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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 barracks were a balm in all the restless eaves tucked between his bones. The clatter of steel resounding, arrows notching, bowstrings taut, or the general cacophony of instructions shouted amidst maneuvering footwork was enough; something familiar, something resounding, something less trivial, more understandable. It etched the lines of his form and carved new foundations – swiftness and prevailing defenses, assaults and sieges, machinations and plots, pulled together to form muscle memory and new tiers, new legacies.
Pulling his hair back into a messy fragment of a bun, he passed over each round of spars, one after the other, watching and informing. Warriors adjusted their stances or altered their line of sight, until targets were matched or training blades plunged – to either be followed by gritting teeth or resounding laughter.
And after motioning through he rotated again, until they’d all been subjected to some kind of education, and he’d burrowed his way over to an open section, taking a long, deep breath, and gazing towards newfound targets he’d placed upon pillars. A high target for anyone with a quiver, or perhaps air incantations – which he unleashed, warping and turning and twisting them until they were more than puffs of the elements around them, surging and searing towards the looming effigies.
One of the two annual trips to Halo to see his family and Thorn has managed to slip away from the Mercer’s long enough to find himself back in the Citadel. Bundled in sweaters and jackets for comfort, the courtesan follows the paths idly like he had when he was a kid. Only this time, he ends up at the palace, where he can see soldiers practicing their magic and weaponry, and Thorn would be lying if a part of him didn’t crave the idea of seeing what he could do in an instance like this.
Slipping inside, he doesn’t see Deimos at first. He hovers near the targets that sit up high, and without a weapon in his hand he simply watches it, wondering how far he might be able to get his air magic to work to reach it. He doesn’t have a chance, though, because as soon as that thought blooms in his mind, the targets warp and twist, are unleashed. It’s beautiful and almost a touch awe inspiring when his seafoam gaze lands on Deimos and recognition sparks. “Wow! That was really fuckin’ cool.” Thorn says in both greeting and a touch of excitement, no embarrassment for sneaking into an in progress training session. Thorn hopes he remembers him, even if he’d be quite literally a thorn in his side the last time they talked.
Someone was always watching, it seemed. He should’ve expected it by now, but at the expressions and the compliments billowed around the open portion of the training grounds, his brow arched, turning briefly to spot a briefly familiar face. Not wholly unexpected, perhaps, given how Thorn had kin here, but it’d been a long while since he’d encountered the Abandoned within Stormbreak all those seasons ago, nettling their way through libraries. “Thorn,” he extended with a nod of his head, incantations already wiling their way back through the vicinity, setting the targets back up amidst the pillars utilizing the wind and air at his disposal. “Your family is well?"
Then he stepped back, surveying the platitudes and effigies, ensuring they were correct and not leaning precariously over sides or clinging to life already. “I have been working on using more of my air magic,” uncertain whether or not Thorn associated himself with Family and void matters, he left that interpretation and explanation amidst the fold. “You are welcome to try,” as that was the purpose behind the Barracks in the first place - a threshold for trial and error, for honing skills.
His pale smile brightens at the recognition as Deimos narrows in on him. Ducking his head in his own nod, the courtesan steps a little closer with the offer of continued conversation, arms slipping out of the deep pockets he’d bundled himself with. “Yeah, they’re doin’ good. My sister’s takin’ over.” He tacks on with a little shrug – because at least someone was taking the family business. He certainly didn’t want it.
As for working on his air magic, Thorn’s head bobs with a touch more excitement before his smile twists toward bashfulness. “My air magic ain’t very strong.” It comes as a little warning, because while Deimos’ appeared like a gale, torrenting winds, Thorn’s were like a soft summer breeze. Still, though, up for the challenge, he pushes up his sleeves and straightens out. “Mind if I?” He asks, snagging some of the wind still around Deimos to use, focusing intensely to get the breeze to aim straight toward the target in question.
Families well off in their designed parameters and thresholds urged another inclined nod, watching for any specific reactions. With nothing appeared, save for a shrug, Deimos let the notions and subject fade, arching a brow at the sudden interest sparking along incantations, rather than kin. “Only a few ways to make it better,” he reasoned with a vague grin. Training certainly helped with amplifying the powers – applying it time and time again, stretching limitations, finding new fault lines.
With some of his incantations “borrowed”, the Sword snorted, watching as the targets bobbled. Nothing overwhelming, but certainly a movement in the right direction. “Would it be easier if I moved them lower? Or had them target you?” Some weren’t truly inspired until notions appeared alarming or threatening; a rendering of the techniques or amplification they might see within Caido.
Deimos brings up a good point, that there were only a few ways to make it better, and the reality was that the courtesan only ever had practice with his air magic in the bedroom. Or, when something occurs he isn’t expecting and its his gut reaction not try and push it away utilizing that, or his telekinesis.
He watches as the wind simply breezes over the targets, and while he’d otherwise be happy to see it did reach that far – the concentration that went into it were a lot. So he reaches up, runs a hand through his hair with a soft little laugh as Deimos offers his suggestion and Thorn’s seafoam eyes drift to the Sword with a brighter grin. “I’m real good at it when they target me. Though it’s only happened twice.” Each time he’d avoided it, though, which made for a good track record. “Can we practice that?” He asks, already steadying himself for another go, snagging at the wind again and waits for the target to attack so that he can try to evade it.
