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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!
Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
The first thought he has after discovering Noe is infected is to join the hunt for Vi's roses. He'd been in line for the skyboat to the Greatwood when a different idea slipped into his brain, a lingering question he'd been too scared to seek answers to. Cowardice won't help Noe though, and there's nothing Jude won't do for her. No ghost he won't face down.
The door in front of him is only vaguely familiar after so many years, but he knows he's in the right place. Lyra hadn't been a large presence in his life, but she'd been a relatively regular one. He's not sure she'll recognize him - how much does he resemble the young kid she once looked after? Jude tries to remain as unaware of his physical body as possible frankly. He avoids mirrors like the plague. Can he even recall what he looked like as a kid?
Unwilling to admit how the thought shakes him, Jude lifts a hand and knocks before he can second guess himself. "Um...Ms. Lyra? Are you home? It's Jude." He immediately winces, feeling stupid for saying so when he isn't sure if his name will mean anything to her now.
Fortunately for Jude, Lyra is home, the house strangely quiet after years of playing host to laughter and love. Her latest foster children have aged out, and the last moved out not a week ago to live their own lives. Lyra is proud of them, but she has to admit that she misses having people in the house to take care of.
The knock at the door, when it comes, is unexpected, and the voice on the other side unfamiliar. Still, the name is one she recognizes, though the last time she heard it feels like a lifetime ago. When she opens the door, it's to find the same dark curls she recognizes from when he was a boy, the same warm brown eyes that she remembers - though if she has to guess, some of the life has left them, leaving him with a haunted look that has her immediately softening. He may not be a child anymore, but he has the look that she's come to recognize: he's alone.
And he needs her help.
"Jude, hi!" Lyra says brightly, as though it's been only days and not years since she's seen him. "Come on in! Can I get you anything? I just made a pot of tea, if you're interested."
We end up hurting the worst The only ones we really love
Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
Her eyes are what he remembers most clearly, and as the door swings open his shoulders relax a fraction when they look exactly the same. He hasn't messed this up yet, clearly he's in the right spot. Though it's stranger than he could've anticipated to be taller than her and to have to tilt his chin down instead of up to meet her gaze.
His smile forms in absentminded mirroring of her own, little heart behind it. It falls apart all the faster for its insincerity when she takes him by surprise. "Oh. Um, sure. You don't have to though, I just...had a few questions. I don't have to stay." But he shuffles awkwardly inside if only so he doesn't force her to answer them while standing in her doorway.
Politely taking off his coat and shoes, Jude hovers by the coat rack and wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs. "It smells nice. What kind of tea?" Maeve had taught him the art of small talk as a child thank the gods, though he never learned how to make it seem natural.
Lyra moves out of the way for Jude to enter awkwardly, and he's polite enough to take off his coat and shoes at the front door. That was one thing she remembered about babysitting him all those years ago: he'd had great manners, even then, and had never been one to cause trouble. She leads the way through the house into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Oh, just some rosehip. Here, come sit down."
She gestures to the kitchen island, then begins to bustle about the kitchen, gathering two mugs and pouring a healthy helping of tea for each of them. She sets honey and sugar in easy reach, in case Jude wants to sweeten it, and finally leans against the counter opposite him, holding her mug in her hands.
"So... what can I help you with?" she asks, looking at the young man with motherly concern. She can't think of anything that should have brought Jude to her doorstep, of all places, though of course she's happy to help if she can.
We end up hurting the worst The only ones we really love
Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
Oh, Jude hasn't outgrown that meek politeness she once knew. In fact he feels rather adrift when she confidently leaves him alone in her entryway to disappear into rooms he faintly remembers the shapes and layouts of. He follows in her wake, shoulders slowly dropping. Her presence is comforting as it always was and he's no better at resisting it with a few extra years.
Sitting gingerly at the island, Jude takes the offered mug with a small smile that vanishes beneath his ducked head and accompanying plentiful curls as he sweetens it with a single spoonful of honey. Though he slowly stirs the tea instead of drinking it while he gathers the courage to answer her.
"My dad...he didn't know many people around here, at least not closely." Jude is wary to discuss him with any Torchers given the sour ending his father had left on, but Lyra doesn't strike him as the bitter type. "He had a few things he'd always mentioned handing down to me. I know he didn't have them when he -" was murdered. Jude's throat closes brutally around the words, strangling them into silence. What sort of son is he, to have never tried to solve that mystery? His fingers tremble slightly as he raises the mug to chase away the lump in his throat with tea. Clears his throat afterward like it was merely a skip or a cough. "He left me a letter in my apartment. I think he knew it was coming and I just...I wanted to know if he'd given anything to you for safe keeping?" His eyes finally emerge to peer out from his hair, not daring to hope but still wondering. He knows the only other options are Maea and Hadama, and as far as Jude knows the former is dead and the latter...well, he's admittedly scared to face the Tidebreaker for more personal reasons.
