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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!
It's one of those sweltering mornings in Torchline, one where the temperature has never dipped low enough overnight to cool the world off before the sun rises to simmer the region all over again. The sky is bright and endlessly blue, the docks fairly busy because, believe it or not, it's still the kindest part of the day. Hels call for scraps and for attention, cloud wyrms create patches of artificial shade from the wisps they produce, and Captain Jack Barclay has just ordered a popsicle.
To say that Jack looks worse for wear after the immediate couple of days following his return from Starfall is the sort of understatement that really doesn't need clarification. He stands beneath the little awning in the shade of the stall he's waiting at, sunglasses shading his eyes from the offensive light, shirt unbuttoned and threatening to hang off one shoulder. He's pulled his hair (too long for the season, far too fucking long) into a messy knot, the sunbleached locks still damp from where he'd dunked his head unceremoniously into a water barrel earlier. It had helped, marginally.
The popsicle will help more, though, and he grunts something that sounds close to gratitude as he accepts it from the bemused stall owner, turning to survey the lapping waters and too-cheerful weather with chagrin.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
The popsicle stall shimmered in the heat haze ahead, the most inviting mirage she’d seen all morning. She had half a mind to dive off the dock again once she’d gotten her treat, already fantasizing about the chill of saltwater biting at overheated skin, how it’d swallowed her up whole after her run earlier. Shirt and all. She’d laughed then, barefoot and dripping in the Arclight shallows with Spice wheeling overhead like a snowflake against the sky.
That was the thought she focused on as she spotted the familiar shape beneath the stall’s little awning.
Jack. Of course it was Jack. The universe apparently had jokes now, and Flora felt like the punchline of every fuckin' one of them. She caught the line of his shirt hanging open, the glint of damp hair tied back like it was nothing, and the popsicle in his hand. He looked like the aftermath of something, like heatwave and hangover, but after seasons at his side she could guess what it actually was.
Only now she was too close to turn around given the range of his telepathy, so Flora did what she so often did: rerouted. She steered her thoughts firmly toward the sparkle of sunlight on the water, letting her gaze linger on the dock edge like it might offer an escape. The clarity of the sea. The way it had felt when she'd jumped in. Cold and clean and bracing, like it could rinse everything away. Like she'd felt her pulse slow for the first time in days.
She didn’t think about the ache in her chest or the way the sun painted the captain's skin bronze or how he was still the most irritatingly handsome wreck of a man Torchline had ever seen. Just...the water. She stepped up beside him and ordered a popsicle and even as she waited for the vendor to pass it over, her sunglasses shifted just enough for her to risk a sidelong glance.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin'
One might think, after the past forty-eight hours, that Jack would give himself and his magic a break, given that he's only barely trailed down the boardwalk and the Ark and her ruddy sails are still brightly visible nearby. But then, one wouldn't really know Jack Barclay if that was the case. Wincing, just slightly, as his telepathy snags on Flora's thoughts like a burr on a piece of wood, a muscle feathers in his jaw and he prepares for the worst.
But then the initial panic (and outrage) fades to something much more palatable; the caress of cool water on overheated skin, the sparkle of the sun on the surf, the dull thud of a heartbeat he can use to match his own. His shoulders relax a fraction and he sets the popsicle between his lips, savouring the sharp bite of ice and citrus and leaning casually against the beam holding the awning in place.
"I can recommend orange," he mumbles to her, raising the popsicle like a glass in a toast, quiet and casual and far too tired for animosity this morning.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
She doesn’t need to look directly at him to know something’s wrong. It’s in the slump of his shoulders, the way the popsicle hangs between his fingers like an afterthought, the dark smudges beneath his sunglasses that no amount of bravado can cover. Flora’s seen it before—more than once, over the years. The ragged edges of a mind worn too thin. Jack had only ever needed to explain it to her once for her to pick up on the signs, back when knowing him had meant learning the limits of what his gift could take before it cracked open like sea ice under a rising tide.
And now here he is again, standing like he’d been flayed from the inside out and barely stitched back together. It should make her soften. And it does, a little. Enough to quiet the retort that had been forming, the one about poison or lemon or how she’d rather bite her own tongue off than take suggestions from him. But that doesn’t undo the last thing he said to her. That doesn’t put her back in the Ark with his voice in her ear telling her she meant nothing and to just go.
