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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!
The ore has already been collected – and while the butcher could simply drop it off with the blacksmith here in the Inner Quarter and have them handle it… Something about it didn’t feel right when it came to making the portions of his cane. He wants to do Dygra proud and he wants every inch of the pieces within the cane to be made by him. So, with some guidance from the blacksmith and being the one to get his hands dirty, Astaroth is surprisingly content with the idea of possibly making himself a mess in order to create such beautiful pieces.
In fact, he’s even dressed down enough for it. A dark shirt buttoned most of the way up – not made of fine fabric given that it’s got the potential of getting singed or burnt – accompanies his willowy frame, as he lays all the pieces of ore out and organizes it, explaining to the blacksmith his thought process. Some of it crafted into bronze and some a beautiful silver. Nothing too flashy to completely detract from his usual impeccable attire, but still flashy enough to be considered his.
“All of the pieces go into their respective pots, yes? Then we melt them and pour their contents into these brilliant molds?” He’s clarifying before he starts separating them out – dark gaze glancing over to the blacksmith who nods, the very same that had made the mold between magic and quick wit once Astaroth had described what he was looking for.
Flashing the blacksmith a too sharp grin of confirmation, the butcher begins to separate out the ore into their respective pots.
Familiar with the carving of the pathways of the Hollowed Grounds, he walked past formations of ghosts from the corners of memories. He didn’t even pause to see old scars in the land from a Sparkbird’s depths, or the outlines of old homes in the distance – mind focused and honed on the task at hand – which was delivering the remains of the decimated vampire gourds from their recent trek amidst the Glade and Oasis.
He nodded to a few strangers on the way by, until he passed the blacksmith’s, immediately noting Astaroth. His brow arched for a moment, mostly out of curiosity, before pausing, configuring machinations. “Astaroth,” he greeted. “Making something?” He quirked a slight grin in the corner of his mouth, nodding towards the owner in the background – jostling the bag of vampire gourd portions over his shoulder. “Do you know of anyone who would appreciate raw pumpkin?”
Separating out the ore into the pots, it’s with ashy dust covered hands that the butcher hears his name — dark gaze lifting to scan and see who has stopped by to say hello. His smile widens, brightly, greeting the Warden with ease. “Ah, Deimos, hello. I am indeed making something.” He confirms, gaze and smile twisting a touch mischievous. “A weapon, actually, would you like to come and see?” He asks, raising his brow as he starts to set one of the pots into the flame with the help of the blacksmith.
He turns back to see the jostling bag over the larger man’s shoulder, hearing his question in regards to pumpkins, head tilting enough that a few loose pieces of his dark hair fall into his face from where it had been tied back. “Mm, the bakery down the road may find use for it?” They had been touting about their decadently sweet new tart recipes. Perhaps pumpkin might be a potential option for them to test out some new recipes.
Anything eventually becoming a weapon intrigued him, and the snares of curiosity unfurled immediately on the denizens of his arched brow. His movements, other than jostling the bag down upon the ground so it didn’t hang over his shoulder constantly, secured the notions of his inquisition, peering over one of the pots. “Sure.” He granted another polite nod to the blacksmith; always content with any of their work, before his mind meandered over the possibilities.
The other answer was sufficient; he hadn’t been certain if any other bakeries had come to the forefront after so much time. “We hunted down some vampire gourds over by the Glade,” by way of explanation, a shrug flickering through. “The possessed variant are interesting though.”
With the Hollowed Grounds’ alterations in landscape, some of the animals have grown a bit wilder. A bit bolder.
So while it may surprise some, and others not at all, a crow swoops down, snatching at clothing and bags with sharp, irritating, and annoying talons. Maybe you just lost a piece of bread, or a valuable keepsake!
The pots, as Deimos inspects them, are filled separately to create different kinds of metal — one fully silver and the other a mixture of copper and tin that would combine into making a warm golden bronze when formed and polished. “Dygra is helping me craft a new cane, so I am working to make the bladed portion.” He hums easily, flashing his too sharp grin up toward Deimos right in time to spot the fluttering of dark wings.
