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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!
Everest blinks once, then again at the mention of a cart, his gaze drifting briefly toward the far edge of the market where, yes, one could presumably find a vendor with precisely that service. "True," he says slowly, as if replotting his entire afternoon in real time. "I didn’t account for transportation needs beyond the satchel. I may have to revise my storage protocols." It isn’t a joke—at least, not entirely—but his mouth twitches like it wants to be one.
Isla’s comment about waiting for a suitable shift earns a contemplative hum, his eyes returning to her. "Do you know if aquatic shifts exist for Ancients?" he asks, genuinely curious. See, should have let me make the otters that swim in lava "Do they... ppear over time, the way they do for Attuned? Or are they more specific?”" There's a rare note of curiosity in his tone, one that sounds far more like genuine intrigue than anxious overplanning.
When the merchant returns with the cuts, Ever accepts them with care, bundling the samples in his hand before offering them out toward Isla with a small nod. "You can choose which is C," he says, tone just a touch dry, "but only if you’re certain. I’ll need to associate it with you now, after all. Permanently." His eyes flick up from the wood to her face, unblinking, faintly amused. "No pressure."
"Only if you plan to get dozens of samples - all in sets of three," Isla says as she packs away their water, following his gaze towards the edge of the marketplace. "Getting enough of those to fill a cart would be impressive. Perhaps we gather the pieces you know you want to compare for now, and we can always come back another day to expand the selection?" It might give Ever time to account for his storage protocols that way, too.
Furrowing her brow as she considers any aquatic Ancient shifts, eventually the Remedy is forced to give an honest shrug. "It seems counter-intuitive for such a fiery race," she admits. "But then there are the hotsprings up in The Climb. I certainly haven't heard of any." Yet. There's still time for lava otters.
As for the discovery of such shifts, Isla gazes thoughtfully between the samples of wood and the other wares on display, as if giving herself a chance to think about it. "Mine have always appeared organically," she says at last. "The same way they do for Attuned, I would say. Only ours seem to be catered towards quite a specific pool of animals. Likely an evolutionary advantage when you consider where we originated." A moushroom shift, for instance, wouldn't do much good in The Climb.
As for the samples, Isla is already reaching for one she'd seen the moment the merchant had produced it, with a fine grain that looks a little like a tiger stripe. "This is C," she announces, turning it over in her hands. "So no biting it, yes?"
Everest’s gaze lingers on Isla for a long, still moment, not because her logic needs processing—he agrees with it entirely—but because of the way she’s offered it. Not as a correction, not as a push, but as an adaptation. He recognizes it instantly, the way someone changes the shape of their own rhythm to accommodate his without stepping on it. His lips twitch faintly in appreciation. "That’s a reasonable approach,”" he murmurs."Controlled expansion of the dataset. Allows for planned iterations without destabilizing the existing organization." A pause. "I’d like that."
As she speaks about Ancient shifts, his fingers twitch at his sides, already framing the mental outline of a new page in his notebook. "That makes sense," he says quietly, nodding along. "Adaptive utility based on environment—evolutionary pressure would naturally favour fire-aligned forms in The Climb." He shifts the satchel a little on his shoulder, gaze distant for half a second as he threads this into what he knows of Attuned development. "I’ve noticed that, too. Most of the Attuned from Halo have cold-adapted forms. And my tide panther didn’t appear until I’d been in Torchline regularly."
When she selects the tiger-striped sample, declaring it C with such deliberate confidence, Everest watches the motion with a kind of quiet reverence. The piece is not remarkable by any measurable standard—yet it matters now, not because of what it is but because of who chose it.
He takes it gently from her fingers, studying it for a breath longer than necessary, and then slides it into the pouch. "No biting," he echoes solemnly. And then, a half-second later—just as he begins to turn toward the next stall, his voice drops, dry and unreadable but unmistakably amused: "I suppose I’ll need to find something else to occupy my mouth with. Should the urge become overwhelming." His eyes flick toward her with the barest raise of his brows before he’s already moving on, the twitch at the corner of his mouth barely contained.
"I'd hoped you would. I try to be nothing if not reasonable," Isla says softly, offering a sunny smile back to Ever as he mulls over her suggestions. With a compromise reached - and no cart needed for now - she offers back her tiger-stripe C selection with the implicit agreement between them that there will be no gnawing on it. And as they turn towards the next stall, she doesn't try to hide her interest as he speaks about his own shifts.
"I never realised that, about your tide jaguar," she says. "And I suppose your first shift makes sense in that way as well, given your family." Having grown up with Tobi and her canine shift, it seems logical that Ever would follow in that direction. Isla's mind is still turning over other examples and their imagined conclusions in her mind as they drift further into the marketplace, such that when Everest speaks again, it takes a second for her to realise just what he's said.
And in what tone he's said it.
And all the things the words imply.
