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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!
With aching feet and the feeling of exhaustion that came from having cried far too many times in too short a period, Flora takes a step back into the shadows, if only to hide the fresh rush of tears. It didn't matter that Jack was staying she told herself. It didn't matter because this was all just so that down the road he could say that he had and win some future argument. Even so, it had a sob hiccuping in the back of the queen's throat to find herself again shearing off pieces of herself if only to trade for a bit of intimacy from a man who'd explicitly said he could never love her.
Reaching for the bottle of rum before allowing her bag to slide off of her shoulder, the Doubletake wordlessly holds it out for the captain. It was his preferred vintage, as if some small part of her had always known it would end up like this. Or perhaps she'd just wanted the taste of him on the lips of the man who was supposed to have been here with her.
Accepting the rum and uncapping it to take a long swig from the bottle - he'd not allowed himself to get as drunk as the patrons of the Hanged Man who were in celebration of Flora's generosity, and he thinks he deserves at least this one drink - Jack hands it back to the Doubletake in silence. Whatever she might think of him, the captain is careful to shrug it off if only because fuck if this hasn't been a long night for him as well at this point, and when he reaches for Flora, it might be a surprise to them both that it isn't to pull her into a kiss or to sweep her off to her bedroom to forget the past few hours, but to draw her into his arms and against his chest.
"I'm shit at this," he tells her, voice pitched low, "because like you say, I'm a callous bastard, and no one ever showed me how." What's that saying, about silver spoons and learning to lick love off of knives? "I could learn, though, with a half decent teacher." Perhaps the best and worst part of all of this is that it could be a very, very well crafted manipulation on the captain's part, to lay pieces of himself bare for Flora's examination. Alas, not even Jack can be sure of it.
romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic and recommended
Stiffly Flora stumbles forward, her bare feet tucked between Jack's as she rests her cheek uncomfortably against his chest, every muscle tight. Was loving someone something you had to learn? The queen's first instinct is to argue but of course it wasn't. It was something you just felt and that served as the motivation for you to do things. Only...Only before anyone had pointed out to her that feeling is nausea or that feeling is arousal, would she have known? Quickly, Flora swallowed to herself. Of course she would have. Not having a name for something didn't mean you had to learn how to feel it.
What was that other saying? About old dogs and new tricks?
Drumming her fingertips against his leg if only to direct his attention to the rings on her fingers, Flora shrugged against him. "I can tell when you're lying, remember?" She mumbles softly; not to imply that he had been, but only to save herself a good deal of pain if he tried at some point in the night to reassure her with words he truly didn't mean.
Words like I want to be here.
"I want to go to bed." Tilting her head and resting her chin against his chest as she blinks up at him, the Doubletake sighs wearily, her blue eyes red-rimmed and lined with smears of mascara.
Had Jack ever been to her second floor before? Flora didn't think so, though it wasn't as if she had the energy to give him any sort of tour as she turned, bottle of rum still in hand, to pad softly up the stairs. The queen's room screamed Flora. Everything within was immaculately styled, and while some of it was certainly sentimental rather than curated, everything screamed of cohesion even in the dark. A large bay window cast ribbons of moonlight onto an obnoxiously large bed whose thick pillows and blankets suggested you'd sink several inches upon getting into it.
Moving to a large wardrobe in the corner, Flora began to delicately unbutton the bloody shirt she was wearing with the intention of hanging it up so that she could send it off to be cleaned in the morning.
"I know," Jack says quietly, raising a brow at the ring on her finger that he presumes is not screaming at her that he's being deceitful right now. "And that's easy for you to say," he adds, regarding her inner monologue about love and learning how to do it. "Presumably you were loved from the second you were born, at least by someone." Easy to learn when you know what it should feel like. Scoffing quietly and teasing his fingers through the Doubletake's still damp curls, to say they are both standing stiff and awkward would be an understatement, and yet it's probably the most honest they've been all night.
"Lead the way," he rumbles as she blinks up at him, and she's gone before he can try to wipe away some of the smudged mascara around her eyes. Following on silent feet - after removing his boots, because Jack doesn't need to read Flora's thoughts to know that keeping them on wouldn't be appreciated - he heads upstairs after her, lingering in a doorway to a room that's as much the Doubletake as his own cabin is quintessentially Jack.
