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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!
He’s fracturing so suddenly it takes him off guard, vibrating enough that tiny little cracks in his porcelain mask begin to grow jagged and sharp. He swore he told her, not the gnittt gritty details, but that doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter as one hand fists into his dark hair between the antlers and the other wraps around his chest and his lungs feel like they ache with the heat of the Climb and the hot blood filling it, throat so horse that he can’t remember how to scream.
It’s a rough voice that greets her after a few heartbeats, his tail tightening impossibly tight around his leg. “I was— Was exiled to the Climb.” He starts to say, back still to her and seeming impossibly small to the otherwise imposing figure he’s cut. “I didn’t know the societal norms of the time and was caught.” Each breath feels ragged and lancing hot. It was before he had learned that what he was taught growing up wasn't normal despite it being how they survived in the harsh climate of what Halo would come to be. “I was.. beaten. And cut. And broken. And— And tied down in the Climb. And feasted on for days by gore crows.” His voice grows quieter and his back hunches a bit more and if she looks hard enough she might see those ragged, tough scars on his back that can be visible in the folds of his shirt.
“Days.” A reiteration that leaves him without quite realizing, as if the blood on his tongue was the kind from back then, spiraling down into a panic attack that has the flames of the pyre no longer reacting to his anger now that it’s been replaced with panic. “I— I screamed and pleaded for so long for them to put me out of my— my misery. I screamed so long I could no longer speak. It– It didn’t matter, because by the second day my mouth was filled with so much blood.”
So despite having his fun, being a monster, the man that had attacked her had only suffered for the better part of thirty minutes before he granted him the relief of a quick death. It was better than what the townsfolk that had caught him had granted the butcher. It was better than the unanswered pleas and cries he’d asked of the gore crows.
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
// somebody told me that there's two sides to this life //
Horror mounted higher in her the more he revealed. It didn't matter that there were details missing, the gist was graphic enough and his hunched figure more than proof if she ever needed any of how it had impacted him. Perhaps some other person might revel in the knowledge that the other part was as miserable as her, but that wasn't her; compassion was a painful, tangible essence of her being and it bled for his plight, his memory, the cruelty he had been subjected to.
"Asta, I am so sorry. Please, I had no idea - " Causing suffering was the last thing she wanted. It had seemed to her that it was something he needed in order to properly punish wrongdoers - why else defend how he had treated that man, and others in the past, and more to come? - but if what he said was true... Maea realized he really did believe that what he did was a mercy.
Something crumbled within her. A resignation, perhaps, to the fact that there might not be a middle ground to be found here. It had seemed like the perfect compromise; exile into a stern place, punishing enough to deter from breaking the rules while still offering a chance for redemption, to change - that's what Dygra was about too, right? - and they would live happily ever after, equally disgruntled in their sacrifices. But now... she wasn't sure. Had no other ideas. And if Asta thought his torment beyond imagining was something she was ready to inflict upon someone? Anyone? Then she had to wonder if they truly knew each other at all.
"Please. Won't you look at me?" Rubbing a spot over her chest, she felt the pounding pulse like a drum. Too fast, too hard. "I would never wish that on anyone. Can you believe that?"
Maea
// I think I might've chosen darkness over light //
He expects to hear more explanations, more excuses, more well, just because you suffered too doesn’t mean others need to! and it takes an edge off of his shell he’s been building, even as he remains hunched, shoulders tight, back to her. His hand loosens a fraction in his hair and drops to his neck, both arms crossed over his chest where the worst of his scars sit, and he once again can’t find words to answer her with, as if the tightness of his throat and the blood still tainting his tongue copper prevented him from even making an attempt.
What he can do, though, is spit it out – crimson amongst the melting snow, to try and loosen up the tension that’s bled into his shoulders. He might actually be sick, a rare occurrence for the butcher, but the nausea roils in his gut as foreign of a feeling as the one that has him sucking down a sharp breath that isn’t near long enough before he does it again. He concedes, turning toward her halfway, spitting another mixture of blood and sudden saliva from the nausea that fills the inside of his mouth.
