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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!
Nodding in understanding, perhaps he’d simply have to compare the two elsewhere. And he gave no judgement to the Ancient; there were quite a few beasts eager to fell even the strongest of them – and since some of these factions altered the already brutal…“None of them are to be trifled with, for certain.” Even the annoying and irritating void gourds could daunt someone young, foolish, and ignorant; given the right circumstances, almost anyone could find their aspirations merely to survive. “We came across void dragons around Starfall.” As a hint and a warning, perhaps, though he couldn’t see Asta venturing there on his own accord.
Flattening the metal was simple work; not wholly strenuous, and it amused him to watch the elements maintain a new fixture under the solidified strength. “That is how it is has been in my experience,” he joked with an air of rumbling proportions. Given how many hits he’d taken in multiple lifetimes, he too liked to avoid it as much as possible.
Working in tandem with Deimos was surprisingly comforting and comfortable as the pieces come together, hardened and not yet polished to be their beautifully gilded pieces. Instead, they’re dusky and dark, pocketed with their hammer marks as they talk, as the butcher comes back into himself from the ghosts of his past. At the mention of void dragons, though, Astaroth’s nose immediately wrinkles and he shoots a glance toward Deimos before he speaks. “I have never been a fan of dragons.” Unless it was an Ancient shift, of course. “I had thought I avoided them when I left Halo, only to find the Climb had their own variety.” He admits with a rueful shake of his head.
As the pieces become flat, they can start on sharpening the edges, keeping the middle thick enough to be attached to a whip that would lend it to locking the sharp edges together to make it a hardened blade when done – but it meant more work than just sharpening the edges of a sword. It’s busy work, but it’s Deimos’ joke that warms him up a bit further, letting a smile tug on the corners of his mouth. “Ranged fighting I am not as familiar with. I am quite horrible at it, if I am being honest.” Though, he supposes his appearance makes sense in that regards. Why have such sharp teeth if you weren’t going to utilize them in a fight? Or for eating?
The confirmation of his past Halovian lifestyle only gave the Warden the slightest pause, and not enough for Deimos to cease on his motions. Flattening the pieces was amusing, and after he had more than a few pieces he started handing them over to the Ancient, watching as he sharpened and serrated the edges. “When did you leave Halo?” Started first, and the notion of dragons came second, his nose wrinkling again as well. “I happen to come across them often,” and he shrugged; figuring maybe it was the other way around – and seemingly at life-altering events (engagements, weddings, the birth of his son…); and refusing to take them as anything dark or ominous. “I presume the black dragons are just as bad as the white ones?”
He snorted and shrugged at the depiction of ranged proportions; figuring there were always methods and means to try new things. The familiar was comfortable and easy; but rested on the laurels of complacency, of which he’d never been a fan. “Depends on the abilities you gain, I suppose.” The Sword utilized his shifts and incantations throughout multiple ways, but he favored a long-distance approach, unfurling damage and fervor all while opting to avoid their reprisals.
“Gods, centuries ago.” Astaroth hums with the warmth of amusement creeping in, in lieu of the crow that had thrown ice into his otherwise perfect day. “I would like to believe they are not as bad as the white dragons, but, I suppose I was not adequately prepared to deal with them in Halo versus the Climb.” He admits, working to serrate the edges of the bladed pieces before he casts his dark gaze back over toward Deimos with that same smile tugging the corners of his lips. “I was not born Ancient, you see. I underwent the change when I was in my twenties.”
Still, dragons sucked regardless of where you were. And Astaroth would continue remaining to not be a fan of the wild, feral ones wherever they roamed.
Gaining multiple pieces of the blades now into a pile, Astaroth continues to sharpen and hone them as Deimos flattens the cut pieces out exactly how he needed them. “I suppose it does.” And it seems as if Dygra has thought of that as well – with the increase of abilities the Ancients are able to have these days, the new creatures that roam the Climb. To say that he isn’t excited about what changes may arise from how he had been before his stony slumber, would be an absolute lie.
