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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!
Overwhelming, but not nearly as unmanageable as I anticipated.
That's how Ever had described it in those first few weeks with Fern. And Isla believes he'd believed it at the time, truly. In fact she still thinks that's the case, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Between the days growing colder, the nights drawing in, and the rain quite literally screaming at every opportunity, there have been more outside stressors than she can count, and that's without considering what hypervigilance and insomnia have done to Ever over a prolonged period.
Add in all the expected difficulties of having a newborn, and Isla's decision had come almost fully formed one morning - the same morning she'd found Ever feverishly rocking a cabbage to sleep on the sofa, truthfully. There'd been no time to even consider their moving house, not yet and certainly not with the aviator barely able to string two thoughts together, let alone for them to plan anything else, so the Remedy had tiptoed out of the house with Fern bundled against her a short time later.
She'd assured Everest that they would be back soon - and they are, he just... might not be expecting his daughter to be walking herself inside. "Here we are, sweetheart," Isla is saying to Fern, voice soft and warm and eyes still shining with a mix of awe and adoration, her arm around her little shoulders as she guides them back into the apartment. It had been her first time at a shrine since becoming Ancient, and whilst it had been to Frey rather than Dygra, there's always something humbling about the touch of divinity.
"Ever? We're home," she calls once they step inside, her tone tentative as if wondering if he'd taken himself across Torchline when he realised they'd gone out.
Fingers curl tighter against Isla’s pant leg, fisting certainty into her palm in the only way she can manage. Although there’s familiarity here, the world has cracked open with an abundance of new, and even the known has shifted into something else, given a different shape and understanding. Fern shuffles in with her mother’s stride like she means to become part of the very fabric that holds all her safety. Teetering on the cusp of bravery and caution, she leans warily around the barrier of limb, curiosity beckoning.
The cut of sunlight through the window, casting a sharp contrast on the floor, is where her eye goes first. What had been mystifying before, she now recognizes as the angle of light from outside, not two different planes of something, but one in different degrees of brightness. Slowly, her grip loosens, an audible breath taken as she steadies herself. A glance is cast up at Isla, a confirmation that passes silently, before she takes her first hesitant step away. Walking has been it’s own new wonder, one she rather thinks she’s mastered by the time they’ve made it here, although her toes flex in excess now as she crosses the floor towards the window-light.
Things are known, but not fully understood. Felt, but not experienced. So she reaches, once she deems it safe to do so, to grab hold of all that has shifted, realigning herself beside it. ”I liked this spot,” she says as she stoops down on the edge of the sun and the shadow, palms flattening on the floor before she turns to look back over her shoulder at her mother. ”I could watch it move and know when things would happen.” Like when one of them was more likely to come or go, or if she could expect the way they’d settle for the evening. Habits, however disrupted, built where they could be, dictated by the arc of this light.
"Isla?" Everest’s voice carries from down the hall, steady if slightly preoccupied. "I saw you removed the railings from Fern's crib, I—" He steps into the living room mid-sentence, a folded blanket in his hands, already preparing to continue with something about safety adjustments and developmental timing, when the rest of the thought fails to arrive. The blanket loosens in his grip as his hands lower slightly, his attention caught and held by the figure seated at the edge of sunlight. He goes still, not abruptly, but with the kind of quiet halt that comes from his mind attempting to reconcile what he is seeing with what he knows to be true. Isla left with an infant. Isla has returned with a girl much older. There is precedent for this. There are explanations, several of them, all viable, all already catalogued somewhere in his memory, and yet the immediate reality of it requires a moment to align with those stored conclusions.
He tilts his head slightly, blinking once, then again, as though the second pass might produce a different result, though it does not. The girl speaks, and something about the way she describes the light—its movement, its predictability—slots neatly into place, and he finds himself nodding. Ever's grip on the blanket tightens again, restoring order to something that had briefly lost it, and he draws in a slow breath through his nose.
"Oh," he says quietly, the word less surprise than recalibration, before his gaze flicks briefly toward Isla and then returns to Fern, reassessing scale, posture, the coordination of her movement, the way she occupies the space with cautious certainty. He steps forward then, measured and deliberate, approaching as though the variable has changed shape but not identity, his attention fixed on her with careful intensity. "Welcome back," he adds after a moment, voice even now that the initial adjustment has settled, before glancing up towards Isla. "I suppose this is why the railings were removed."
Even if I had to lose you to know you I'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
Isla follows Fern's gaze to the band of gold cast along the floor by the window, and as the girl glances up at her she offers an encouraging nod, squeezing her shoulders before releasing her to explore. The Remedy isn't far behind, rest assured, careful not to let her shadow fall where Fern is admiring the play of light and darkness, and as she stoops and crouches the Remedy can't wipe the smile from her face. "This is my favourite spot too," she says. "I would hold you here a lot, because of the view out to the sea." Gesturing towards the window and the balcony beyond, Isla is about to call for Ever again when his voice echoes back to them, framed by her name.
