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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 Sugar Tide sways gently in her berth, the hush of the harbour settling like a lullaby over Torchline's port. From the outside, the boat looks still—untouched, undisturbed, just another vessel resting after the chaos that had bled out onto the beach. But inside, something moves. Cupboards creak open on their own, a drawer slides out with a soft rasp, and a half-empty bag of dried mangoes lifts from a shelf before being discarded with quiet impatience. The galley light swings slightly, casting shifting shadows across the compact space, but no footsteps echo on the wooden planks, no breath disturbs the air.
It would be easy to believe the Sugar Tide was haunted.
Invisible and still humming with adrenaline, Flora moves through the lower deck like a whisper with intent. Her heart is still hammering, not from fear, not exactly, but from the high that lingers after violence has passed and the world hasn’t yet remembered how to settle. Her fingers, unseen, pry open a small cabinet beside the stove. She finds what she’s looking for on the second shelf: two small glass jars, mismatched lids, tucked behind a forgotten tin of cocoa.
They clink softly as they’re set down on the counter. Nothing dramatic—just the faint, practical music of someone gathering tools. The daggers come next. Drawn carefully, reverently, their golden hilts flash once in the swinging light before vanishing again. The blood on them has already begun to dry, a dark crust at the edges of the blades. With deliberate, meticulous movements, Flora begins to scrape it off, letting the flakes fall into the jars. Her motions are smooth but not detached; there’s purpose in every pass, tension in every angle of her wrist. No muttering. No dramatic monologue. Just the quiet scrape of blood being collected in the dark, by hands no one can see.
The rush of what they’d accomplished, and the chaotic semblances surrounding, clung to the combination of trepidation and triumphant nerves. Ordinarily, the apprehension might have already worn away; most of his other missions were final and known – mired in either success or failure. But he didn’t know the outcome of this one yet – merely the way blood had clung to serrated edges and allies still lingering within the midst of bedlam and violence. He trusted their abilities to evade and escape, but the unknown was still a biting thing, especially after witnessing others infected or become infested right before their eyes.
In the interim though, other notions had to be finalized, and so he made his way over to the port after asking a few locals of where Flora’s boat would be docked. If she wasn’t there, he could always leave the last of her weapons and items tucked away and place a note, but he had hopes that wouldn’t be the case.
It was easy to spot, perhaps the most uncomplicated matter of the entirety of today’s exchange – sticking out amidst the other schooners and vessels with its fanciful efforts. Had the Sword not been contorted into all his stoicism and steel, he might have laughed. So he walked quietly, cautiously, brows furrowing as he heard sounds from within. Taking a breath, he rapped upon the wooden siding, announcing his presence in his distinct rumble. “Flora? It is Deimos.”
The knock lands like a cannon against Flora's already adrenaline-frayed nerves. She jumps—just a little, just enough for the glass jar to rattle against the counter before she steadies it with an invisible hand. Her breath catches, the scrape of blood halted mid-motion as she freezes, every muscle coiled. It’s not fear, not quite, but something adjacent: the electric uncertainty that follows when a job is only half-finished and you don’t yet know if you’ll get to see the end of it.
But then Deimos' voice cuts through—low, solid, unmistakably real. Relief washes over her like a wave, unsteady and salt-stung, enough to make her shoulders sag as her body exhales what her mind hasn’t yet caught up to. Appearing above deck suddenly, having realized she was still invisible and twisting her ring, Flora gestures silently for him to come aboard, then glances over his shoulder, sharp and wary as if expecting to see Pierce’s smirk—or worse, Vox’s glitching silhouette—oozing into view behind him.
Inside, the Sugar Tide is a fever dream of colour and clutter: a cramped, maximalist warren of Flora’s chaos and comfort. Plants spill from hanging baskets and mismatched vases; crystals, sea glass, and bits of coral glitter from every available surface. The kitchenette glows with polished copper and overgrown herbs, while the far end hosts a seating nook smothered in embroidered pillows and velvet throws. Her bedroom’s tucked at the opposite end, its doorway half-obscured by gauzy fabric and strings of beads that catch the light like captured rain. The whole space smells of salt, sunscreen, and whatever candle she last forgot to blow out.
And in the middle of it all, like she never left, her daggers sit on the counter with blood drying like rusted rubies across their gilded hilts. Only when she’s satisfied that he’s alone does she speak, voice still quiet from the habit of hiding. "We really should have made a meet up plan, huh?"
He waited, brow arching, as his eyes gazed along the scenery, running along back and forth over the surroundings, searching for something, anything, to indicate another threatening, looming regard from the beach. When nothing appeared, and merely laughter from others nearby, further down the docks and ports, he sighed again, instilling that stoic regulation once more.
