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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!
They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
The outskirts of the Inner Quarter bring with it the sunset of colorful trees amongst a muted, cloudy sky. A chill in the air that breezes through, dropping maple leaves to coat the ground in their gilded, fiery glory. All things that won’t last when the season comes to an end, and he might have half a mind to think it a beautiful circle of life, if it weren’t for the unease that’s returned back into his chest.
This season has been hell so far, such a strange mix of feelings and sensations, almost feeling like he’s been spiraling out of control — and while having an answer of why he’s like this, it still doesn’t make it easier. At least he knows there’s an end point, that perhaps next year he will be better prepared.
But for now, it’s an attempt to tire himself out far enough away to not be too aggressive in prowling the Dusklight. He’s already nipped at someone once and forced to boast the muzzle once more as part of his attire. So out here, in the civilized wilderness, the butcher finds it easier to let loose the tension in his shoulders. Shoulders that aren't cooped up in the usual tightness of a waistcoat and fine fitting clothes. His shirt is looser and billowy, rolled up at the sleeves.
It’s here, in the clearing that leads up to the edge of the Inner Quarter that Astaroth is currently sending blasts of fire out at a poor little vampire gourd that didn’t know any better than to cross his path. It’s long gone, now, but the scent of roasted pumpkin blooms in the air as the butcher sits on a flat trunk of a long since fallen tree, tail whipping back and forth as he leans with his head tilted on a fist, playing with the fire that rises from the husk of the gourd.
Even in Leafchange, Flora gleams like a treasure lost in the woods. She’s dressed in a fitted velvet coat of deepest crimson, its long tails cinched at the waist and flaring like a flame with every step. Beneath it, snug black leggings disappear into tall boots, scuffed from wear but polished enough to hint at someone who still cares about appearances. Her rings catch the light like starlight through tree branches, and a pale scarf is wound at her throat more for flair than warmth.
A single feather dagger twirls in one hand, its poisoned tip catching the sun like a glinting wink. The others are buried in her coat pocket, keeping her balance as she wanders just a little too far from the path with very intentional aimlessness. She’d meant to head straight back after seeing Danta—genuinely, she had—but the tangle in her chest won’t sit still, and her thoughts keep spiralling in circles too tight for her ribcage to contain.
The roasted scent of pumpkin finds her before she hears the flickering crackle of flame, and it makes her nose crinkle in something like curiosity. Rounding a bend in the path, she slows—dagger still spinning idly—as her gaze lands on a familiar figure perched on a felled trunk like a brooding gargoyle. The tail is a giveaway. So is the smoulder, both literal and not.
Keeping Danta’s warning in the back of her mind (though it flits about like a moth in a storm), Flora slides into view with the subtle confidence of someone who has survived worse. Her eyes track the dancing flames before rising to Astaroth’s face, unreadable but far from unfriendly.
"Whatever that was," she says, nodding toward the scorched husk of the gourd, "it smells delish." The dagger stills between her fingers and she spins it once, just for the satisfaction of the motion.
They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
He hears her as she makes her approach, and maybe it’s confidence or the way he tells himself he knows who it is simply by her own gait or the way she moves like a leaf in the wind, but there’s confidence in the fact that his own body language might be akin to a sign on his back that says do not touch. She doesn’t, though, instead keeping her distance until she’s in his line of sight and all the while the butcher’s tail flicks and he continues to play with the reaching flames of the fire in the gourd, even if his dark gaze lifts from the gourd to Flora’s face with that same easy smile — though a little too sharp these days. As they had once been for those that didn’t know him.
But she knows him, and knows the little shadow that sits on the other side of the gourd, black and dark and not at all where it should be with a pale smile slit through to let the light in, poking and prodding at the gourd’s reflected fire in a playful game of charades. “It was a vampire gourd.” He confirms, fingers wiggling in the air as he lowers the flame into blues and whites to show the charred carcass. “I hear they are lovely little biting beasts.” Not that Asta was too intent on experiencing that fact when he’d seen it trundle through the forest toward him.