The suggestion seemed to go over well, and Deimos nodded with the acceptance of potential layers, making no presumptions about prior circumstances. He’d had enough multitudes pelted at him at any point in time to not consider it a concern. “All right. We can try that.”
Waiting until the Abandoned had himself ready and centered, the Sword picked at one of the smaller effigies to start - not wanting anything too massive, too overbearing and overwhelming, to start. Snagging at it with his air incantations, he made the portions swivel around, not unlike a bat or a bird, quick and sharp and slightly unpredictable, before divebombing at the younger man’s head, intending to see what he’d do.
The grin flashed Deimos’ way is one he tempers shortly after he realizes it’s gotten a little too energized. The courtesan takes a moment to shrug out of the larger coat, making it easier to move around and keep him from overheating, given that he’s now moving quite a bit. So he settles, watching as Deimos begins to make the target into something that would move toward him, unpredictable in the way that Thorn often worked best with his air magic.
While Deimos makes it dive toward him and Thorn sidesteps as he grits his teeth, snagging some of the winds already lightly breezing through, concentrating as if his life depended on it to shoot a gust upward to it, hoping to bounce it back to the skies where it might not land its assault.
Thorn’s wind gusted at the target as if it had been shot under its jaw, bucking upwards and flying wholly off-kilter. It had the desired effect; completely off its mark when it finally righted itself, incapable of snagging at Thorn, and Deimos stood by, thoroughly amused.
He manifested the incantations once more, taking hold and control of the elements throughout the sanction, purposefully testing to pull at Thorn’s own, and unwound the prowess and potential amidst the effigy again. This time it soared, then dove, perhaps like a bird of prey, beelining directly for the Abandoned’s shoulder, intending to make a mark unless Thorn sought to alleviate its bristling mission.
Its a huge struggle for the courtesan to not celebrate this momentary win. As such, he makes himself focus on Deimos and the target that jolts upward into the sky, needing to right itself which puts it off balance for diving down onto him. Seafoam eyes track it, awaiting the immediate reaction, to which he thinks he’s relatively prepared.
Sucking in a deep breath, Thorn reaches for the air magic again in his bones, tugging and pulling to send another gust toward it to knock it just offset from nailing into his shoulder, hoping it would be enough for the target to avoid him entirely. But it takes all of his focus, his brows pinched sharply as he watches his wind magic take effect.
The effigy lurched, caught in a tidal wave of motions. At the last second, Deimos withdrew, primarily to see what Thorn would do without the back and forth bend and snap for control – and the bird of prey, in all its pretenses, lurched again. If anyone were to look on, they’d certainly believe it was in the midst of a seizure or grappling with disease; wings bent and swaying, falling then rising, until ultimately it plunged.
It nipped at perhaps the edges and fringes of Thorn’s shirtsleeves before falling apart and decimating completely. The Sword laughed, content and amused, as it flayed into multiple parts. “Can use that as a challenge,” he responded in kind, lifting all three of the pieces now, so that they warped like shards – deliberately circling around the Abandoned and giving him no predictable course of movement to estimate.
Thorn watches as the air magic he focuses so intensely on begins to stutter, as Deimos’ mastery of it battles his own weak version for control. The avian-like effigy twitching and lurching. He holds it strong, though, at least until it begins to fall, nipping at his shirtsleeves as Thorn pants and tries to catch his breath. He hasn’t practiced with his magic like this.. perhaps ever, prone to using them for work and not much else.
But for now, the courtesan laughs alongside Deimos’ own, peering down at the broken up effigy, before Deimos is making it more challenging and Thorn sucks in a deep breath and forces himself to focus again - the exertion of work sparking a flush to his skin and a bit of sweat to bead at the young man’s temple. “Let’s see.” Thorn mutters, focusing hard as he decides to avoid targeting just one in particular as they circle and instead uses his air magic to make a type of shield above him to prevent any of them from launching down at him from above.
If all Thorn conquered was concentration and utilizing different aspects of his magic today, then it would’ve still been worth the efforts. There was a time and a place for expanding horizons, for seeing exactly what could commence with a little push and shove, striving for limitations and potentials. So even if the younger Abandoned muttered and seemed fatigued, there was still a slight more to be had, and valued through the exchange of energy for foundations.
The jagged pieces came for him, swarming at Thorn, but were instantly thwarted by the makeshift and invisible shield. They bent and broke and shuffled into a seemingly invisible wall, and in some comical facets, slammed directly into it and fell back down to the earth. “Good thinking,” he surmised, before contorting at the pieces again, and striving to bring them underneath the wall, so they might nip and nag at Thorn’s legs.
The first thought the courtesan has is that he’d managed it. Excitement bristles under his skin, but it’s shortly lived as his focus fails, distracted by the result of a success and compliment. It’s understandable, though, given that the young abandoned has never been one for battles. A lover more than a fighter. But even he knows how important it is to practice.
It’s no surprise that when he makes his shield, he’s slow on the shift and change. The little shield of wind twists belatedly, only nabbing one piece of the many that fly up and cover his legs in little nips that has him jumping and distracted, the wind failing as he can’t quite focus on it. He looks as though he’s in water, with tiny little sharks nipping at his feet as he barks a laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but knowing it could very well be a likely occurrence.