So when he raises his popsicle like a toast and mumbles about orange, her lips part—but only to accept the one handed to her by the vendor—a refreshing bitter lemon. Her fingers are still wrapped around the stick when she finally answers. "You look like hell," she murmurs conversationally, stepping out of the line and toward the railing.
"Bassian beat you at checkers again?"
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin'
"Feel like hell, so at least I match," Jack mutters around his popsicle, knowing better to prioritise talking over letting it melt. "Bassian's still tryin' to get his head around chess an' checkers havin' the same sort of board. Give it five or six years, an' maybe he'll even beat me on purpose." There's just the slightest hint of a smile, one that curls at the edge of his mouth before it's gone again. Still, Flora comes to join him without letting the lash in her thoughts migrate to her tongue, and Jack has the good grace to appreciate it.
"Just pushed myself a little too hard at Starfall, I guess," he says with a shrug that isn't nearly as careless as he makes it seem. "Knocked me on my ass a couple days, but I should be good now. Good thing it happened in Longheat, when we don't plan on bein' anywhere." Captaining a ship is fucking nightmare to do in the midst of a psychotic break, Jack can tell you that for absolutely nothing.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Flora stays quiet for a while, her mouth occupied with the sharp bite of lemon and the lingering tension she’s trying not to taste more than the citrus. Beside her, Jack mutters about Starfall and Bassian and pain, and she doesn’t offer anything at first—doesn’t say good or sorry to hear it, doesn’t even nod. Just snickers low in her throat at the thought of Bassian turning checkers into an existential crisis. It’s enough to coax a flicker of something not awful into the space between them.
She watches the ocean, not him, even though she knows exactly where he is at all times. Their shadows fall parallel, almost touching.
When Starfall comes up, her thoughts shift too fast for her to stop them—sliding back to Hadama and tunnels and everything she’s tried to stay out of. The Mirewyrm, the Webvex, Jack saying it wasn’t worth dying over. That fucking rose. It all rushes back, and without thinking, she shoves the popsicle into her mouth all the way to the stick. Something to occupy her, something to bite that'll bite back enough to shift her thoughts.
It’s a second or two before she pulls it free again and shrugs, her voice quiet but edged. "I think the demigods need to step the fuck up," she says eventually, not quite looking at him. "They’re the ones who made all the promises. Who got handed power by the gods themselves and agreed to go out and put themselves in this sort of danger."
Another slow lick, more thoughtful now. "If we're at the point where Jack Barclay is the one burning himself out to save the world, that's a problem." Her tone is perhaps a touch wry as she hazards a glance at him over one shoulder before sliding the popsicle back over her tongue.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin'
Flora thinks, and Jack thinks a lot about not thinking, which makes for quite the bubble of tension between them, but then isn't that par for the course these days? Still, at least the popsicles are good, and whatever lingering headache that has been starting to form between his temples is coaxed away by ice and citrus. Arching an eyebrow and glancing at Flora as she unceremoniously shoves her popsicle all the way into her mouth, he's about to remark on her keeping her skills sharp when she speaks - not of their relationship, not of the way everything is wrong, but of demigods.
"Yeah?" he quips, angling himself just a little to face her. "That include your dear old dads? 'Cause I'm pretty sure they took themselves outta the fight because they were worried about you." It's old ground and it's not worth rehashing, but Jack can understand her frustration. "And there were two of 'em down there with me," he points out, his own smile a touch wry, because they both know she's fucking right.
"The others don't seem up to par for it." Too weak, too untested. "How you gonna magic 'em all strong enough to go die for us?"
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Flora finally turns to look at him, one brow raised behind her oversized sunglasses. The corner of her mouth curls, not quite a smirk but something like a concession. "Mateo’s moving to Haulani," she says simply, as if that explains everything—and maybe it does. "And I’ve never asked anyone to play it safe on my account. Especially not the two who can bring me back from the dead."