The ore melts and Asta’s tail lashes as he immediately looks away and the smile falters, focusing on the fire that’s melting the ore in the pots. His hands grip the edge of the anvil in front of him, redirecting his attention anywhere else but to the sound of where the crow flies off.
And Astaroth spends a fair amount of time trying to settle his rapid heartbeat and the nausea in his gut, trying to ignore the flash of searing pain across his chest and spine. “I have yet to see a possessed one.” He tries for a conversation but for the first time to Deimos, Astaroth’s voice is far less prim and proper, rougher and deeper and very much Halovian accented.
“Ah,” he nodded again, eyes flickering over the metallic portions and pieces. Not unlike some figments of Rexanna’s once parasol – safely lodged in his home – with its serrated portions sheathed and hidden, lurking beneath the surface. He could see where Asta had a preference for its tactics.
The sound of wings, and a crow, made him roll his eyes – as this wasn’t his first venture with the Grounds’ corvids – and remained unbothered as it made off with a portion of pumpkin. Had it been something else, the bird surely would’ve been mauled, and so he shrugged, turning back to the Ancient to ask if this was entirely commonplace –
And noting the complete change in demeanor. Senses locked and honed in on alterations in people; for safety's sake and in lifetimes of war, his eyes narrowed, brow arching again, companion bond lurking out towards Zuriel, grazing nearby. “You all right?” Out of habit, his spine straightened, waiting for something else to occur, when all only the statement passed through – of a familiar accent he hadn’t heard come from the man before.
Clenching his jaw, mind flaring in all directions, he chose to ignore that figment for a moment – but keeping it pressed to the back of his mind. In striving to keep something normal after the bizarre occurrence, he glanced away, watching the bird land nearby to munch on its new meal. “There are notable differences. They can hover. Cause illusions if you get too close.”
Grateful with a nod from his horned head to the blacksmith as he retrieves the pots to pour them into the minds, Astaroth still remains as tense and poised, trying to keep himself put together given that he’s out in public and simply can’t just vanish on the spot (regardless of how much he wants to.)
There isn’t the shark toothed smile anymore, simply just him straightening and ensuring he’s focused away from where the crow remains close enough to smack on the pumpkin stolen. The butcher reaches up to brush a few loose pieces of hair back, exhaling slowly, while the too harsh Halovian Whitebrim accent continues. “Yeah. Not a fan of crows, is all.” There’s a mirthless half smile offered Deimos’ way before he’s reaching for a hammer just to have something to do with his hands while the blacksmith slips the molds further away to cool before he can do anything with it.
“Are they like… boggart style of illusions?” Something that was meant to frighten and terrify?
A multitude of reasonings reeled through the Sword’s mind – machination over machination conjured on a litany of threads. He knew better than to ask if the Ancient had been to Halo, or live within, anytime recently; he wouldn’t have been able to survive. The inquiry was over the past, he presumed, as some had come from hundreds of years before…but knowing and asking and yielding the inquiry felt too much like poignant prodding, and Deimos wasn’t known to be a prying, intrusive individual, unless it was something truly significant and alarming. So he persisted in the curiosity, but maintained a blank slate over his features.
As for the crow – he could at least deal with that.
With Zuriel indifferent and not necessary, Belial drifted by immediately after, scrambling towards the crow on a ridiculous screech. The corvid maneuvered upward, dragging the pumpkin piece with it, and for a few moments one could watch a very foolish display of predacious deer and crow trying to outwit one another. “Does this happen often?”
Sighing, as if this all very normal happenstance (with the peryton anyway), he directed his attention back to passing information. “No – very minor. Can throw its voice, eerie faces, shadow hands.” Nothing that had bothered his hunting crew, at least.
He could ask if he wanted to, in a moment of the overtness of his tone drifting deeply into the recesses of a Halo long since forgotten, the butcher holds the hammer and watches the molds be cooled instead of the shenanigans outside. “Crows are fond of stealing within the Grounds these days.” He says in case Deimos is asking in regards to the fauna itself. “As for me, I do better when they don’t catch me by surprise.” And when he has the option to close his eyes rather than deal with the avians themselves.