She doesn't speak immediately as he arrives in the living room, giving him the space and time needed for an adjustment as colossal as this one. Only when he seems to settle does she realise she's been holding her breath and biting the inside of her cheek, stepping around the fall of light to him as he moves closer. "It didn't seem necessary any more," she says almost tentatively. "I'm sorry for not saying anything. I just... I could see everything getting on top of you. I'd rather skip a few steps and keep our family whole and healthy."
Gazing back to Fern and beaming at the girl, she holds out an arm for her. "And besides," Isla adds, "she's still just as perfect now as when we left."
A shape moves along the edge of the treeline, half-hidden by shadow and heat shimmer. A Sear Cat slips into view, its sleek body low to the ground as it prowls, muscles rolling beneath scorched fur with every deliberate step.
It does not rush. Instead, it stalks the area with patient precision, pausing to sniff at the air or rake a claw lightly through the sand. Its eyes never stop moving, sharp and alert, as though cataloguing every sound and motion nearby.
After a time, it circles wider, never fully leaving sight, its presence lingering like a threat unspoken. Whether it closes the distance or fades back into cover is left unresolved, its slow prowl continuing just beyond easy reach.
Sear Cat
Areas Found: Torchline — Uncommon
Cousins of the Cat Sith, Sear Cats appear to be large, generally fluffy house cats. However, they are blessed with the ability of limited-speech and precognition and, as such, they are a highly sought after companion - but good luck with that, or getting straight answers. They are cats, after all. They are found most often on ships due to their ability to predict oncoming storms.
Challenge Rating: Moderate | Mythical
HP: 394 | To Hit: +55 | Dmg: 15 Movement: Walk 40 ft.; Climb 30 ft.; Leap 20 ft.
SPECIAL SKILLS
Storm Augury: reliably forewarns squalls, gales, and sudden shifts in wind and tide; Chooser, Not Chosen: resists coercion; bonds only with those it deems worthy; Omen Tail: tail-flick patterns and ear angles convey specific warnings once learned by the crew
TRAITS
Limited Speech: can manage short, clear phrases and names; Precognitive Whiskers: subtle tells warn of shifting fate and oncoming storms; Sea Legs: sure-footed on rigging, rails, and wet deck planks; Night Eyes: sees cleanly in dim cabins and moonlit seas; Aloof Cunning: offers help on its own terms and only when it pleases
ACTIONS
Weather Ward: curls up in a specific location and emits a low, thrumming purr that seems to subtly calm seas or steady winds for a short time; Storm Yowl: a rising, eerie call that alerts a ship to imminent rough weather; Rigging Vanish: disappears into ropes and spars, reappearing in a better vantage moments later; Pawed Point: taps or stares fixedly at a chart, line, or horizon feature to indicate danger or opportunity
The reminder jogs the memory easily, and Fern’s gaze turns to look out past the window, to the familiar scene beyond rather than just the light that spears through it. It frames the world into something bite-sized, a moving picture that would change in small enough ways they could be counted throughout the day. ”I like it too, except for the storms.” The scream rain, in particular, had not been her favorite.
It should not be startling to see Ever approach. Not when Isla had called out to him already, not when he is part of this home, and yet the first sight of him inspires such an abrupt urge to be back in the safe border of her mother’s thighs that Fern pulls back onto her heels quickly, rising. She reaches out with one arm and side steps until she connects again with a part of Isla, unwilling to take her widening eyes off Ever. That contact is enough to root her, strength offered by proximity.
It’s all the boost she needs to settle, familiarity sparking rapidly as sense beats out impulse. Her cheeks puff up as she pops in another big breath. ”Dad,” she greets, excitement lifting her up onto her tiptoes suddenly, grip forgoing Isla as if never needed. ”I’m big now!” She moves to him as if he might need closer proof, afraid of any distance shrinking her unduly. ”See?” she demands, measuring up beside him with a sideways glance, something she’d already made Isla endure before coming home, as if measuring up for an amusement park ride’s height requirement, except it’s approval rather than adrenaline.
Motion stirring outside the window immediately catches her curious eye, and abandoning the reach she started towards her blanket, she instead stills and stares. An audible gasp overtakes her just before she dashes to the window ledge, straining to get as close as she can. ”Look, there’s a cat!” it’s a loud, urgent whisper directed with a sharp glance over her shoulder at both of them, requiring group confirmation of her findings. ”He needs help,” she declares after only a moment longer of observation, which is really just a disguise for desire, not that she thinks so. ”We have to help him. He looks hungry.”