There’s more she could say, but it’s old ground, muddy and useless, so she lets it lie. Instead, she lets the thread of her thoughts drift back to her conversation with the Tidebreaker on the beach: Hadama’s voice in her memory, her own words sharp and measured. That showing up is the bare minimum, that she didn’t think demigods should get praised for doing less than the rest of them.
Turning, Flora leans her back against the railing, one elbow propped lazily along the rail’s sun-warmed edge. The lemon is melting faster than she can eat it now, so she catches a droplet with the flat of her tongue before mumbling, "Maybe I’ll just make a big fuck-off chart." She glances at him sidelong, a flicker of something brighter behind the sunglasses. "List everyone’s contributions. Rank ‘em. Shame the slackers into doing better."
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin'
"Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, 'cause I'm far from the world's greatest dad over here, but I'm pretty sure you bein' their daughter trumps any feelin's you might have on the matter." Laughing under his breath despite himself, Jack at least concedes that if anyone could make such a blatantly offhand comment - and mean it - it's Flora. "Still, I s'pose one out of two ain't bad, if they've got Mateo to Haulani."
Focusing briefly on his popsicle (Jack opts to risk brainfreeze over letting it melt all over his hand, because it would probably still feel better than the riot in his head over the past two days), the captain seamlessly lifts the conversation between Flora and Hadama from her mind, scoffing and shifting as well; to the untrained eye, they might even be standing beside one another, having an honest to gods conversation.
"If you do, remember to invite 'em all to a big meeting to present it. An' make a correspondin' chart with a list of all your contributions to compare."
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Flora wrinkles her nose, still finding it decidedly odd to picture Jack as a dad—rather than a daddy—but the sentiment is dismissed with a casual shrug of her bare shoulders. "Me being their daughter is their problem, not mine," she hums lightly, though the words betray something deeper, something threaded with a brittle and melancholy undercurrent. "If I die and stay dead, big deal," she hums breezily. Being twenty-two and freshly dumped was suddenly feeling a lot less appealing than spending time with her twin in Mort's realm where she could avoid the endless drama of her life that felt a good deal less fun as of late. But even as she speaks, she knows she doesn’t entirely mean it—not really. It's easier, though, to cloak the truth in flippant dramatics than let herself admit how sharply the wounds still sting.
Attempting to catch part of her melting popsicle, she presses it back to her tongue—only for half of it to abruptly break off, prompting a wince as the cold strikes her teeth. "Nnn," she mutters around the mouthful of ice, chewing hastily and swallowing before too much of it can escape down her wrist. Her grin at Jack is genuine and brightens briefly with amusement at his remark, a spark of life crackling softly between them in the unexpected conversation.
"I’ll make sure to put copies of my presentation up on every notice board in Caido," she says brightly, gesturing grandly with her half-eaten popsicle before quickly shoving it back into her mouth as the remaining half wobbles precariously on the stick.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin'
Unable not to raise his eyebrows over his sunglasses at that stray thought, Jack suppresses his smile to focus on what's left of his popsicle, only for Flora's mind to go grey and melancholy and very unlike the way he's used to seeing it. "Don't say that," he says quietly, despite the way the ripples of thought and emotion quickly overlap one another, making it clear that she was never entirely serious about it all. "It'd be a big deal." It was the first time she'd been murdered, and that hasn't changed just because the status of their relationship is different.
Glancing sidelong at Flora as if he's going to say something else, Jack is promptly distracted by the sight of her chasing her popsicle around and eventually having to resort to eating it near whole. "At least take it to dinner first," he quips before he can stop himself, smirking around the remainder of his own popsicle before flicking the stick into a nearby trash bin.
"Good. I also expect invites to be issued for people to come and watch the presentation from the peanut gallery," he agrees, licking a drop of orange from his thumb and sighing deeply, as if the ice has successfully numbed the parts of him that are still feeling a little raw.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Flora feels something loosen and soften inside her at Jack's quiet words—not exactly relief, but a warmth that blooms slowly beneath her skin, chasing away some of the shadows she'd wrapped herself in so tightly. Even if she'd meant it mostly as a joke, even if it was melodramatic and probably unfair, it still mattered that he hadn't let it go—that he hadn't simply shrugged off her imaginary death as something unremarkable. Outwardly she just nods, quiet and noncommittal, but inside there's a tiny flicker of something brighter, a brief sparkle that betrays her more than she’d ever willingly admit.
