she’s been walking at his side for years instead of minutes. The fabric rides just high enough to have any who catch a glimpse of her to find themselves holding their breath and praying for a gust of wind reveal what's underneath. On deck, the world opens. Gold spills across canvas and rope, the Greatwood below breathing green and alive. Her hair burns maroon in the sunlight, rich and glossy as freshly tarred planks, and her eyes are the open sea; depth without edge, bright with motion. She glances instinctively at the wheel, the rigging, the set of her sails, cataloguing everything out of habit and then lets it all go. With her at Jack's side, none of it is necessary.
There’s a hum in her—not quite named, but akin to joy or excitement—something like a tide pulling hard toward open water. She turns her head toward him, that energy shining through her like sun through glass, lifts her chin with the same fearless confidence she once carried into storms. "Don’t overthink it," she says, voice low and sure, the advice she would have given him on their very first voyage if she’d had a mouth to speak with then. Her gaze holds his, wild and siren-bright, daring and trusting all at once. "You know how to sail me."
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze, but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
It's a familiar feeling, Jack realises, that spreads its wings inside her and catches on the warm breath of morning, because it's one that has echoed in his own chest whenever there are waves to slice or clouds to chase. His footsteps are a steady heartbeat on the deck, drawing the immediate attention of the crew who haven't long awoken themselves. Murphy steps automatically away from the helm, a little tired around the eyes from his vigil, and he tosses Jack a lazy salute (and The Ark a respectful dip of his head) before he departs to get some sleep of his own.
Turning to glance at her over his shoulder, his smirk mostly hidden by the fluttering collar of his shirt, Jack looks simultaneously like himself and like the wiry young man from back then - just as sure but not as reckless, just as bold but not as quick to anger. "I know how to sail you," he agrees, gaze lingering on her for a beat or two longer before, his silhouette lined with gold fingers of sunlight, he reaches for the wheel.
Tearing his attention from her as a woman and giving it fully to her as a ship is an exercise in discipline, and he isn't ashamed to say it. The rest of the crew are in need of that reminder too, as it happens; more than one set of eyes lingers on The Ark and her ample curves, the wild mane of her hair, the perfect plum of her lips, and it's only Jack's sharp whistle that snaps them around.
His orders are clear as they ever have been - more so, perhaps, carried by the air magic in his blood, and it's that very same magic that catches and fills her sails when the men adjust the rigging. The wood is sun-warm beneath Jack's palms, every grain and chip and splinter branded into his fingers, and once all is as it should be, he turns them into the wind, turns them west towards the Spillwave.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
The Ark lifts her fingers to Murphy’s retreating back and sends a kiss skimming after him through the air, light and laughing, then she settles at the rail, hip resting easy against it, posture loose and unguarded in the way she’s only ever been when Jack is at the helm.
Her presence there hums. Not loudly, but buoyant, a playful pressure that moves like a breeze looking for something to catch on. When Jack sets his hands to the wheel, everything should answer him. The rigging is right. The angle is clean. The wind is cooperative. And yet the wheel resists, stiff and stubborn beneath his palms, as though the world itself has thickened, as though they’re dragging keel through mud instead of gliding on borrowed sky. The sails don’t billow, buit instead hover, lazy and unimpressed, canvas fluttering uselessly despite the wind Jack has coaxed into being.
Should he turn, which he inevitably will, he'll find the Ark watching him. She'll be smiling, head tipped, mouth curved with feline mischief, eyes bright as sun on open water, and her hair will lift and stream as though caught by a private current, a breeze that somehow refuses to share itself with the sails overhead. "There’s no need for that," she says lightly, voice smooth as a tide slipping past pilings. Her gaze slides past him then, unhurried, taking in the crew still lingering on deck, the ones pretending not to look, the ones failing badly. For a heartbeat her attention rests there, cool and assessing, the way she’s always known the weight of bodies on her boards, before she shrugs. "..or them." Not with her sails open and her anchor up.
When her eyes return to Jack, the smile she gives him is all roguish invitation and quiet command, a curve of mouth that carries cunning, trust, and intent in equal measure. "Tell them to go," she murmurs, voice low enough to feel like a secret meant only for him. The wheel loosens a fraction beneath his hands—not enough to move, just enough to promise it will—as another breeze tugs at her hair and flirts with the bottom of Jack's shirt against her thighs. "Then come here."