When movement and motion appeared above, and his head immediately flickered upwards, he snorted at Flora’s appearance, then her silence, before following the motions onto the boat itself. Permitting the Doubletake’s privacy, his eyes only wandered so far, blinking at the plants and realizing he recognized some from Evie’s constant efforts within greenhouses and their own home – but his attention and focus went upon the daggers, the dried blood, and then the remaining portions in his own pockets.
The Sword managed a laugh and a shake of his head as he placed the remaining knife away from the other collectives, followed by her lucky rings, and the compass. “I did not expect it to get that far, honestly,” to which he wrinkled his nose; not a blight on her part, but just the fact that the motions had been successful at all, after the melees, vehemence, and violence. Ensuring he’d borrowed was back in her possession, he jutted his jawline towards them. “Thank you for letting me use them, and for concocting the plan.” It’d been clever, if not wild and risky. “Not something I would have tried on my own.” Not with how he was so overly cautious, wanting all the machinations in place.
Thereafter though, the remaining inquiry lingered, and his gaze settled on the blood and jars. "Did we get enough?"
--
Deimos returns:
Type: Light | Style: Other | Level: Basic
Capitol Compass | Can travel to the political hubs in all settled lands.
Type: Grey | Style: Offensive | Level: Mastered
Deadly Plumage | Three iridescent feathers capable of being used as projectiles. Razor sharp.
Type: Dark | Style: Offensive | Level: Mastered
Star Poison | A poisonous coating on each of the Deadly Plumage daggers that adds mastered damage on the initial hit.
Type: Light | Style: Other | Level: Basic
Lucky you | A ring that when worn grants +3 luck. Must be included in all PQ/PQ+/KQ/DROP posts to be counted.
Type: Light | Style: Other | Level: Upgraded
Lucky Ring | A ring that when worn grants +5 luck. Must be included in all PQ/PQ+/KQ/DROP posts to be counted.
A soft snicker curls in Flora’s throat, bright and low, as she nods her agreement. "I hadn’t expected everyone to jump in either, but...whatever," she murmurs, the words light but tinged with incredulity. Fingers make quick work of reclaiming her rings, sliding them back onto each finger with a practised ease that feels like reclaiming pieces of herself. Her compass is set gently down on the cluttered countertop beside a pot of blooming sea-thistle, its needle still twitching faintly like it’s trying to keep up with the day.
Her grin flashes sharp and sideways as she glances at him. "We make a good team," she offers, amusement dancing in her voice. "Even though I know you probably hated every second of that." Her tone is playful, acknowledging the madness of it all while somehow still basking in it.
As he gestures toward the blood and the jars, her expression settles. She reaches out for one of the small glass containers, holding it up to the low, golden lamplight. Inside, the scrapings of Pierce’s blood catch like rusted rubies on the glass. "I think so," she says, tapping the lid closed with her thumb. "It’s about as much as I got from Dahlia. And that worked." A shrug follows, casual but not careless. She doesn’t say it has to be enough, but the implication lingers in the air like salt.
She sets the jar down beside the others with a soft clink, her eyes still on it for a moment longer. Then, more quietly, "Thank you. For helping. I genuinely couldn't have done it without you." Her voice loses some of its usual gloss; she's not just grateful, but sincere in a way she doesn’t let herself be very often. "I think I'm going to be right in the Family's crosshairs now that Remi and Ronin interfered so...being able to protect the coast will really help."
Flora gives Deimos
Glass Jar | A glass jar filled with one dagger's worth of Pierce's blood
The bedlam semblances that had occurred amidst the sand had reminded him of past invasions – utter chaos, confusion, violence stringing along, portions of success, and then the repercussions of all that vehemence. “Neither did I,” save for Sunjata, once plans had been extended, and even then, had the Flood been more prepared and informed, it might’ve gone smoother for him. But Deimos hadn’t been sure how much to entail to others until the moment was there – so the hopes that the demigod had somehow managed to snag at the necessary ichor remained lodged in his ribcage. “I think it goes to show the frustrations everyone is experiencing,” to which he shrugged; wondering if that meant how many other alterations would be occurring. He knew he was tired of all of it.
He snorted at the insinuations, allowing a small smile to emerge from the stoic lines. “Correct. Though mostly due to the dome,” where he’d been incapable of his habitual, routine incantations and abilities; the muted, lost, absent formations irritating and cutting below the surface. “Means I need to find some other methods in the meantime.”
News that the blood would be enough, that their efforts had been sufficient, eased another huge burden off his chest. “Good.” He took it without question, eyeing the crimson and brown edges within the container, before taking another large breath and placing it in his pocket. “You are welcome. Maybe on the next plans, we figure out a bit more beforehand,” to which he winked. They'd done well off the cuff, but there'd been some snags within.