Feeling the strangest urge to want to examine the room in the same way he'd so easily sift through Flora's thoughts, instead Jack follows her across to the wardrobe. Rather than helping her out of the shirt - presumably she'd assume he'd toss it away - instead he reaches for a hanger for her to put it on, like a strange and helpful ghost at her back.
romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic and recommended
Where Flora's familial situation when she was younger hadn't been the easiest, she knew that she wasn't as hard done by as others. It wouldn't have surprised her in the least to learn that Jack had been the child of some brutal rape, left abandoned and made to fend for himself, and so instead of arguing, she merely leaned slightly into the tug of his fingers in her hair. "What about when you were a boy? You never had a crush on, I don't know, the local baker or one of the girls at the Haulani?"
Upstairs, indeed she did assume he was going to throw the shirt away, to wonder why she'd be so gentle with it when presumably the wearer had caused her so much harm. That he only handed her a hanger made her wonder if the gesture was because he understood, or simply because he knew that she'd call him on it if whatever he said was a lie. Not bothering to cover herself or act shy as she peeled off the shirt—they were past the point where even pretending to be coy about nudity would be tiresome—Flora smiled wordlessly at him as she hung it on the hanger before going into her ensuite to wash the mascara from her face.
"I'd say make yourself at home, but..." She calls, shrugging slightly. Something told her all the crisp white linens and carefully chosen artefacts would probably give the captain as much of a headache as her thoughts would.
"I don't think so," Jack says, because it's the truth - he doesn't know. "By that point," the point where he'd have been old enough to have a crush, whether it be on some girl or boy next door or one of the golden skinned sirens at the Halenani, "I'd started to hear thoughts. Only in dribs and drabs, but..." He shrugs - it was distraction enough that any memory of some fleeting affection has long since been buried.
"I remember there was a woman who worked down in Kaiholo when I was small, who mended the nets for the fisherman. She was kind." Gods, what had even happened to her? Had Jack happened to her? Wrinkling his nose, he distracts himself with the hanger and leaves Flora to go and clean herself up.
He makes himself at home exactly as she might expect, Jack ending up lingering at the bay window to watch the glitter of the moonlight on the sprawling black of the ocean beyond. With a hand in his pocket and keen eyes searching for - you guessed it - The Ark out on the docks, Flora will find him just as he is when she returns.
romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic and recommended
"Oh." Of fucking course. Jack didn't need to have had an abusive upbringing, he only needed to have had the thoughts of everyone he'd ever known needling their way into his mind, ruining moments that might have seemed perfect to him, or revealing secrets he might have preferred not knowing. "I guess you can tell when people are actually kind." She murmurs softly; doubtless, there weren't that many of them.
Returning, having slipped into a robe made of lilac silk, fresh-faced and with a brush in one hand, Flora moves to stand at the captain's side, smiling softly. "Having this view is quite convenient." She murmurs. "Saves me from wandering down the harbour only to learn that the Ark is out." Glancing at Jack over her shoulder as she brushes the remaining tangles from her hair, Flora glances at the bottle of rum on one of the bedside tables—the one with a picture of she and her twin on it—and swaps out her hairbrush for the bottle.
"Mmhm," Jack confirms, both to her statement and the thoughts behind them. "I think I knew her before the magic, so who knows. Maybe she drowned kittens in her spare time." Ha ha, dark humour. Don't we love it? Glancing back at Flora a second before she re-emerges from the bathroom, Jack follows her gaze out to the view of the docks and the ships bobbing around in it. "Ah, so you spy on me in your spare time," he drawls, raising an eyebrow at her. "Very savvy of you."
Shame about the distant purple glow on the horizon, even in the dead of night, but what can you do? "That was ballsy of you, with Dahlia," he admits, as if the faint indication of Starfall has reminded him. Not ever so brave or weren't you amazing or soooo clever, Flora, because that would certainly have had her truth ring sending her alarm bells. Ballsy, though? Jack believes that. "Granted, I still don't reckon you should get too close to her. She's got a mind like a shark."
romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic and recommended
Giving Jack a flat stare before smirking and softly rolling her eyes, she lets her gaze drift softly over the moon bright sea and shrugs. "Gasp, a compliment?" Huffing a quiet teasing breath, Flora has the bottle of rum halfway to her lips as the captain mentions the Reaper's name. Despite the way the barbs and thorns of Flora's thoughts had begun to curl back in on themselves, now they flinched and stiffened in preparation for Jack to tell her once again how she'd fucked up.
Blinking, Flora takes a sip, and then another before pressing the back of her hand against her mouth and savouring the burn. She didn't doubt that Dahlia's mind was like a shark, but it did raise the obvious question: "And what kind of mind do you have?" She wonders, raising a brow as she holds the bottle out to him. Sharklike seemed to fit the captain just as well as the Reaper, and certainly it seemed to make sense that if she shouldn't get close to one, she shouldn't get close to either.