When he quips about her popsicle, Flora snickers despite herself, rolling her eyes dramatically behind her sunglasses. "Maybe that's my whole problem lately," she quips back, though a sharp little sting of embarrassment flickers through her thoughts—memories of leaning into Liam and how quickly he'd pulled back, as if she'd been radioactive, linger at the edges of her mind like a bruised ego. Maybe she should trying wining and dining, but gods that felt like a lot of fucking work just for someone to make her feel not so alone for all of five minutes between the sheets.
She watches Jack finish his popsicle, absently licking the last drops of lemon from her fingertips as she does. But as their shared moment slips steadily away, the fragile peace stretching thin between them threatens to snap entirely. Flora feels a sudden, uncomfortable cold tugging at her feet, the quiet, creeping certainty that this—their brief, accidental civility—is about to dissolve now that their shared snack is over.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin'
Even if he hadn't let the subject of her apparent death go, Jack has the good grace not to pin down the sudden, sparkling warmth in her thoughts. It's as soothing on his battered magic as quiet, soft sunshine on a bad mood, and he knows that if he so much as looks at it for too long, it'll disappear. Instead, focusing on what Flora says instead of what she thinks (and isn't that a fucking habit to build), Jack raises his eyebrows. "That so?" he quips.
Because then, like it or not, it's all there in her head, and the captain shoves his hands into his pockets as if to stop them from making decisions on their own. "Maybe you just picked the wrong person that time," he ventures with a roll of his shoulders. "Some people are just wet blankets. Ain't their fault, their personalities just ain't up to par compared to yours."
As the serendipitous moment between them begins to dissolve, Jack feels the growing discomfort crack between them like ice that's formed too thin. Perhaps it's old habit that has him speaking again, and speaking with arguably far too much familiarity, but as he straightens from the rail, out it tumbles regardless. "Might finally be up to breakfast today," he quips, nodding across the docks to a place they'd been to dozens of times in their shared past. "Room at my table if you wanna come."
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
05-24-2025, 12:08 PM (This post was last modified: 05-24-2025, 12:09 PM by Flora.)
Flora
Flora glances up at Jack, her expression softening into a quiet sort of smile that doesn't belong between them anymore; not after the way things shattered and tore. The compliment is subtle, but coming from Jack, it feels like something rare and precious, a piece of sea glass smoothed over by the weight of things unsaid between them even now. "Thanks," she murmurs softly, the word warm and genuine in a way she knows he’ll hear clearly.
But because a simple thank-you doesn't feel quite enough, she lets herself linger on thoughts of gentle waves catching sunlight, each crest glittering like spun gold; of the refreshing chill of seawater kissing sun-warmed skin; of the soft hush—wshh wshh wshh—of the waves, rhythmic and soothing, trying to give him back a little of the calm he seems to have lost, a quiet gift left at the doorstep of his mind.
The breakfast invitation catches Flora completely off-guard, pulling her from her quiet reverie. She blinks behind her sunglasses, lips parting slightly in surprise before the words slip past them anyway: "Yeah, okay." The agreement startles her even as she says it, her heart giving a brief little lurch like a boat nudging gently against a dock. There’s a flicker of uncertainty beneath her casual acceptance, the familiar worry that they’ve already charted these waters, that there’s nowhere left for them to go but around in dizzying circles. Yet something about the careful, cautious way they’ve been stepping around each other feels like it might be okay; like maybe civil could quietly blur into being friendly, just this once.
Right?
Flora pushes herself away from the railing, moving alongside Jack toward their breakfast spot with the kind of careful ease someone might use stepping over weather-worn boards—aware they might splinter beneath careless feet, but choosing to trust them anyway. She casts him a sidelong glance as they fall into step together, her fingers absently adjusting the knot of her tank top.
"Sooooo," she says, slipping casually into small talk as though testing out how this new, cautious friendliness might fit between them, "how do you do that thing with the ropes? You know—the one when the sails are all pulled in, and there's too much line just left on the deck?"
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin'