He eyes the dagger she flips in her hand, the poison coating glinting in the air as he straightens up a bit and extinguishes the fire completely. “What brings you out all this way, darling? In search of a brawl or simply being protective?” He doesn’t know that she’d been attacked by Dahlia, but he does know that the Family is gone. Danta had said as much, which he’d assumed meant she no longer needed to hide from them any longer.
Even still, he takes the moment to appreciate her and her attire, now that he can see her completely and without the pesky need for invisibility.
Flora regards Asta with the kind of expression usually reserved for wild animals with very soft ears and very sharp teeth. It’s fondness tempered by caution—by the fact that she knows what kind of season this is for him, what Danta had said, and what Astaroth himself has been wrestling to keep caged behind charming smiles and crackling fire.
Still, her body language says she isn’t afraid, even if she very much should be.
She watches as he bends the flame into colder shades, the gourd’s husk glinting with frostbitten char, and her smile lifts in quiet amusement. There’s something mesmerizing about the way he plays with heat, like a child testing the edge of danger just to see if it’ll bite back. Her dagger stills, then twists again between her fingers, catching the light like a tease.
"Was just out wandering," she says with an easy shrug, though the flicker in her voice hints at everything not said—names like Kaisel and Jack and Dahlia coiled like thorns behind her teeth. Her gaze sharpens when he says brawl, and a grin blooms like a bruise; sudden, a little reckless, and laced with something hungry.
"Now that you mention it," she says, twirling the dagger in a neat circle before wagging it in his direction, "a proper fight sounds lovely." Her boots crunch softly as she shifts her stance, spine loose and hips tilted with a dancer’s fluidity. "What d’you say, Asta?" she purrs, eyes bright and gleaming. "That's if you think you're up for it." Likely he needs no provocation at all, gentleman butcher than he is.
With the Hollowed Grounds’ alterations in landscape, some of the animals have grown a bit wilder. A bit bolder.
So while it may surprise some, and others not at all, a crow swoops down, snatching at clothing and bags with sharp, irritating, and annoying talons. Maybe you just lost a piece of bread, or a valuable keepsake!
They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
He’s always been the kind to test limits. Himself included. And over the years he’d gotten a fairly good handle on everything when it came to how he reacted, how far he could go. It’s part of what gives him the charm of being the Gentleman Butcher. But this season, this new shift under his skin, has opened up a whole variety of possibilities and problems he hasn’t had to equip himself with in quite some time. Before, everything else could fall apart and he’d know just how he’d react. Now? Now he can’t tell.
He isn’t scared so much as he is anxious. And as he watches her and her brilliant charm and easy smile, he flashes one of his own toward her with a brief nod. Extinguishing the flame with practiced ease, the butcher rises from the trunk of the tree he’d been perched on. “I will be unable to hold my punches.” He informs her, glancing at her as movement catches his eye.
Not elaborating on the quest in favor for the crow that dives down toward them, he watches it sail toward Flora to snatch one of her beautiful pieces of glinting jewelry, taking the few seconds to ensure it isn’t Moira. Then, before it can even get close to her, the butcher’s encasing it in flame. It careens to the ground with muffled cries as Asta burns it into silence, his gaze flitting back toward Flora with his usual dark gleam, but one with a hint of curiosity. “If you believe you are up for it?” He flips the question onto her with a shark-tooth grin.
Flora raises a single brow, her smile curling like smoke at the corner of her mouth. "Lucky for you," she says, voice honey-laced and reckless, "I'm actually quite fast when I want to be." The dagger dances once more between her fingers, the glint of poison catching the dying light. "And if you're not holding back—" she tilts her head, curls spilling loose around her scarf as her grin sharpens into something almost feral, "neither am I."