Centuries ago made him snort, because for some reason, after years upon years of tragic happenstances, victorious occasions, and menacing distinctions, time could still stretch and make them feel very small. And for all that he’d brushed up on history, it was also strange to imagine entire populations left to rest, in some kind of stasis, until the moments were right again. “Were you around before Hollowed Grounds was behind a barrier?” Trying to circumnavigate the aspects of instances and pinpoint qualities left him briefly musing, flattening out more pieces and passing them along.
Not lending a very distinct and horrific saga to the tales of dragons, his head tilted instead, understanding and comprehending the situation. “We leave them to their own devices too. No point in starting something,” that they ultimately might not be able to finish. Some of them might’ve been to the point of being able to equally maul one of the ferocious creatures, but he figured the reckless carnage involve would be unnecessary and not worth the bloodshed. Starfall was its own demonic figurehead – and they’d been lucky with the rapier; now gone and in the hands of the enemy,
“It is intriguing,” he continued with his machinations out loud. “To find you have magic and shifts; not unlike hybrids.” At which he smiled briefly; having taken much of the knowledge from Kiada and her own experiences.
Deimos’ snort only widens the butcher’s smile, reflecting to someone who’s… Newer. Newer in the sense that when he speaks with Danta, the Maverick already knows much of the history of the times before. Deimos, though, likely having to read through books to find out what happened while the Butcher did the opposite and instead, chose to read from books that talked about what happened in between.
“I was, yes. I was around before the Voice, even. Acquired were still considered blessed.” Casting a look over toward the Sword, creased with his smile, his accented voice drops a touch playfully. “Imagine my surprise to come to and see what all had changed.” It’s a sarcastic drawl, because he’s sure that Deimos could imagine it.
Instead, he continues to work, cutting each portion until he can start to polish them with the files offered, sharpening even further and shining the metal. Listening with ease, he nods, until the mention of Ancients and their abilities – one that he imagines that Deimos can understand given his hybrid status. “The versatility has always been a blessing. And Dygra has been busy since reawakening. Many of us are finding new magics and shifts that had not been around when I was last awake, at least.” Twisting to straighten up his posture, he gestures to the flickering shadow that the fire in the forge creates, activating his shadow magic to let it make its best little attempt at smacking the metal piece he’d been buffering.
Alternative experiences, especially of the past and present were intriguing, enough to make him wonder and ponder, muse and reflect. While Deimos had come from worlds that had been embedded and infused with magic, so much so that it was out of the ordinary if someone was not riddled with incantations, arriving in Caido had been a lesson in bewilderment and hatred. Though he hadn’t ever thought to change who he was, or be ashamed of what he contained, the Sword had still assimilated into the fold of faith and progress; persistent and subversive all in the same breath. No one, not even the gods, was going to make him believe he was worthless and despicable, because of what was contained within his veins. Other actions and events dictated that. “As an Outlander, I understand,” with a sharp wrinkle to his nose again.
Curiosity persisted though, the inquisition carrying through. “What were those days like?” Something like his homeland, maybe, where the entanglement of skills and enchantments were fine, but the world was still restless? Isilme and Helovia alike had craved action, vehemence, and violence; whereas Caido sometimes had the lulls, the restful pieces nestled in between. But before? Some of the knowledge had likely been lost to time, but not to those who'd lived it.
Flattening away, maintaining a rhythm of strength and mettle, the semblances of knowledge coming together continued to sort quietly through his mind. Dygra’s acceptance of magic in her beings was an intriguing juxtaposition from the rest of the Old Gods; and though the question lay immersed behind his teeth, he didn’t give voice to it. “Nothing wrong with growth,” he encouraged with a laugh. “Similar to us, perhaps,” in that they were always finding new pieces brimming under the surface, over time and perseverance.
“That was a term I had learned solely through reading.” Astaroth hums, flashing Deimos a too sharp smile of agreement. A commonality that whether or not you were born here and arrived having to learn from the ground up – or falling into a gargoyle state for multiple centuries – the results were the same. Having to try and learn how the world worked. “For what it is worth, I would have never guessed that you were an Outlander.” The term is said so little from the butcher’s lips that his accent pours over it in a warped tone.