“Of course I can.” He grits out through a stubborn and tight breath, “I do believe you.” Because why else were they having this discussion if she viewed his much less horrific acts as monstrous as wanting to have it where it couldn’t be seen or known to fall under the guise of happening in the Grounds, in a place harsher.
Despite having half turned, he hasn’t looked at her just yet. Stubbornly reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if it would stop his eyes from being so red and watery, hating himself for having even let this happen. Only when he thinks it works enough does he let his dark gaze land on her, cold and hurt and shadowed even further, unsure what to say or if he even can say anything from the lump in his throat, the air fighting for space in his lungs.
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
// somebody told me that there's two sides to this life //
Maea met that gaze without shying away. The darkness, the pain, the sadness he hated displaying, none of it was distasteful or foreign. The cold in his eyes was one she knew intimately, that wall of resistance one she owned in equal measure. She saw him. And it really was like looking at a shadow side of herself. What she could have been in different circumstances, if she'd been the one to grow up in a clan of cannibals while he was raised by loving, caring, disappointed parents.
That was the problem, wasn't it? It could just as easily be her. That was what repelled her in the end, what she bounced away from. She knew and he knew - because she had told him - that it wasn't for a lack of dark urges that she took such a vehement stance against preying on mankind. Or cruelty. Or arbitrary murder. It could just as easily be her. And it must be terribly insulting to Asta to be held up as the very last thing Maea wanted to become.
That didn't make it any less true.
Drawing in a deep breath, she sighed. "Forget what I said. It seems that this is only my problem, after all. I'll just... find some way to live with what I know." Leaning down to fish up the pile of ratty clothes, she tossed them on the pyre and went to collect her bag. "I'll be out of town for a while. Might see you around later."
Maea
// I think I might've chosen darkness over light //
He meets her pale gaze and the silence stretches on for so long that his stomach feels like the waves beneath the docks nearby, crashing and tossing and turning in the Flowerbirth sun. Only after their eyes meet for an uncomfortable amount of time for the butcher, does he look away, nostrils flaring as he tries to inhale another deep breath to ward away the nausea, hand returning to pinch at the bridge of his nose like it could stop the tears that keep threatening to appear.
He hates this, every second of it. Feeling small, broken, torn up, nauseous, weak. His shirt has most certainly wrinkled now with how hard his arm is pressed up against his chest, with the heat that races through his body in his upset that makes it feel like its on fire. And when she does finally speak, he’s partially too stunned and silent to know what to eloquently say.
“Okay.” Is all he manages to grit out, eyes shutting tight for a moment before he swipes stubbornly at his cheeks and tries to pull himself back together. He’s a long way from the Dusklight right now but maybe it would be worth disappearing into the woods to try and get his mind back together. The pyre would take some time to fully burn out anyway, and he’d already spoken to the merchants and families that lived close enough to the docks to know which pile was for what.
Maybe that was good enough. It had to be. Because without much announcement of his intentions, the butcher shifts into the fyrhund and darts off toward the trees in the distance. A subconscious need to disappear.
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
// somebody told me that there's two sides to this life //
Shouldering her bag with a nod of goodbye, Maea turned to leave. She didn't like cutting this off so abruptly, but the way Asta was looking, she didn't think there was any point trying to carry on a debate. But she had barely taken three steps when a noise behind her caused her to turn. Catching the tail end of Asta's transformation, the large fyrhund tore off along the street, leaving the pyre and the piles behind.
"Asta! Wait!" Staring after him in bewildered confusion, Maea looked wildly about - for the ship, for someone to explain what had gone wrong - but no one showed up to conveniently take over. Tossing her bag with a curse, she shifted too, shimmering into the pale form of the molten tiger and set off after the black hound. Out of the town, off into the wilderness, she pursued him with grim determination until she was sure there would be no confusing his tracks with anyone else's. Only then did she slow down the pace; there was no point making him feel chased.