"Everest Hart," Isla hisses playfully, her cheeks heating up as she fails to contain her smile. "I can only agree, you know. Perhaps later we'll have to investigate alternative behaviours. Even if it just means biting something else." She raises her eyebrows as well.
"Exactly," Ever murmurs, eyes still scanning the next stall even as his thoughts linger in the previous one. "You can see why the beaver caught me off guard. I’d been assuming the next one would have wings. Pure utility—flight expands observation range, adds escape options, and would’ve made landing on La Verbena much easier." His tone is academic, but there’s a subtle glimmer behind his eyes as he says it, like he doesn’t mind the surprise quite so much after all.
He glances over just in time to catch the warmth colouring Isla’s cheeks, the way her smile betrays her even as she tries to scold him. The tiger-stripe sample shifts easily into his left hand, freeing his right, and he steps just slightly closer, the sun casting fine lines across his face as he tilts it toward hers. "Yes, Isla Lockwood?" he echoes innocently, though his voice carries that same dry undercurrent, soft and deliberate. His hand slips around her waist, not possessive but certain, fingers resting lightly against the curve of her back as he draws her gently in.
"Do you," he murmurs, leaning down so that only she can hear it, "have any suggestions? For alternate behaviours. Should the urge become overwhelming?"
"Wings would have made sense," Isla agrees softly, her brow furrowing as if trying to decipher why beaver had come to the forefront instead of anything else, wondering if it had been something in Ever's subconscious that neither of them had considered. (And more than one filthy joke comes to mind, it's true, but she keeps that quite to herself). She's just convinced her wandering attention back front and centre, in fact, when a strong but gentle arm slips around her waist, and suddenly the aviator is much closer than she'd anticipated.
Her breath catching and her cheeks flushing further, Isla can't quite believe that such brief contact is enough to get her so flustered, and it takes a beat or two before she's able to level a sly smile back towards Ever. "I have a couple," she admits, her own voice dipping low and intimate, "but none of them are appropriate to show you out here in public, I'm afraid. And I wouldn't want to abandon our date. There are so many more stalls to see, no?"
A breath of laughter hitches in his chest, quiet but genuine, his lips curving into the faintest smile at her reply. It’s not the words that undo him so much as the tone; the warmth layered over mischief, her restraint wrapped in suggestion. His hand stays where it is, firm and unobtrusive, but he doesn’t pull away just yet. "I suppose it would be irresponsible," he murmurs, as if he’s the one needing convincing. "Abandoning a schedule. Losing control of the variable environment." The words are scientific, sterile even, but there’s no mistaking the glint in his eye as he says them.
With a soft click of his tongue, he glances toward the next stall. "We'll take detailed notes," Ever says at last, a little wry, a little breathless. "And reconvene on the question of...inappropriate suggestions in a more private testing environment. How does that sound?"
Then, as though the moment never crackled with heat at all, he adjusts the samples in his hand and starts toward the next display, clearing his throat. "Do you see anything here you’d like to touch, Isla?" The aviator smiles innocently down at her. "Within reason, of course."
"Mm, we wouldn't want to be irresponsible. Not when this is only our second outing together," Isla muses, though the heat in her cheeks and the mischief in her voice very much suggests that she'd like nothing more than to scatter their plans to the wind and to be irresponsible with Ever. Alas, the aviator is a master of subtle flirtation, and though an entire cloud of butterflies feel as though they're taking flight in her belly, Isla nods her agreement. "That sounds very logical," she says, falling into step with him towards the next stall, his arm firm and guiding around her waist without ever feeling like too much.
(Gods but she wants it to feel like too much, though).
And as he speaks next, it takes a second or two before she registers the unmistakeable double meaning in his words, pebble blue eyes narrowing a fraction. "Perhaps some samples of this?" she suggests, gesturing to some polished walnut, before her hand drops to rest atop his own around her waist. "I feel as though I prefer hardwood," she quips, casting a sidelong glance at him.
Everest stiffens—just for a moment. Not out of discomfort, but sheer, startled delight, the kind that runs up his spine like an electrical current before settling into a warm, steady hum in his chest. His gaze flicks to the walnut in question, then back to her, and there's no hiding the way his mouth quirks, slow and crooked and deeply pleased.
"I appreciate your honesty," he murmurs, voice low and amused as he lets his thumb trace a faint, almost imperceptible arc along her hip. "It’ll help narrow the parameters considerably. No sense in wasting time on softwoods if you already know your preferences." He says it as if he's making a practical note, but the gleam behind his glasses is anything but clinical now.
Still, he doesn’t push further, not with the market pressing in and the sun casting long shadows over wares that deserve some of his focus. The Everest of old might have, but this one, just two dates in, is still unsure of what boundaries he does and doesn't want to maintain. "Walnut it is, then," he says, half-turning toward the vendor as if this were all very normal, very above-board research. "Shall we get a sample? Then you could conduct hardness tests of your own to see what's to your liking." His hand doesn’t leave her waist, instead, he draws her nearer to him under the guise of helping a shopper slip by them.