“That’s good, I think? Could be worse.” He murmurs in lieu of the possessed gourds not doing much beyond what he might expect for a spirited vampire pumpkin.
At least now the molds are cooled, enough that Asta (in his Ancientness no longer needing to worry about heat or fire or burning), can collect them and hammer out his stress into the bits and pieces until they’re flat enough he can start sawing them to make all of the smaller pieces.
Chaos persisted – tufts of feathers flying as fangs ripped into the crow’s frame, and it was forced to tactfully retreat, or be lost to Belial’s fervent zeal. It dropped the pumpkin as well, fleeing the scene with less plumage, and the peryton proudly snagged at the dispersed gourd pieces, bringing it back over to the Sword. He crouched to pat the companion and scratch the top of his head, finding a treat in his pocket as Asta explained – snorting all the while. “Fair enough.”
As far as the deviant nature of the new gourds went, he could only shrug. “Much. They seemed to be void infected as well.” The purplish denizens gave off those clues anyway. “Have you seen any other flora or fauna variants around?” He knew Danta had ensured some portions of the Grounds were fully protected from the monstrous proportions, but it didn’t mean the whole of the region was free of them. Nor did the Sword, as the Monster Hunters Guildmaster, want to miss anything that could be potentially journaled and shared.
Rising back into his former height and stature, he watched as the Ancient had no need of protection from the molten heat. “Do you need help?”
There isn’t immediate relief as the crow departs, but the tension in the butcher’s shoulders slowly loosen while he works to hammer out the e into long strands of metal to be cut with a saw. Nose wrinkling at the mention of void infected, the butcher nods his head — a few long strands fall into his face with the movement. “We eradicated a void wicker woman in Flowerbirth.” Comes the rough accent again.
He looks up finally and fully, when Deimos stands, to look up at the Warden and blinks his surprise. “Sure.” Help would be very welcome. “The goal is to cut them into multiple pieces to be flexible, so that it can become a whip when activated but when it isn’t, remains as a blade.” Obviously there would be godly help, but for the bladed portions to fit right together, he’s sure they can manage that. “I am more of a close ranged fighter but I figured having something with a little more reach would be useful.” Some warmth returns to the butcher with his focus on the task at hand, and he steps aside to offer room for Deimos to help using the anvil if he so chooses.
Deimos’s own nose wrinkled at the sentiments; wicker women were notoriously difficult in normal circumstances. Making a mental note to compile that into another portion of the guild journals, he sighed. “Any differences from the regular ones?”
Given how often the Sword offered his strength into nearly everything, the surprise on Asta’s face made his brow arch, but he said nothing. Metal portions being flattened sounded right up his alley, and would give him a moment for muscles to be utilized rather than restless. Though he’d never worked in blacksmith quarters, he knew enough by watching in his youth, always spying upon new weaponry being made. Keen observation skills ensured mimicking motions, and he took off his jacket to permit necessary movement in the heated portions of the room.
Hammering along with Asta, he nodded at the implications. “Would allow for less damage on you as well,” hypothetically speaking – though from his bouts with the Ancient, he didn’t ever seem to bothered by that.
“I have never seen one that isn’t void touched, if I am being honest.” The butcher admits, nose wrinkling slightly with the memory, too sharp teeth grit into the frown that crosses his face. “I have also not sought one out since then. The void one nearly killed me.” He loathes to admit it and given the fact that he wouldn’t tell anyone else so easily, but given he knows Deimos is the strongest in Caido… He doesn’t see the harm in it when their enemies were mutual.
At the offer of help, though, the butcher steps aside, working in tandem beside the Sword to flatten the metal pieces. It’s easy work to distract him, and it helps to loosen the tension in his shoulders as he pushes the reminders of the Climb before he’d been ancient away.
“That would be preferable.” He drawls, withdrawing when his pieces are flattened enough to cut and start sharpening them. Guided with the help of the blacksmith and likely Deimos for this part. “While I can take a hit, the less I have to, the better, hm?”
