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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, she definitely lives there," Carlo is hissing from where he's crouched behind the corner of a building that leads onto the street where the medical clinic - and therefore Fern - is located. They haven't been up into the floating reaches of Haulani much (read: at all) yet, and so far his opinion is that it's open, breezy, and that it has great views and a plethora of opportunities for trouble for two young entrepreneurs with identical faces. The only problem with that though, Carlo is realising, is that a third person is often necessary to facilitate whatever quick-change tomfoolery they're attempting.
And besides, they've been trying to meet Fern since they got kneecaps, so this is long overdue.
Unbeknownst to Carlo, though, he's nodding at the building right next to the medical clinic, his hands held up to his eyes like binoculars as if that will make it easier for him to see their third musketeer and surely best friend for life. "I bet we could get a crate, then I could stand on it and you could stand on my shoulders, and we'd be able to see through the apartment window. Then," he continues, because this is only step one (step three is profit and step two is TBC), "the three of us can head to that marketplace and get one of those big pretzels I keep seeing."
Calan nods at once, because if Carlo says she definitely lives there, then she definitely lives there, and it would be rude, probably, to let the lack of proof slow down a plan already showing this much promise. Crouched beside his brother with his own hands held up like binoculars, he squints hard at the building beside the clinic. "Perfect," he whispers, nodding decisively, though the word comes out with the sort of confidence usually reserved for people who know what their target looks like, where she lives, and whether she has any interest at all in being recruited by two identical strangers for pretzel-related business. None of this troubles Calan, because the plan has a crate, a window, an eventual best friend, and food at the end of it, which makes it structurally sound in every way that matters.
He lowers his hand-binoculars just enough to glance along the street, checking for crates, ladders, distracted adults, possible witnesses, and anything else that might become useful if looked at from the correct angle. "We need something sturdy," he adds, still whispering, because spying requires whispering even when nobody is close enough to hear, "and we need to look like we’re supposed to have it." Yelling sure dad, we'll grab this crate you asked for would probably do the trick.
Utterly unaware of the shenanigans unfolding outside, Fern proceeds with the very intense check up she's overseeing in the clinic. Well, the home above the clinic, but that seems like a detail that isn't necessary. The stealth of the two boys is clearly superb, and aided by the stethoscope currently fitted to her ears.
"HURRY NURSE!" Fern cries out with all the drama worthy of a mid-day housewife watch. "HE'S FADING IN MY ARMS!!!" Desperately, Fern clutches the stuffed dog to her chest with one hand, the other frantically shifting the stethoscope around. Her brows furrow as she strains to hear the pulse of the inanimate object above the wooksch, crrrrrf, woump of the fabric shifting beneath the highly sensitive instrument.
Because stabilizing is not a worthwhile pursuit where theatrics is concerned, Fern builds the scene with a steady drum of bare feet back and forth across the living room and its windows. She marches with all the authority of her made up degrees as she fights for the life of the stuffy, occasionally lifting it up and striking it boldly across the face. "LIVE DAMN YOU! LIIIIIIVE!". She's swaddled in an oversized white coat, it belongs to her mother, looking more like a ghost that's gone awry in the wash than the world's youngest doctress.
Unaware of the active resuscitation going on in the (actual) abode of Fern Lockwood-Hart, Carlo lowers his hand binoculars with a grave nod, officially cementing the plan they've made to inadvertently spy on her next door neighbours. "That'll work," he announces, gesturing to a couple of wooden boxes at the mouth of an alley that, when flipped upside down, would do very nicely for his feet to brace upon.
Already straightening up and heading out into the sunshine, Calan doesn't need to check the lie they're going to actively tell; Carlo is already of a similar mindset. "Sure," he calls to no one in particular - though his voice is aimed towards one of the open shop doorways, "we'll deliver that for you!"
Beckoning to his brother, he moves to seize one of the boxes, expecting Calan to grab the other, and with no one looking at them (other than to confirm that they are, indeed, identical, which is something he's learning to expect), he hurries down the street and to the side of not-Fern's house. "Okay," Carlo says, lowering his voice to a conspirator's whisper and flipping his crate over so he can stand on it. "You get on that one, and then I'll give you a boost. Just don't step on my head this time, okay?"
Dropping to one knee atop the crate and making a cradle with his hands, he glances furtively to the street every now and then to check it's still empty, finally giving a nod to Calan. "Coast is clear."
A sharp flutter of wings announces itself far too close overhead, followed by the scrape of talons and the unmistakable sense that something has landed where it absolutely should not have. A Hel perches nearby, head cocked, eyes bright and calculating as it sizes up the scene.