Not for the life of her could she understand what she meant to accomplish here. It seemed the only thing she was really good at was making problems, and nothing they'd said here had changed his or her stance. And yet... for all that she was pissed off and hurt and at her wits end... that was her friend, running like his tail was cased in ice. And she cared.
Fuck it to all Outlander hells, but she fucking cared.
Maea
// I think I might've chosen darkness over light //
The fyrhund shift embraces far more of his manic state – the urge to run and run until his lungs give out, until he’s got nothing left to do but crumble into a pile of volcanic rock and fire. Large paws pave a burnt path in any dry underbrush from the trees as he bolts into them, fully not expecting – once again – to be followed.
It isn’t until the quiet of the woodlands and the rough panting of the fyrhund beneath the alcove of a small, overturned boulder casts even more shade and darkness that feels more and more like home for the moment for him to break apart. The fyrhund heaves, nothing but bile and course air from too tight lungs, only to still with a predatory stillness at the sound of a twig snap.
Orange eyes, hardened and sharp zero in on where the sound came from, and the fyrhund launches from the hidey hole he’s found like some kind of horrible spider on the offense, jaws parted and a fiery glance of smoke and heat pouring from his maw. There isn’t much of Asta inside at the moment, compartmentalized into the fyrhund’s natural instincts, locking himself away for a long, long moment.
And I only needed one more touch Another taste of devouring rush
The fire spewed hot and blinding from his jaws, and washed over the tigress as she tried to approach him. She did not flinch, nor balk at the panicked state he was in. The fire could not harm her - it was fortunately not acid, which would have been a different matter entirely - and with a shake of her pale scruff the lingering smoke and ash dispersed into the air.
Assessing the fyrhund for a moment, Maea was unsure which approach to take. She could humor this penchant for violence and let him work it out into exhaustion. Or she could attempt to calm him, to soothe that frenzied distress. Both had their own merits, the problem was that she didn't know Asta well enough to pick one for him.
In the end, she simply sat down. Winding the long striped tail around her paws, white-gold eyes blinked slowly at him, waiting to see what he would do next. If he attacked, she would fight back. If he ran, she would follow. The only thing she wouldn't do, was leave him be. At least not until she could be certain beyond all doubt that he wasn't going to run himself off a cliff or into a fight he couldn't get out of on his own.
Snarling as he lands and sees the fire and smoke do absolutely nothing and the tigress not approaching further, Astaroth’s ears pin back with his teeth bared, tail curled around his leg as his body curves in a tension wrought about like a wounded animal, distrusting and hurt. A warding off growl ricochet from his throat, echoing off the hollowed trees and the boulder he’s tried to hide in earlier.
And still the molten tiger won’t just leave him be. Panic sets in further, frenzied orange eyes darting from one exit point, back to the tiger, back to another exit point, and he sinks low in his anger and upset, nostrils flared and breaths panting smoke enough to fill the air between them, and with the still lingering cold of Deepfrost it sinks low and heavy around his paws.
A split second decision made from the predator’s mind has him launching at Maea, jaws parted and teeth aimed to strike at where her shoulder meets her neck.
And I only needed one more touch Another taste of devouring rush
He chose, or perhaps had the course of action chosen for him by nature, by nurture, by everything he had lived and seen and experienced in life. A hard life, by the sound of it, and Maea was not without sympathy for him. So she responded in kind, deciding to do him the honor of taking him very fucking seriously indeed. The Fyrhund was large and heavy, more so than her comparatively slender feline guise, but though she did not look it, Maea was strong. And she was ready for him.
Heaving herself up from where she sat, she met his attack head on. The teeth that clasped into her scruff stung and burned and she returned it two-fold by embracing him with bared claws, attempting to slam him into the ground with all her strength. Glowing blue-steel stripes shimmered with a heat that matched Asta's; it would not hurt him, but perhaps the warm drip of metallic runoff might be soothing. Not that she thought much of anything would get through to him in this moment.