His brows furrowed at the notions of being straight in the crosshairs again, making him wonder of all the machinations they’d had in place for Remi and Ronin to go to Starfall, then opting out once more – only to now…”So what does that mean for you?” Would she stay sequestered? He doubted it; given who the Doubletake was.
Flora shrugs, not quite flippant but edged in something resigned. "Yeah. I mean, I get it—everyone’s pissed and scared and no one knows where to put it anymore." Her gaze flicks toward the porthole, where the sounds of Torchline’s nightlife filter faintly through the glass like echoes from another world. "It’s super hypocritical of me to say this, buuutttttt some of them were being super reckless." Her brow creases. "Did you see Tal?" she asks. "Did he get infected?"
When he mentions planning ahead, though, her expression lifts again, faint amusement returning to soften her mouth. "I’ll see what I can do," she says wryly, as if they both know she’s more of a flying-by-the-seat-of-her-miniskirt kind of queen. Still, she'll try. Probably.
The smile fades into something more serious as she exhales, a hand brushing over the edge of her kitchen counter like she’s grounding herself. "I’m staying invisible as long as I can," she says, quiet but firm. "Hadama and I are going to Safrin soon—we were going to go for a weapon, but obviously now with the blood we'll just protect the coast." She pauses, then shakes her head, curls tumbling loose over her shoulder. "I’ll have to keep my head down, which I’m not exactly great at, but..."
A glance toward her compass, still resting beside the blood jars. "Between that and being invisible, I think I can keep myself safe. At least until Torchline finishes the quest."
Anger and fear were portions of emotions on the same edge – he’d always known better, but still succumbed to them himself from time to time. And while he and Flora might have started this last interim and brand of bedlam, the rest had been infused with it, to the point of confusion, turmoil, and further loss. Perhaps he’d been foolish in believing it’d only be them out there, chasing down an instinctual drive to save their regions, when the rest of the people had suffered just as much – wanting their part in the bloodshed too. Something to hold onto. Something to avenge. “Agreed,” though he’d only seen bits and pieces, striving to concentrate and focus on his own task. What had Hadama been doing down there? And Noah, as a basilisk? He’d only seen glimpses of Koa and his crew, uncertain what had even been occurring in those reaches.
He kept himself neutral on the thought of Talyson – carefully modifying his features into calm and cool compositions. “I believe so. Vox surrounded him.” He wasn’t certain about Thalassa – they were not on good terms with one another, so her throwing a dagger in his direction hadn’t been a surprise – and there’d been screaming about someone else in the follies.
Acknowledging her amusement with his own, he snorted again and shook his head, anticipating the opposite. But her own machinations, about being invisible, about laying low, carved a faint, half smile on his features, tilting his head and trying to withhold the sigh threatening once more. “I plan on doing the same for the Citadel.” Then there’d be more than one kingdom under some method of safety and security. “Some of us are supposed to be meeting after the pool party,” to which he’d probably need to leave soon for. “Maybe something will change from there.” Given Ronin’s cryptic notions, he could only ascertain it was Starfall influenced and involved. “I know you do not like to hear it- but be careful.”
Flora sighs, not quite able to keep the edge of it from her breath as confirmation settles in about Tal. Her fingers press gently against the bridge of her nose before falling away again, the motion weary but wordless. "Ughhh," she groans, exhaling through her nose.
At the mention of the Citadel, her gaze sharpens again, brows lifting with interest. "Smart," she says, the approval plain even as it’s tempered by exhaustion. But when Deimos adds mention of a meeting, her expression shifts. Something bright flickers behind her eyes—amusement, mostly, though it carries a twinge of something dry and sharp. "Ooh, a meeting," she echoes, feigning delight. "So official. Super glad my name isn't on that VIP list."
She shrugs a shoulder, golden curls bouncing lightly. "I’m sure Hadama will fill me in, but, lemme know if there's anything you need." Her gaze dips briefly to the blood he now carries.
The affection that rounds her next smile softens her tone. She wrinkles her nose at him, the same way she might at a protective uncle trying to offer sound advice. "I’ll be careful," she promises, though the grin that follows is impish. "Ish."
He wisely made no mention of Talyson – presuming, due to the way the man behaved foolishly and irrationally on better days, that this was a bit of natural consequences. So he said nothing more on the matter, snorting at Flora’s expression, and wishing that he too, one day wouldn’t have to attend a meeting. Experience the relief of finally missing out. “No need to brag,” he jested, beginning to move towards the door, knowing he didn’t have much time before his attendance was needed.
“I will. And take care. Good work today.” Even if everything else had gone up in smoke and flames and Family infestation, they’d done their part to secure future thresholds for their regions – and so in the Sword’s regards, it had been worth it.