The sudden shriek of feathers draws her attention sideways just as the crow dives for her—only to be engulfed in fire before it can get within snatching distance. Flora startles, eyes wide as the creature hits the dirt in a smoking heap, and for a beat she just stares at Astaroth. And then, slowly, wonderingly, her expression cracks into something bright and terribly fond. "You incinerated a thief for me," she murmurs, as if he’s just brought her wildflowers or opened a door. It’s said with playful reverence, but the affection behind it is real. A strange, dangerous warmth.
"Well," she purrs, slipping a second dagger into her hand, "now I definitely want to see what you can do."
She pivots with dancer’s grace, takes a few steps back until she’s at just the right distance, weight balanced on the balls of her feet. The dagger gleams once, twice—then launches from her hand with deadly precision, aimed straight at his chest.
1/4
They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
It’s as close to a deal without admitting it aloud that the butcher’s interest is immediately more piqued. So it’s with a sharp grin aimed at her that shifts when he focuses on the corvid that’s aimed toward Flora, letting the flame vanish just as soon as he’s sure the crow’s no longer with them. Her playful reverence, the stare over at him that he meets with a charming, roguish smile. “Always, darling.” He boasts proudly, as if he can’t imagine himself not protecting her.
Unless of course it’s a spar with no holds barred.
He straightens up, his smile lingering as he eyes the poison tipped daggers. And she’s right in that she’s fast when she wants to be — and he watches her take up her position as he preps himself. It takes a little longer than anticipated, and he’s caught by surprise as he launches into movement toward her with the blade that sinks into his chest. It evades the worst of the damage at least, but it makes him stagger with a grunt of oof that breaks into a dark laugh. “So this is how it feels.” He grits out against the pain, charging toward her with a punch aimed at her side. He could use magic, but the quest requires a physical punch, and so he throws himself into it because of the dagger still jutting out of his chest.
Flora inhales as the dagger sinks into Astaroth’s chest, her breath catching not in triumph but in sharp, involuntary sympathy. She hadn’t meant to land it quite so square—but then again, he had said no holding back. Her wince is fleeting, buried under the shimmer of adrenaline that begins to sing in her limbs like the first notes of a dangerous duet.
"You’re not the only one who can draw blood, babes," she purrs, voice velvet over thorns, even as his fist cuts through the air toward her. But Flora is already moving—spine fluid, hips twisting just enough to let the blow glance past her. It’s not just a dodge; it’s a flourish. A deliberate, dancer’s arc that makes her pivot feel less like combat and more like choreography. Her curls whip behind her as she spins away, lips parted in exhilaration and something like apology.
And then her hand lifts, fingers snapping with a flicker of intent. The dagger shudders in his chest—then pulls free as if tugged by an invisible thread, its poisoned edge gleaming with borrowed heat. It spins through the air with an elegant, almost lazy grace, before dropping neatly into her waiting palm.
2/4
They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
He cares very little about the dagger in his chest, despite the sharp intense pain it brings. If anything, it settles that odd and strange sensation in his chest that the shift under his skin thrives with. It makes him try harder, even though he knows full well that she’s quick and far stronger than him. It doesn’t burn anything badly within him to see it, if anything it’s quiet appreciation and admiration, even as she evades the punch he throws her way.
She moves with grace and with ease that he can’t even imagine harboring in his old bones, and with the quick flick of her wrist, the dagger wiggles in his chest that has him recoiling a bit. It breaks free, blood trailing after it as it blooms in his chest. Pain breaks through him again, but among the grunt of it comes a dark and easy laugh, his sharp teeth flashing in the light. “Evidently not.” He mutters, twisting to trail after her and utilize his tail in an attempt to try and trip her up, aiming another punch her way toward her side.
Flora isn’t looking at the ground—she never is, not when her attention is drawn to gleaming teeth and laughter like cracked thunder. So when Asta’s tail sweeps low, she doesn’t see it until it’s too late. Her heel catches, her balance skews, and the world pitches sideways. "Wh—"
The curse is breathless, cut off entirely as his fist slams squarely into her ribs. "Oooof—" The sound rips out of her like the wind’s been punched from her lungs. Stars dance across her vision, ribs blooming with pain like crushed flower petals beneath velvet.