It hops closer with a series of quick, impatient movements, letting out a short, grating call that sounds suspiciously like a demand, right down to the way it cranes its neck toward packs, baskets, or anything that might reasonably contain food. If ignored, it only grows bolder, wings flicking open as it makes a half-hearted lunge toward anything unattended.
When shooed away, the Hel takes to the air in an indignant spiral, only to settle again moments later a short distance off, clearly unimpressed and entirely unconvinced that the matter is settled. It watches with unwavering focus, occasionally edging closer, testing boundaries with the persistence of a creature that knows it doesn’t need to be threatening to get exactly what it wants.
Hels
Areas Found: Torchline — Common
Hels look vaguely like a species of seagull, but are quite friendly. Should one sit on your shoulder, you will find yourself suddenly able to walk on water! Be careful though, these birds are easily bored. Should they abandon you during an ocean-stroll, you will find yourself sinking into the water potentially hundreds of feet from the shore!
Challenge Rating: Easy
HP: 38 | To Hit: +26 | Dmg: 9 Movement: Fly 60 ft.; Walk 10 ft.
SPECIAL SKILLS
Waterwalk Bond: While perched, grants the bearer the ability to walk on water; Boredom Curse: If the hel leaves its perch during waterwalking, the bearer immediately loses buoyancy and begins to sink
TRAITS
Friendly Companion: Inclined to approach and perch on willing shoulders; Light as a Feather: Nearly weightless, they do not hinder movement or balance; Ocean’s Familiarity: Innate understanding of currents, tides, and sea weather
ACTIONS
Peck: A quick tap with its beak, used more in play than aggression
"You can trust us!" Calan adds quickly, because that seems like the sort of thing trustworthy people say. He snatches up the second box and hurries after Carlo with the brisk, important walk of a boy who has absolutely been hired to carry this exact thing to this exact place, his chin lifted just enough to suggest efficiency rather than escape.
At the side of the not-Fern house, he sets his crate down where instructed and gives Carlo a solemn nod, taking the matter of not stepping on his head with all the seriousness it deserves. "Sorry," he whispers, with only a little regret and far more explanation than apology. "It just looked really steppable."
Once the coast is declared clear, Calan puts one foot into the cradle of Carlo’s hands and braces himself, already lifting his eyes toward the windowsill with the firm belief that this is where the plan becomes impressive. Unfortunately, a nearby Hel has opinions about their timing, apparently, and it drops onto his hair in a sudden violent flutter of wings and talons, sharp little feet scrabbling against his head while its beak jabs at his shirt where, admittedly, something food-related probably still lives.
"Hey—no, that’s mine—" Calan hisses, which is not strictly true if the bird is after crumbs, and not the shirt itself. His hands fly up to swat at the Hel just as the boost comes, and the careful climb immediately becomes a much less careful launch, his knee knocking the wall with a dull thump before the rest of him follows with an "oof" that punches out of him on impact.
For one very busy second Calan is mostly elbows, crate, twin, bird, and wall, but his fingers catch the windowsill anyway and clamp down hard. The Hel squawks directly above him, wings beating against his hair while Calan hangs there with his feet searching for anything useful beneath him. "This is probably still fine," he insists in a strained whisper, because changing the definition of success is an important part of attained success.
Slapping sense and recovery into the stuffed dog doesn't seem to be enough, so she plops him onto the couch. Rolling up her sleeves, one of which immediately flops back down like a tired accordion, she locks her hands together and begins to bounce them up and down on his plush chest in another effort of rescue. The rhythm is all over the place, and if you were to ask her, she'd say this is the cutting-edge process now.
The stethoscope has become a bit dislodged in the process, the long rope of it dangling wildly back and forth as she gives mock CPR her all. Unfortunately, he's got cotton-disease, and it's usually quite grim an outcome. "That's it," she declares with a sudden solemnity, drawing herself up to her full nine-year-old height above the couch cushion stretcher. Scrubbing her hands down her face, cheeks peeling away from her eyes briefly with the sag of this decision, Fern exhales loudly. "We have to go in. It's the only way."
Fulfilling the scene with a commitment she'll surely regret later, Fern whips around and races to a nearby desk. The stethoscope fully pops free and tumbles to the ground, abandoned now in favor of some new tool of medicine. Retrieving a pair of scissors from the little cup of pens and office supplies, she stalks back to her patient with them raised up in the perfect mashup of Annie Wilkes and Norman Bates. "It's the only way!" she repeats, solemn with the risk at hand. "You're a brilliant doctor," she whispers just before plunging the scissors into the patient's chest.