Sympathy colors Lyra's gaze as she listens to Jude. Where has he been, she wonders, in the time since Harper's death? Surely he can't have been alone all this time with his grief? It's a challenge for Lyra not to walk around the island to wrap the young man in a hug, but she fears that will only scare him off. He's not unlike a startled deer, tense and ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. If she has any hope of helping him, she will have to let him come to her.
She thinks back. She and Harper hadn't been particularly close, and she is sure that she'd remember him giving her something for Jude. "No, sweetheart. I'm sorry." She crosses one leg over the other. "Do you know anyone else he might have left them with? I can help you find them." After all, finding people is what she does. How much more difficult can finding items be?
We end up hurting the worst The only ones we really love
Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
Her eyes remind him of no one, and it's a relief so strong it's nearly intoxicating. Nothing like Maeve's striking green or Phoebe's honey brown. Too feminine in shape and too bright a shade to be his father's ocean blues. She is soft, and familiar in a half-forgotten sort of way, and Jude's hands tighten around the mug between them with a sorrowful wanting that feels like swallowing glass. She used to read the best bedtime stories. He'd felt a little too old for them at the time, but every time she speaks it reminds him of dimly lit rooms and soft hands on his forehead, and he thought he'd burned out the desire for those sorts of things years ago.
Maybe it's because he can't name an older woman in his life at all. Maybe it's the crumbling of his composure at her gentle denial. Either way, he has to release the mug to grip the fabric of his pants beneath the island's surface to find any sort of control. Not that the film of tears and clenched jaw get the memo. Though none fall, it feels like a lost battle to have let them gather at all.
"No, s'okay. I knew it was a long shot." Clearing his throat again the boy blinks quickly and hunches his shoulders as if he can ward away the idea of other people. But he can't lie to her, just like he could never lie to either of his moms. "It could only be two others but I think one of them is missing too. Maybe dead." Also dead, his brain sing-songs cruelly, as if he could ever forget. "It's more likely he left them with Hadama. I just...don't really want to see him." A hushed confession that he didn't need to add, but it's nice to talk to someone who seems to have their life more in control than Jude's - though that's not hard to achieve.
Lyra remembers that Jude was a timid, shy child, and she’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing to see the same qualities reflected in him as an adult. But where there was once youthful innocence, a belief in all things good and beautiful and right with the world, now there is only loss and sorrow. Her heart aches to see it. It’s easier, in some ways, to patch up these souls when they are younger and more forgiving, before the world has sunk its claws into them and made them see the worst there is to offer in the world.
She sets down her mug without taking even a single sip, crossing the kitchen to wrap an arm around Jude’s shoulders, leaning her cheek on top of his curls. ”I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says in a hushed tone, though it’s unclear what she’s apologizing for, exactly. For all the death that Jude has seen, perhaps, or for the dimness of his shadowed eyes. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, if he only has someone to show him that there is still light left in the world. Lyra can be that person, has been a dozen times before.
”Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, because sometimes that’s all someone needs - a gentle, nonjudgmental soul to listen to their problems, their fears, their regrets. And though Jude has no reason to open up to her, she wishes that he would, if only so that it doesn’t fester beneath his skin.
We end up hurting the worst The only ones we really love
Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
He doesn't track her movement consciously, staring down into the trembling surface of his tea and trying not to remember his last few encounters with the Tidebreaker, and how much disappointment he has deservedly sown in the King. As her arms come around him he jolts, then freezes stiffly as if immediately aware of how rude - or how sad - that must have seemed.
But she smells nice. Not nice like perfumes and oils, but nice like...like normal. She smells like tea, and laundry detergent, and faintly of something she'd cooked that day. Nothing like either of his moms had ever smelled like, really. Maeve had always been polished and anointed with expensive perfumes, and Phoebe had been impervious to dirt and sweat and had always smelled of medicinal herbs and flowers. Yet the way Lyra smells, the way she holds him, the quiet way she offers her shoulder without ever moving from the embrace - not forcing him to look her in the eyes if he accepts or refuses - is so painfully maternal it makes Jude stiffly drop his arm down. The teacup clanks awkwardly loud on the countertop and his fingers ache (when had he clenched them?) as they unfurl from the handle.
The rest of him aches, too, as the tension slowly and disjointedly begins to dissipate inside her grasp.
His tongue feels like cotton glued to the roof of his mouth. He realizes all at once that he does want to talk about it. That he hasn't talked about it with anyone - verbally abusing Koa and crying himself sick aside. But opening up feels terrifying. Painful. Jude's hand splays on the counter the way someone standing would do to find their balance. He doesn't find it.
"I haven't. With anyone." Not even Noe, though she would understand most out of anyone he knows, small list that that already is. "I don't - I mean, what's there to say? He's -" Jude's throat clicks again, voice high and thready in a way he hasn't experienced since puberty. Gods why can't he ever just say it? It's just a word. It doesn't mean anything. He's a coward and a child, and the internal abuse still does nothing to loosen the clamp of his teeth. "There's no way to fix things or get closure anymore. He's gone - just like my moms." At least Jude knows for sure that his dad is dead. The not knowing is worse. It's why he hasn't learned to properly grieve until now, because he's never had the certainty to be able to do so.