Everest listens as Isla speaks, his expression settling into something thoughtful rather than reactive, his mind deliberately redirecting itself away from any interpretation that frames her choice as a response to his failure and instead aligning with what she is actually saying, which is that she acted to preserve stability, to reduce strain, to keep their family intact in a way that was both efficient and, given the circumstances, entirely reasonable; he nods once, small and controlled, accepting it as such even if there remains a quiet awareness that he had not, in fact, been managing as cleanly as he had believed.
When Fern turns to him, when she says his name with that sudden brightness and closes the distance between them, he adjusts again, this time more quickly, the recalibration coming easier now that there is a clear input to respond to, and he inclines his head slightly as she presents herself beside him, measuring, seeking confirmation. "You are significantly bigger than you were," he agrees, his gaze flicking down to assess height, coordination, the way she balances on her feet, all of it noted and filed with quiet efficiency even as something softer lingers beneath it, something that has not yet fully caught up to the scale of the change.
The movement outside draws his attention almost immediately after hers does, the flicker of something low and deliberate at the edge of perception enough to shift his focus from internal adjustment to external assessment, and where he might once have dismissed it as irrelevant, or at least non-urgent, that option does not present itself now; the context has changed, the variables have multiplied, and there is suddenly something far more immediate at stake than curiosity. He follows her line of sight, eyes narrowing slightly as he tracks the shape beyond the glass, and by the time Fern declares that it needs help, that they must help it, Ever is already in motion.
The shift is instant, muscle and bone reconfiguring without hesitation, and where Everest had stood there is now a black German shepherd, large and solid and very much present, his body placing itself at Fern’s side with instinctive precision; his stance is tight, controlled, his head lifted high enough to see clearly over the sill, eyes fixed on the prowling shape outside with an intensity that leaves no room for misinterpretation. His hackles rise along his spine, not in wild alarm but in clear, deliberate warning, every line of him angled toward the window, toward what might be a threat to his daughter.
Your eyes they take no prisoners But I'd love to be your visitor
"Yes," Isla agrees with a soft laugh, "I think I could do without the storms as well." Ordinary rainfall and thunder is one thing, but the additional shrieking had been an unwelcome surprise this season. As Fern melts back against her side her arm closes around her automatically, reassuring rather than protective, because of all the people and creatures in the world, Everest Hart is never going to be something she needs to fear. And their daughter's nerves are short-lived, she's glad to see, releasing her so she might go to properly (and literally) measure herself up against her father.
Ever's nod is something small but profound, and Isla's relief brims to the surface in her smile. They can talk properly later, appreciate all that has changed and how this will impact their future - in ways she hopes will be much less stressful than when Fern had been an infant, still. "A cat?" she echoes, a little too late to catch the prowling shape but very much present for their daughter's curiosity and Ever's wary shift.
Biting back a laugh and moving to approach on Fern's other side, Isla peers over the window ledge and manages to catch the sear cat just as it prowls between a couple of shrubs. "I think it's very capable of feeding itself," she says, a hint of apology in her tone as she glances over Fern's head to the black dog and his raised hackles. "Besides," she adds in a stage whisper, "cats can't play fetch. But I bet your father can."
She leans easily into the shape that comes to fill the space beside her, both arms circling about the neck of her father and tilting her weight into him as if accustomed still to being held. Her fingers splay into the dark fur, barely visible as they curl faintly into him. This form of his has always been her favorite, especially when waking in the middle of the night, his shape curled up nearby had been enough comfort sometimes to tip her back into slumber.
Her head bobs in confirmation to her mother, and she glances over to ensure she is also coming, eager for them both to understand. Surely, they need only see the poor creature to feel the same, although Ever’s hackles are proof otherwise. ”Yeah, do you see it?!” There’s a climbing urgency, as if the potential might escape if Isla delays too long.
Fortunately, her mother sandwiches her, the sear cat still visible in it’s explorations of the ground beyond. ”No!” Fern insists, head turning from the window back up to Isla, her grip tightening unintentionally against Ever. ”What if he can’t? What if he’s starving?” She turns back to the window quickly, wide eyes finding the slinking shape at once. A pout settles subtly when Isla tries to steer the topic away, protest climbing. ”I could teach him to fetch,” she grumbles, as if this is the crux of the issue.
The low shape beyond the window remains fixed in Everest’s attention, his body held taut and deliberate as he tracks its slow, circling movement, every shift of muscle beneath scorched fur noted and assessed in real time, and when Fern asks if he sees it, he gives a quiet, contained boof under his breath, not loud enough to startle but enough to confirm awareness, his tail lifting high and still as his gaze never leaves the prowling cat.
Her arms loop easily around his neck, fingers threading into the thick black fur, and though his posture remains protective, anchored between her and the window, the contact draws a subtle change in him; the rigid line of his back softens just slightly, and his tail gives a small, controlled wag, a quiet acknowledgement of her presence even as his focus remains divided between her and the potential threat outside. He does not shift away from her grip as he's wont to do as a man, allowing her to lean and hold as she wishes, the dual instincts—guarding and permitting—existing without conflict.