The entry proves harder than she first thought, and she lifts them once more to try again, which is about the time the hel squawks and a clattering of limbs and breath rouses outside. Fern's skin prickles with immediate goosebumps, startled out of her dramatic operation in the rude fashion only Hel's can manage. Regardless, she flings herself onto the couch, clambering over the stuffed dog, scissors still in hand as she perches on the back and peers out the window. One hand presses on the glass, cheek smearing against it as she peers down at an angle.
Hel or not, an animal in most any shape is worth watching while it's here, but she can certainly say she's never seen one quite like the dangling boy on the sill across from her. Gasping faintly, eyes widening, Fern watches him struggle for a moment. Scissors then click loudly on the window pane as her other hand joins the first, struggling to open the window now. Grunting, she manages to get it cracked enough to duck her voice out. "Why are you up there?" she and her scissors wonder.
"Wh--" Carlo only has perhaps a second and a half to realise his very careful boost has gone awry with feather-based tomfoolery; from his perspective he launches his brother perfectly only for Calan to eat shit against the wall, and when he looks up, shielding his eyes from the glare overhead, it's to see a boy wearing a bird for a hat. "C'mon now, that's just silly," he hisses, immediately inching forward to guide Calan's foot back towards the intended destination of his shoulder (not his head, never his head) so things can continue to be probably still fine.
"Are you good?" Carlo manages just as there's a great clacking and shuffling at the window next door, a small voice trailing out towards them. He's not high enough up to be able to see the smooshed cheek or the threat of scissors, but he understands the words well enough to know that they necessitate some immediate bending of the truth.
"Oh," he says brightly, calling up enough for his voice to carry back whilst simultaneously trying to keep one of Calan's feet out of his mouth, "we're cleaning windows! Hired by Fern Lockwood-Hart, you see. Gotta make sure her apartment gets a good view of the ocean, you know!"
Calan is busy spitting out feathers when Carlo’s shoulder finally appears beneath his searching foot, and honestly, that improves things by at least half. Maybe more than half. His fingers are still clamped around the windowsill, the Hel is still flapping furiously against the side of his head as if it has important business inside his ear, but at least now his leg has somewhere to go that isn’t Carlo’s mouth or the empty air.
"Yea—" he starts, because he is good, actually, or close enough to good that the distinction feels unhelpful, but then the window next door clacks open and his head turns sharply toward it. The Hel turns too, and for a second, boy and bird stare in the same direction, both of them caught by the sight of Fern’s face squished against the glass and the scissors lifted in her hand with what Calan can only assume is either authority or malice Possibly both.
By the time Carlo’s explanation reaches her, Calan is already nodding along, his expression smoothing into something bright and professionally helpful despite the bird trying to reorganize his hair by force. "Exactly," he calls, beaming as if this is all going perfectly. A feather sticks to his lip; he spits it away with as much dignity as a boy hanging from a windowsill can manage. "The Hel is so we can walk out on water and get the very best stuff to clean Fern’s windows with." The Hel squawks immediately, which Calan chooses to treat as confirmation. "She’s very picky about that sort of thing," he adds with a decisive nod, though the motion nearly makes his fingers slip and sends the bird into another offended burst of wings. "But we always do our best!"
The cheery call of someone out of sight forces Fern to drop her gaze. She goes cross-eyed with the effort of glancing down so deeply, head tilting further to the side as she catches a glimpse of unruly hair and lifted arms that suggest the voice belongs to another boy. "Is that so?" she trumpets back, delight curling her tone. The confusion that ought to be there at being told she had asked for this, paid for it even, doesn't find a proper place for long, not when fun crowds it all out. There's no possibility of being mistaken for a different Fern when they used her full government name, but transitioning from world-famous doctor to window washing snob is seamless.
Clacking against the glass further, she wrestles the window open more, hoisting herself onto her stomach and propping her elbows across the sill as the more visible boy across the way touts the importance of using foot water for her. "Well you're doing a very bad job of it so far!" she points out brightly, wagging her scissors back and forth towards the boy and his bird. "That's the wrong window. I'm going to need to speak to your boss, immediately." She tightens her brows over her gaze, taking on the airs of a very unimpressed window owner.
Having jostled his way a little closer while Calan adds further veracity to their lie, Carlo guides his brother's other foot to the corresponding shoulder, which should at least provide some stability whilst he contends with his feathery new hat. It all sounds very plausible - ordinary, even - despite their lack of water or window cleaning supplies, but then the girl at the window next door has to ruin it by apparently being Fern Lockwood-Hart.