Teeth close around the scruff of fur and molten metal, a launch that has taken all of his feral effort in where she manages to wrap those bared claws around him, and down the fyrhund goes with a hard thump and even more of a lack of air in his lungs. Coughing a hacking sound, Astaroth sucks in a breath and his body heats, lava dripping from between the plates of volcanic and metallic rock, immediately bending to bite at the paw that’s slammed him to the ground.
Panic swells quickly in his gut, an uncomfortable sensation for one that has always craved being in control. It’s because of times like this – if he can’t control it, he becomes something else entirely. And after spending so much time in the Climb before crafting that careful mask of indifference and monstrosity, it’s a true pity that it’s reduced like ash on the wind as he explains the trauma he’s endured in his life. And so, he fights, because the fyrhund in him feels like there’s nothing left to do. And unlike when he’d been left for dead in the Climb, he fully intends to never be as prone and useless as he was before.
And I only needed one more touch Another taste of devouring rush
Down they go, and teeth close around her paw for her trouble. Yowling with equal parts annoyance and pain, she tears free and gets back up on her feet, crouched and ready for another launch. She doesn't try to keep him down. The claws she turn on him are only there to repeat what she already did - catch him, and slam him back down. Over and over again, as many times as it took. Even if she was left bleeding and bruised, even if he showered her in fire and bile. In a test of strength, she would win. In a contest of endurance, she had the upper hand. The same was true for dexterity. It was up to him to keep fighting or not; she would respond, and take him down, and move away until he lost the taste for it.
She remembered his aversion to touch, and so did not try to pin him. The revelation of his being tied down and kept down was fresh in her mind too, and that was why she didn't attempt to make him lose that way. Honestly, it wasn't about winning or losing at all. Only recovering the ancient man to some semblance of sanity, where he realized that there were more options than jumping at her throat.
Oh and he does it, over and over again. It takes about three times of getting slammed back into the ground before Astaroth’s limbs hurt too much to continue, the adrenaline wearing off in lieu of pain and upset. He’s still manic, still frenzied, but the last time the molten tiger slams him to the ground, he doesn’t get up again to launch himself. He lays there, panting and coughing up smoke and fire, until a few minutes pass and the butcher returns to himself, curled up and prone on the cold and wet ground.
His legs curl up against his stomach as he tries to catch his breath, arms curled in against his chest, face half pressed into a mess of ash and damp snow and leaves and twigs, the sharp prong of his horn carving a wide gash into the earth with each and every one of his movements. When he does speak, his voice sounds torn and rough, like it hurts to use his vocal chords, but he does so anyway, pushing through the pain with some semblance of feeling as though it's worth it. “Why did you follow me again?”
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
// somebody told me that there's two sides to this life //
The moment he stopped launching himself at her, Maea drew back. Giving him plenty of space to breathe and recover his breath, she had to do the same. Blood flecked her ivory pelt and she moved gingerly, feeling every bit of fury the Butcher had poured onto her. Licking her injured paw, she remained shifted until he changed - just to make sure that he wouldn't catch her off guard and do something both of them would regret.
Shimmering and shrinking back into the petite ancient form, the aftermath of their clash looked far worse. Gouges in her neck and arm bled profusely, as did a number of other nicks and cuts. Putting her mouth to the particularly nasty bite marks on her arm, Maea was glad that they had been shifted; she wasn't sure she could bear getting her dress ripped. At least now it was only getting bloodied - that was nothing.
"Because," she muttered hoarsely, blood staining her lips, "you're my friend. And I care when you're upset." Sinking down on her elbows with a weary sigh, she gazed back at him with a directness she rarely offered anyone. "And because this was my fault. Even if I didn't know it, I hurt you. Not knowing why isn't an excuse to let you go through this alone."
Maea
// I think I might've chosen darkness over light //