"Oh, you know me, Everest," Isla says, the words almost murmured under her breath, though her smile is no less wicked for it, "I've always been one to tell you what I like." Glancing up at him over her own sunglasses, she brushes a thumb across the top of his hand before sidling closer to the stall - and to the aviator, of course, so that they don't take unnecessary space - to examine the hardwoods on offer.
"I think that's a very wise idea," she concludes, hailing the merchant down to ask for three small samples of the walnut on display, gesturing to the cedar they've already obtained as if to demonstrate what measurements they're looking for. "You know," Isla says conversationally, though the mischievous lilt to her voice ought to be warning enough, "We never discussed what would happen if I didn't like samples A, B, or C. Would I be able to have D instead, do you think?"
Everest draws in a slow, measured breath—not because he's flustered (though he absolutely is), but because Isla Lockwood is weaponising wit at close range and he needs the oxygen to survive it. His hand flexes once beneath hers, the smallest involuntary reaction, and then he leans just slightly nearer, his voice pitched low and dry beside her ear. "That would depend on what D stands for," he murmurs, as if genuinely considering it. "If it's dissatisfied, I'd hope we could expand our rubric to find something more to your liking."
He blinks slowly, composure held only by the thinnest strand of academic focus before glancing at her sidelong, his mouth twitching into something that wants to be a smile and nearly succeeds. "Of course," he adds, voice pitched just for her, "we’d need to recalibrate the metric. Different tensile properties. Variable pressure tolerances. Responsive curvature under heat."
The vendor coughs, and Ever clears his throat. "Structurally, I mean."
And though his hand remains respectfully at her waist, his fingers do tighten slightly—as if to anchor himself, as if she might otherwise combust and take him with her. "Should you feel strongly about D," he murmurs, "I’m sure I could...rise to the occasion."
Tilting her head as if to better hear Ever, despite his lips nearly brushing against the shell of her ear as he speaks, his voice is like dry kindling to the sparks flying between them, and she flashes him a secretive grin for his trouble. "D," she whispers, "does not stand for dissatisfied." As he straightens up she does her best to follow suit, watching as the merchant prepares their samples (and doesn't hide the look he's giving them, either, not that Isla can remotely blame him).
The aviator's voice purrs back into her ear a moment later, though, and Isla has to do her best to hide her smile and the way she wants to peel his arm from around her if only to put his hands into much more interesting places. "Structurally, of course," she agrees, though if her thoughts are on wood at all any more, it's definitely not the kind the merchant is working with.
Regardless, their three samples arrive in due course, and Isla charms her tone into something breezy and polite as she thanks the stall owner and gestures for Ever to pick up the walnut. "It has never been a problem for you to rise to the occasion," she adds softly. "I don't foresee that being the case now. Do you?"
"Duly noted," Ever murmurs, the consonant catching deliberately in his throat, like a promise disguised as phonetics. It’s not his fault his gaze lingers when she smiles like that, nor that the vendor’s scrutiny feels irrelevant in the face of her fingers still grazing his. Wood samples are exchanged, but his attention is elsewhere—filed alphabetically behind her lips, her heat, her cheeky restraint.
Taking the walnut with care, Ever balances it alongside the tiger-striped cedar, the motion precise—an excuse, maybe, to avoid combusting on the spot. "Your confidence is appreciated," he says as she leans in, his voice dipped in something drier than usual, "and I’d be remiss not to mention that, historically, structural response has never been a problem."
But then he glances at her from the corner of his eye, an eyebrow nudging up like a waveform rising, and the smirk beneath it is all restrained voltage. "That said..." he begins, tone slipping toward clinical even as his thumb traces lightly along her spine, "...given the recent changes to the variables relating to my cognitive and emotional recalibration, I think it would be premature to make any definitive claims...prior to rigorous testing." Straightening somewhat, Ever sighs a touch reluctantly. "Only if you're up for it. I feel as though I've asked you for so much lately."
Ever doesn't ask her to pick a sample of walnut this time, and Isla doesn't remind him, straightening up as if to better feel the warmth of his hand against her back as they turn back to the marketplace. "Oh...?" Glancing up at him beneath her lashes, as if she isn't thinking particularly hard about Ever's structural response when it comes to her touch, she tilts her head and listens to what he's saying and what he isn't.
Her smile, when it appears, is tipped with fangs, as if some part of her glamour has fallen out of place during the conversation. "As a doctor, I can confirm that rigorous testing is a necessary step when it comes to confirming the reliability of results," she says. "I'm no stranger to it, though when it comes to you, I feel quite personally invested in the matter. That is to say, I can't think of a better way to confirm our hypothesis."