Her embrace is initially met with resistance, and Lyra keeps her hold loose enough that Jude can control the situation. If he prefers, she can quickly and easily move away - but he doesn't shove out of her grip or stay frozen, immobilized by a freeze response that she has learned to feel in her children. Instead, he slowly, slowly melts into her embrace, and she stays silent all the while, allowing him the space to process this in whatever way he needs.
And when Jude speaks, it is almost painful to listen to - not because she doesn't want to hear, but because her heart hurts for the pain that he's been carrying, all without someone to hold him and tell him that it's okay that he's not okay. He doesn't have to be okay. His father is dead. His moms, it sounds like, aren't in the picture. And maybe he has friends, or maybe he doesn't, but either way, he doesn't seem to have anyone to talk to.
Maybe Lyra can be that person.
"I think there might be a lot to say," she tells him softly, her cheek still pressed gently upon the top of his head. "But only if and when you're ready to talk." She doesn't want to press him, to force him into opening up. But if she can offer a shoulder to cry on? She may not be able to fix things for him, but this, at least, she can do.
We end up hurting the worst The only ones we really love
04-04-2025, 07:51 PM (This post was last modified: 04-04-2025, 07:52 PM by Jude.)
Jude
Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
An offer to listen is a rare thing in Caido. Maybe she doesn’t know that, or doesn’t see the value in it the way anyone else in this world would. His entire life he’s only seen the endless loop of selfishness and self-preservation play out before him. Different people, regions, believers - always the same mentality. At least until Noe. Jude had thankfully had the sense to grab onto her with both hands and refuse to let go because she’d turned out to be the best thing in his life so far. Maybe that means he needs to do it again here and now. Opening up isn’t something he likes to do, but his feelings and story are a worthless currency to her and everybody else. What is there to lose but his pride? He never had that to start. She can’t hurt him in a way that matters, not with the ammunition he stands to hand her.
“He was the greatest man I knew until the moment he wasn’t, and I don’t know which part of him was real. If the good he taught me, the love he gave me, means anything when he threw it all away in an instant.” On the counter his splayed fingers curl until his blunt nails catch on the faded wood of her island. Worn away by years of use and love. He wants to splinter and gouge it for all the envy and hurt it makes him feel, to see something so plain and unassuming remain nevertheless forever changed by the presence of love. Jude isn’t sure if he envies it or is horrified by it. This dull, stupid, worthless piece of wood. “He stayed when everyone else left. He changed his life for me, figured out being a single dad when he’d never even been just a dad before. He - I didn’t think I’d ever find someone kinder, more selfless, more loving.” His teeth grit until they ache, strangling the words as veins bulge in his neck with the exertion it takes to try and force down tears that spring hateful and hot to his eyes.
“I used to think all the garbage of my bad hand in life was worth it because we had each other. Because he loved me more than - more than the moon and stars, which were the only other things he loved.” Just as intangible and out of reach as the two women his dad had loved. How fitting. “And then he broke every promise, threw away everything, including me, and fucked off. Like he’d never loved me at all.” He utters a choked, angry noise that is too wet to be believed and drops his head into his empty palms to hide the tears and the equal parts fury and anguish twisting his face. “He only came back because I almost died, told me he loved me, and when I threw it in his face he went off and died instead. Like he was teaching me a lesson for not forgiving him.”
The fuel of anger runs dry, the vitriol giving momentum to his sudden rush of words dropping out from beneath his feet. The anguish rises to meet him and his shoulders shudder beneath her arm as the crying starts in earnest. “I didn’t forgive him, and now he’s dead. And I still don’t know if he really loved me.”
She listens in a calm, nonjudgmental silence that she has perfected over the years, her free hand gently rubbing up and down Jude's arm in what she hopes is a soothing motion. She wishes that she could take away the boy's pain, wipe away the bad memories so that all he is left with is the good. But that's not how the world works - not for her, not for Jude, not for anyone - and so she offers the only comfort she can: a shoulder to cry on, when he's released the venom he's been holding onto for so long.
She doesn't interrupt, doesn't try to offer platitudes that will ultimately mean nothing. And when it's clear that Jude has finished speaking, she still doesn't leap to try to defend his father, or to belittle his lived experience as someone who has felt, somehow, unworthy of love. While Lyra has long felt that children - however old they may be - are deserving of all the love in the world and then some, she has long since stopped being surprised by how often they don't seem to see that for themselves.
In the end, she hums thoughtfully. "Do you want to know what I think?" she asks, placing the decision back into his hands. "You can say no, if you'd rather just talk. I can listen for as long as you need."
We end up hurting the worst The only ones we really love