"Wh..." Rarely caught so immediately speechless, Carlo is quick to try and recover with an exaggerated clearing of his throat. "Well yes, of course," he blurts. "We were just practising on this window, you see. Our boss is just out in the market square though - you know, the one that sells those big pretzels - if you want to talk to him. So maaaybe you want to come down and we can take you there?"
He shoots a wide-eyed look up at Calan that his brother very likely won't see at this point, because the idea of asking Fern hey, wanna come out to play has not once entered his busy little mind.
With one foot settled on Carlo’s shoulder and the other finally finding its match, Calan is just beginning to feel as though this whole thing has returned to being a proper plan when Fern ruins that by being in the wrong window and, worse, knowing it.
He blinks at her, and for a moment, he goes very still, which the Hel apparently takes as permission to snuggle in. Its frantic flapping slows, claws prickling through his shirt as it shuffles from his hair to his shoulder and settles there like this was its idea all along. Calan lets it, partly because both hands are still needed for the windowsill and partly because having a bird on his shoulder does make him look a bit more official, probably.
He is very close to asking Fern Lockwood-Hart for identification, not because he does not believe her, exactly, but because anybody can lean out of a window with scissors and claim to be the person they are looking for. That is how scams happen. Calan knows this because he is currently doing one. Luckily, Carlo gets there first with a much better answer, to which Calan begins nodding along at once, his face brightening with immediate agreement. "Like I said, we know what high standards you have," he calls over, earnest as anything despite the feathers stuck in his hair and the Hel balanced proudly against his cheek. "So of course we were practising first."
At Carlo’s suggestion, Calan’s expression shifts into a beaming smile aimed directly at Fern.
Practicing does make complete sense, admittedly. Afraid she'll lose her role in this game, surely about to be very apparent very fast that she doesn't know the first thing about what goes into the prep for washing windows, or owning them, Fern sucks her breath back in and presses her lips together, cheeks puffing faintly. Like anyone who's outraged and confronted with the fact that they could be wrong, Fern doubles down. The only way to pretend properly is to commit, after all.
"Yes, yes I do know the Pretzel Planet," she confirms, sniffing as if this knowledge is beneath someone who can hire window cleaners. "Their dough is out of this world!" Their tagline, which she puts on a voice for to properly match the lilting cadence and bright punctuation of the advertising the stand does, shouting it out with nearly every fulfilled order. It's the only quick break in her otherwise Karen-leaning performance.
She hesitates at the invitation though, because curious as she might be, Fern hasn't made much habit out of breaking rules or sneaking out of windows. Play is all well and fine from the comfort of her home, or the familiar faces of he family, although admittedly in the short time she's met this pair, they're far more fun than her mother and father.
Glancing back over her shoulder towards the depths of her house where Isla should be, Fern considers her options. The returning shout from the other boy pulls her right back into the promise of pretzels and her well-earned status as a demanding homeowner. "Yes," she decides, and it's as much answer to them as it is convincing herself. "Yes, I would like to speak to him." She decides, scissors left on the windowsill as her body shifts into a new shape.
Osprey-Fern stoops beneath the half-opened window, talons grappling the edge, wings faintly splayed out from her sides for balance. Her head turns, the motion quick and jerking, golden eyes gauging height and distance and all sorts of things she hadn't considered until now. She might be able to find her feathered form easier now than before, but she still hasn't quite mastered using it. Maybe she could aim for the other boys head though so the could each have birds, and then it really isn't so scary as flying, it's just, tall jumping.
"Are they?" Carlo blurts of the Pretzel Planet and their intergalactic location in the universe of savoury treats. Because he doesn't actually know, never having tried one, which he distantly remembers is the entire point of this scam. Only things have thoroughly backfired with the emergence of Real Fern at the Wrong Window, and honestly the surprise addition of the hel is at this point just par for the course. Quickly clearing his throat and carefully readjusting his stance in case his shock brings him at risk of dropping his brother, by the time Carlo glances back up to the sill, Fern has vanished and a very unsteady osprey has taken her place.
"Uh," he begins, unable to offer much more than a perch with Calan currently situated on his shoulders, "well madam, we did not expect you to be able to do that rather than take the stairs. One moment please." Shifting in a way that he hopes his twin will recognise as the step into my office of climbing down from his shoulders, provided all goes well he will hopefully be able to welcome the other boy back beside him, and then Osprey!Fern will have two perches available.
Granted, one of them is already semi-occupied by a hel, but he doesn't think it stands a chance against whatever bird she's become. "Alright," he says, holding up his hands for... something. "Ready when you are!"