As for what those days were like, the butcher chuckles softly, continuing to polish the pieces while his shadow continues to play. “Vastly different. I was… mm, a scout in both Halo – well, what Halo was considered at the time, similar but not quite the region you know. I have seen the maps – and the Climb. It was essentially my job to scout out foot sources and corral them in.” He murmurs, reflecting for a moment before he shakes his head. “My soul-shift, I suppose it could be called, is a fyrhund. I have never gone without it.” Even in his weakened state as he was when he woke, he’d had it. Even when he’d made the change from Accepted to Ancient, he’d had it to start.
The shadow relaxes as he thinks about Dygra for a long moment and her ability to bless them with so many unique things, nodding his head in agreement as he starts to collect the already polished pieces now that they were complete. “For as long as I have known my dark lady, she has never wanted to be predictable.” And Astaroth, who had zero idea what he was entirely getting into when he’d made the change, well… He couldn’t complain one bit.
The term no longer seemed to carry such ill will and malcontent as it had once in the Grounds; back when they were all held behind barriers and striving to claw their way out. Or perhaps because so many had assimilated, perished, or disappeared. Too few to complain about, and the rest given rise and fall on their journeys across Caido. He gave half a smile at Asta’s response, shrugging as he worked through another portion of metal. Much like Abandoned, he’d never been ashamed of carrying it either; just one more individual trying to survive, having been pulled from his world and into the next. “Thank you. It took some time to adapt.” LongNight had been a stretch of misery he’d never quite gotten over – even years separated from the terrors. “Likely the same for all of you.” With gaps to fill in – growth and alterations, changes and designations. To never have known the Voice and her notions might’ve been something worthwhile.
His eyes went from the shadow and back to Asta, brow arching slightly, before passing more of the flattened pieces or assisting in whatever else the Ancient required. A scout in Halo wasn’t unlike trackers of today – chasing down prey or patrolling across the vast, ivory denizens. “Did you ever make it to the Draig?” Deimos only had for war and brief visits with Remi and Ronin when they’d still lived amongst the peaks, but curious to know if it had been like that before. At the notions of a fyrhund, he managed a small chuckle. “Similar to my hellhound shift.” Preferences of fire and blood somewhere melded in between.
As for Dygra, he could only muse. “So I have heard.” And given the chaotic blood moon event, he was never quite certain if he’d want to participate in such a motley distinction again. He could embody bedlam, but still at the druthers of his own control. A thin line, and perhaps not one shared here. The goddess didn’t seem like the Voice, and that was enough for the Sword. “At least it keeps things interesting.”
Astaroth seems to believe it’s under the pretense of not knowing anyone who wasn’t from here that acted and behaved in such a way that led him to think there was little to no way they could possibly be anything else but Caido born. It’s the same as what Danta often told him when it came to the Ancients – having not been born as one like the Maverick. He’s just as much Ancient as he is. Deimos is just much Caido as the rest of them were. “Oh, most certainly.” Comes the warm laugh from the butcher’s throat, too sharp teeth on display as the grin flashes and he starts to collect the pieces.
Pieces that will need to be drenched in blood later, but that’s neither here nor there for the moment. They’ve all worked hard and learned a thing or two, right?
He works on a few other smaller portions, though, utilizing some leftovers to work on making a sleek dagger, utilizing Deimos’ help with the thinness of the metal. “No, I tended to avoid it. Dragons, you see.” Asta flashes a crooked smirk toward Deimos – recalling the previous part of their conversation, even if Asta had simply never gotten strong enough to go without being harassed. “I am sure you have been, though?” If the strongest person in Caido couldn’t have gone, well, that didn’t bode well for the rest of them ever visiting, did it?
The smile broadens with the mention of the hellhound shift – camaraderie found in canine shifts born for blood and fire. In his case, blood and fire through Dygra’s own beautifully capable hands. “It most certainly does.” He agrees, lifting the flattened portion of the dagger now to inspect it before he starts to sharpen and polish it. “Do you have any experience brawling with whips, perchance?” Astaroth pauses in his attempts to smooth the blade out if only so he can glance over toward Deimos with dark, mahogany eyes, the question clear within them.