"Mm, don't get used to 'em, or they'll lose their charm," Jack drawls back to her, casting a sidelong glance as her thoughts grow thorny before returning to their usual muted blooms, and he holds his hand out for the rum to accept it. "Me?" Scoffing out a laugh, clearly not having anticipated that question even with telepathy, Jack shakes his head. "A fuckin' tired one," he tells her, though obviously that won't give her the answer he thinks she's looking for.
"A spider's mind, probably," he ventures with a shrug, tipping his head back for a healthy pull from the bottle. "It's how it used to feel, when I started out. Had this web cast over everythin', waitin' for somethin' to pluck it in the right place to tell me I'd caught somethin' of interest." Granted, it had also been when the captain had been at his most paranoid. "You, on the other hand, are like a box of fuckin' fireworks."
romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic and recommended
Laughing at that, Flora shrugs, having not really expected much of an answer from Jack anyway. Turning toward the bed, the queen slides between the sheets rendering her thoughts suddenly cloudlike in response to the familiarity and comfort. She's still inclined to think that some not-half-bad sex followed by a few hours of crying would have done her a world of good, but she isn't as upset about how the night was currently going as she'd initially thought.
Lifting her brows as Jack starts to elaborate, wonders never ceasing, Flora settles back against her pillows and tries to imagine what it must be like for him. She'd seen the colours of her own mind splashed out across the walls of the House of Midnight, but she can also clearly visualize silvery strings covered in droplets of dew with Jack at the centre, quietly listening.
"That does sound exhausting." Flora agrees as she smooths her comforter down around her before looking up sharply. "Fireworks? Like...colourful...not subtle...explosive? Will burn you if you fuck up trying to light them off?" She smirks. "I'm sure everyone's mind is like that."
Lowering the bottle and setting it back on the table, wincing at the familiar burn but far from disliking it, Jack watches as Flora slips into familiar comfort with almost a sting of jealousy about it, finding himself wanting to fluff up her thoughts like one would do to a pillow before settling down to rest. Drifting to the side of the bed as well and sinking down onto the edge of it - fully prepared to rise back to his feet should Flora tell him to fuck off - Jack rakes his hands through his hair and flashes her a smirk over his shoulder.
"Everyone's mind is not like that," he tells her, surprisingly animated in his assurance. "Most people are easy to read because they're predictable. Even dangerous people are predictable in the way they think. You, though?" He shakes his head. "Fireworks." Now that he's said it out loud, he's quite convinced of it, in fact. Nothing like a well placed firework to destroy the carefully constructed web he's made, after all.
romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic and recommended
"Get in the bed, dummy." Flora says softly, rolling her eyes affectionately up at him. Never mind that Jack seemed just now like an outdoor cat that some bougee family had adopted against his will, the queen was too tired either to poke fun at him about it, or to wait for him to stop fidgeting on his own. Unless...unless he'd planned to come in but not stay? Was that all he'd meant by I'm not going anywhere; just that he wasn't leaving her threshold?
Trying not to let her mind flood with yet more swampy doubt and insecurity, the queen quietly clears her throat. "What does predictable look like?" Was it all just one colour? One line of thinking? Were there no gardens, no waves, no fires?
Knowing it wasn't what she needed to help her sleep but doing it anyway, Flora reached for the rum and took several sips. Though it had her thoughts lazily spreading away from one another, their edges blurred and frayed such that she could think of teeth pressed against the inside of her thigh hard enough to draw blood without flinching away.
"I didn't want to run the risk of you mule kickin' me out if I wasn't explicitly invited," Jack drawls, rolling his eyes right back at her - he'd just said Flora was as unpredictable as a colourful box of explosives, hadn't he? Still, at the request he does unbutton his shirt to draw it over his head, draping it on the back of a chair before following suit with his pants, and soon enough he's in the Doubletake's bed with her, silk sheets and plush comforter and all.
"It's like listenin' to a song too many times," he explains with remarkable ease. "On its own it's probably fine the first few listens, but eventually you can tell what's comin' next. How someone reacts when they're angry, what their routine is, how they like to fuck, that sort of shit."
Glancing across at Flora, not because of the rum - she can get shitfaced for all he minds - but naturally because of the accompanying thoughts, Jack's bright eyes darken considerably. "Can I inquire as to why you're so keen to protect someone who put you in this sort of state tonight?"
romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic and recommended