When she insists, when the urgency in her voice sharpens with the possibility of the cat being hungry, his ears flick back briefly at the tone before angling forward again, attention snapping once more to the window as if re-evaluating the animal with this new variable in mind, though nothing in its posture suggests desperation, only patience, only intent.
At the mention of fetch, even misdirected as it is toward the cat, a different response surfaces without conscious thought; a soft, hopeful whine slips from him under his breath, his tail giving another small wag, this one a fraction more animated, the word alone enough to momentarily tug him out of vigilance and into something far simpler, far more familiar, before his focus settles again, steady and watchful.
Your eyes they take no prisoners But I'd love to be your visitor
"I do see it," Isla confirms with a nod, though she opts not to mention that the sear cat looks as though it's already hunting something. (She doesn't know if Fern will feel the same way about the poor, starving thing when it emerges with a baby bird in its jaws). Understanding the circle of life feels like a little too much for day one as a walking, talking child, and it's with distraction in mind that the Remedy takes a couple of steps back from the window. "What if," she suggests, "we leave out a saucer of something for it? Then if it's hungry, it can come up and eat, and we can go from there?"
So saying, she crosses the room to their little kitchen, collecting a small plate and some shredded chicken from the fridge and raising her eyebrows towards Fern as if to ask if this is a reasonable compromise. "And in the meantime, if you want to be able to teach it to fetch, you should probably get some practice." The smile on her face does its best not to inch towards something too playful. "I'm sure your father knows where his favourite ball is, if you'd like to try it."
The slowly sinking shape of Fern’s features fades her brightness by degrees, the darker line of frustration starting to settle. Not anger, not something tempestuous and loud, but the quiet, internal balling of thought and sense not aligning properly. Her understanding feels so plain, how do they not also see it? Whenever she’d felt this before, enough wailing and fussing eventually resolved it, but now her lips press in as if silence is an equal force to scream with.
Fortunately, the nosedive into miscommunication doesn’t linger long enough to fully drag her under, the easy dawn of acceptance pushing out every line of her face again as she turns abruptly toward Isla, a gasp of approval released. ”That’s perfect!” she nods, one hand falling away from its wreath around Ever as she twists. Compromise would quickly become Fern’s ally.
She turns to watch Isla set to work, as if needing proof of it in view before relief could replace all the worry. ”We have to feed him every day to make sure he’s okay,” she asserts, as if they are both the ones arranging the rules here. Although Isla’s other idea is equally fantastic, and Fern’s attention drops to the dogfather with a touch that’s more stroke than grip now against his nape. Ball will surely set off a response, although Fern doesn’t fully know it, feeding into it innocently. ”Dad, where’s the ball?” The must practice.
Everest’s attention shifts the instant the word is spoken, the sound of ball cutting cleanly through the layered focus he has been maintaining between Fern and the prowling shape outside, his ears snapping forward into sharp, perfect triangles as the rest of his posture adjusts a fraction behind it, tension redistributing rather than disappearing, his tail lifting high with only the very tip beginning to move in a restrained, anticipatory rhythm.
When Fern repeats it, when the request becomes direct and unmistakable, the decision is immediate. He turns and moves at once, controlled but quick, crossing the room to the basket tucked neatly beside the chair where his toys are kept in deliberate order, nosing it open with practiced precision before selecting a blue tennis ball from among the others, careful in his grip so as not to damage it as he carries it back.
He returns to her without hesitation, closing the distance and lowering his head just enough to place the ball neatly at her feet, releasing it with quiet exactness rather than dropping it carelessly, his gaze lifting to her face immediately after, posture attentive and ready, the earlier vigilance toward the window still present but now threaded with something lighter and something expectant.
Your eyes they take no prisoners But I'd love to be your visitor
"We will make sure we put fresh food out every day for him," Isla confirms with all the reasonable patience of a mother who is also a medical professional, crossing the room to slip out of the sliding doors briefly to place the saucer of chicken on their balcony. She even makes a show of adjusting it until she's satisfied that the sear cat, should it choose to bless them with its company, will be able to see it easily enough to come and collect its snack.
She's already considering how many hels are actually likely to grab up the free food when she returns, but by that point Fern has requested ball and Everest has gone to deliver with all the precision of his human self and all the enthusiasm of a dog. "The best place to throw it," Isla explains, crouching down beside Fern and pointing out towards the kitchen, "is over there, so it goes as far as it can without hitting anything. Just make sure not to throw too high!"
It isn't that she's worried about things breaking - if they do, they do, though Ever might feel differently - but more so that he doesn't end up unexpectedly atop the fridge or on one of the counters.