Working on other multitudes upon the metal, his brow arched again at the expressed sentiments. “Ah, I was not certain if it had always been inundated with dragons.” If, perhaps, ages before, it had still encompassed the wild beauty but a lot less threatening endeavors. If others reached the summit without a risk, or could settle amidst the peaks and piers with serenity, rather than an all-encompassing dread.
As for his own experiences, he nodded, incantations serrating another edge, keeping his expression neutral and composed. “We had to for the war.” But it hadn’t been one of sanctity and curiosity either; not when they were busy fighting for their lives, and for the whole of Caido.
The question wasn’t wholly expected either, and he tilted his head, a reflection of canine and feline attributes built through his soul. “I do not.” He figured, given the glint in the other man’s eyes, he’d explain the thinking and multitudes. It was the truth, because given who the Sword was, blades, magic, and shifts had always been the armaments that had come into play the most.
“It has been since I can remember.” Astaroth hums, offering a tidbit of information where he could. “We used to craft tales of how Caido did not wish to be found, so much so that dragons were his protection.” He glances up once he’s finished with the dagger in question, trying to scan the Sword’s face to see if the idea was still the same even after the world had changed so much.
Mention of the war, though, does surprise him. And the fact that the battle had been fought up there of all places – and it’s nearly impossible to hide the wrinkle of his nose or the distaste in the crease of his eyes, nodding in spite of it before he starts to finish the dagger with the strips of leather left out – red and black and wholly the butcher’s theme. “What a terrible way to experience it.” He can only imagine – because from what he had heard, it was beautiful so long as you didn’t get too close.
At any rate, the butcher straightens up, tail flicking idly at his heels as he hears Deimos say he doesn’t, and Astaroth fully does intend on expanding on the thought. “I am supposed to train with them, but I am also inexperienced with such fighting. Would you perhaps be interested in giving it a try with me? You have my word I will not use the bloodbane again.” His sharp grin overtakes his face, knowing that it had been the only odd thing unpredictable for the sword. But this time, it wouldn’t be so much of a brawl as it had been in the Climb. A common goal, perhaps, rather than a game of keep away.
“Plenty of them,” he wrinkled his nose in return; recollections of forging themselves along the summits of the Draig, battling dragons, then specters, former gods, alike. “Their different powers are intriguing though.” Even if he didn’t want to meet up with them anytime soon – he had a healthy respect for the powerful and potent beings.
He gave over the last piece, content to watch the Ancient craft for a moment longer, always intending to watch others’ techniques – especially when he was so accustomed to simplifying the measures and crafting them from his mind. And where there was a time where he lived amongst mountains and caves and crag – Halo was the closest he’d have, below the stretch of peaks – the Draig wasn’t one he’d want to drag his family and friends towards. “Does make it difficult to want to visit again,” he uttered in good humor. Maybe one day – just to simply revel in it.
But that was a long ways off, and there were other portions to settle. He arched his brow, contemplating the circumstances. Deimos was the sort to be keen on trying any sort of armament, and for some reason the whip sounded amusing – it’d be a test of skills he didn’t often utilize. “We can try it.” As for the bloodbane aspect, he snorted. “Is this a magic, shift, and whip combination?” If so, he was glad Zuriel was nearby.
Nodding his understanding, the butcher flashes Deimos an almost apologetic smile in response. “I had not heard much regarding different powers back then.” And since then, he hadn’t thought to look – content to keep the Draig exactly as it was, a thought that he’d never have a chance to experience (why would he? It seemed cold and drafty and full of leather birds with too sharp teeth). “And I am sure you can imagine that not many returned once they left for an attempt to cross.” It’s an opening, of course, for Deimos to elaborate on it should he wish to.
But the butcher wasn’t going to press him on it. Not when the prospect of training was at hand – and as he preps the things he’s brought back into their bag to be settled, the butcher thanks the blacksmith for the help and the room to use and learn, before he’s turning back toward Deimos with a warm chuckle. “I am hopeful for it being nothing but mundane weaponry. I am still reeling with the memory of your water magic.” He laments, but it’s all in good humor either way.
“Shall we, then?” Gesturing toward the barracks in the distance, Astaroth hoists the bag over his shoulder, prepared to head straight there, lest Deimos need to make a stop on the way.