Rather than flail or aim blind retaliation, Flora drops low, letting gravity take her as her knees buckle. She tucks, rolls—her coat flaring like a spilled glass of wine against the leaf-strewn ground—trying to twist out of his reach before he can follow it up. There’s no elegance in the movement this time, just instinct and desperation, her breath coming short and ragged as she scrambles for distance with grit in her teeth and laughter in her bones.
3/4
They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
It is the biggest threat, the teeth that linger behind suave smiles. And yet, a predator often knows where his biggest distraction lies. The better predators know where to strike where it’s least expected. It’s similar with Flora, as he’s finding out, that behind the dancers movement and graceful agility that is both beautiful as it is devastating, that she can also surprise him in turn.
His sharp grin widens a touch when she gets off balance, his tail sweeping back out of the way as his fist slams into her ribs, hard and with purpose – just as the quest had asked for, despite the regret that sinks in a moment after that has him sucking in a low and steep breath. “Apologies, darling.” He says after as she starts to slip away. He lets her, stepping back as his tail whips and he flexes his suddenly very sore knuckles.
And this time, with the punch completed, he searches for something else within him to utilize against her. And rather than take a step forward to strike once more, he opts for distraction, to throw her off balance in a different way than she might otherwise be use to that might shove her aim off its debilitatingly precision. He grows larger, still thin as can be but spidery in the way his horns grow and branch out, the way his smile widens into something far too wide, and at his side multitudes of smiling shadows all similarly decked out as he is flanks him like an army of eyeless, soulless ghouls.
Flora coughs once as she steadies her breath, the ache in her ribs roaring like a flare trapped beneath her coat. But even winded, even rolling to her feet in a scramble of velvet and grit, there’s a gleam in her eye that borders on delight. She tosses Asta a look sharp enough to cut through the smoke still curling in the air. "Are you?" she throws back, darkly sweet and breathless, her brows lifting in mock suspicion. "Because from what Danta said..." She trails off with a little twist of her lips, as if daring him to prove the warning wrong.
But then he begins to shift, and gods, it’s like watching a storybook nightmare turn the page.
She only has to look once—really look—to feel her stomach twist and her muscles coil. He stretches into something leaner, wronger, his smile pulling too wide, horns branching out like skeletal branches against the dimming sky. Shadows bloom beside him like a chorus of mockeries, grinning and hollow-eyed, a gallery of ghouls in his image.
Flora's hands move in a blur, twisting two daggers so they gleam outward, their curved points aimed not at him—but ready for him. If he wants to lunge, he’s welcome to. He can throw all the nightmare in the world at her, but if he closes the gap, he’ll skewer himself on her waiting blades.
"You can come as close as you like, Asta," she says, low and gleaming, her curls falling like a crown gone crooked.
4/4
They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
“It is bittersweet, I can assure you.” The butcher murmurs, because the regret is there for having harmed her, underlined beneath the immediate and most forefront of relief that the spar brings him. And while he could verbally agree with he warning that Danta has apparently told her, he’s morphing and shifting before her eyes to let the shadows take place. Shrouding and harboring all the menace the butcher hides beneath suave sharp smiles and well tailored clothes, the horns branch from each of the shadows like spiders and thin fingers, reaching for her in lieu of him actually touching her.
Yet, anyway.
Because he lunges as she readies her daggers, the glint gleaming outward, and the butcher fights through the blood that leaks from his chest (carefully hidden by more of the shadow and illusion that covers his movements), as he does, in fact, close the gap. Only, perhaps as another indicator of his violent mood that he has yet to verbalize, he doesn’t notice the precision in the way she’s placed the blade. She’s quick and swift, something he loves about her, but he hates in this moment as the blade sinks into his arm this time despite his attempt to dodge, and the grinning shadows dance in a cacophony of pain and laughter. “I would, darling, but it appears as though you’ve laid out barbed wire.” The dissonance blooms in his voice, vibrating wrongly against the bones of anything within hearing.