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze, but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
For a moment the world unspools out beneath them, Jack caught between breath and sky and sail, but before he can get all bring me that horizon and send them streaming out and away from the Greatwood, The Ark - the one beneath his hands and his boots - seizes in a way he's only known her to do when something is wrong. Immediately his hands tighten on the wheel - not to force or to fight against the resistance, but to hold steady, to take stock and adjust course.
He can't feel any pain or uncertainty from her mind, so when he turns (yes, as she always knew he would) it's with confusion writ plain on his face. The expression takes years off him, right up until he spots that feline smile, the casual and inviting way she leans against the rail, the stream of her hair catching the light and setting her silhouette ablaze.
Understanding fits like a key into a lock, and with his mouth kicking up in a smile, Jack turns to order the crew to take a break. His tone is clipped, almost annoyed, as if to suggest that there is some battle of wills happening up at the wheel, and it does the trick immediately. They disappear from the deck to find something to do elsewhere (or somewhere to watch and listen), and only once all of them are gone does Jack slowly ease his hands from the wheel.
Despite everything he expects it to spin loose without his touch, and when it doesn't he takes a step back, then another, and turns to close the distance between them. "You sure?"
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
The hesitation on Jack’s face lands in her like a warm current meeting colder water, that subtle drag where two temperatures collide and something changes without either one meaning to. He comes toward her with the same care he’s always used when she’s behaved unexpectedly beneath his feet, hands steady, weight measured, instinct already braced for correction rather than control, unlike in so many other aspects of his life, and the familiarity of it sends a low, pleased hum through her mind. It's amusing to see it written on his face like this, the flicker of uncertainty cutting years away from him, but as she is the cause of it, it brings her only delight that curls through her with unmistakable satisfaction. Anyone watching might think it her siren song that draws the Captain to her, but Jack has always known when to pause for her. Her thoughts open like the sea at first light, dark still at the edges but gleaming where the sun touches it, a surface that promises warmth and depth and tells no lies about what it is.
A soft huff of laughter escapes her, more fond than mocking, and she rolls her eyes as if indulging him. "No, Jack," she says, dry humour threading through her voice like salt in water. "I thought for my first morning with you I'd crash us."
Her hair shifts as she shakes her head, heavy and alive, before she reaches for him, fingers closing around his hand with the same certainty she’s always used to guide him to the right rail, the right rope, the right angle. She turns, guiding him until he stands directly behind her, and the world stretches out beneath them; treetops rippling like a false sea, birds lifting in loose arcs that feel almost like spray.
She presses his hand to her shoulder, lets it rest there, lets him feel the truth of her through contact instead of resistance, and for a moment she simply stands with him, allowing the familiar weight of his presence to settle where it always has. When she turns, it’s slow enough that the linen brushes her skin and his shirt shifts against her shoulders, slow enough that he has time to see the eagerness in her eyes before she looks up at him properly. There is nothing untamed in her stare, only the same fierce, devoted clarity she’s always carried for him, now given a face.
"I am the Ark," she says quietly. Her gaze slides to the wheel, held in place by invisible hands beneath the morning light, and she lifts one shoulder in an easy shrug, the motion rolling through her the way a swell passes through a hull. "You can sail me the way you always have," she continues, voice smooth, almost indulgent. "All of you can." Then her fingers tighten around his hand. "But as long as my sails are up and my anchor’s clear," she adds, softer now, eyes returning to his, "as long as I am here with you...you don’t need to." Gods knew she was hard enough to sail as is, and in this body, she would certainly not be forgiving of an inexperienced hand.
The certainty beneath her words is not in defiance of the ways Jack has learned her but invitation for more; over decades Jack has learned to sail her through pressure and drift, through the way she leans into wind or drags against it, through the thousand quiet negotiations that make a ship more than timber and iron. Now she offers him a new way, a new language built from the same principles that have carried them this far together already. With words or touch or intention, she was sure that Jack would take to sailing her this way just as he'd learned her all those years ago, because beneath it all is a truth she has always carried for him: that wherever he chooses to steer, she will go with him, not because she must, but because she wants to.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze, but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
