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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!
She preens again at the praise, her wings straightening a little more and her head lifting as the process slowly becomes easier. The two pairs of wings move in an echoed synchrony to create an elegant pattern of colorful feathers that catch the sunlight, the air shifting gently beneath them as they begin to catch the breeze. Nova can feel the pull up, like it's almost to the point of flight, and as the man instructs her to add in that final pair, excitement builds in her chest.
When there's finally a break in her song, Nova unfurls her back wings. The next song is slower to give her a moment to concentrate, finding where the final pair fits into the melody like slotting threads through button holes down the front of a blouse or books onto shelves in alphabetical order. There's some fumbling at first, but Nova hums a little louder, letting the pattern fall into place: front, middle, back, front, middle, back.
Through the tunneled focus, she gives a small chirp between flaps. I think... I'm getting... the hang of it...
Everest watches with steady, methodical attention as Nova layers in that final pair of wings. Her focus is sharp, threaded through the bond with the same rhythmic structure she builds in her body, and the moment they fall into sync, he can feel it—an internal click, like all the shelves have been aligned.
He doesn’t interrupt. Just adjusts his kneeling posture ever so slightly, arms bent in a precise angle, boots braced in the sand, head tilted as though cataloguing each twitch and rotation of her shoulders. When her chirped thought filters through, it’s met with a quiet pulse of approval. Not a flood, just a single, affirming signal.
Only once her pattern has repeated without falter does he move. His hands come forward with an engineer’s precision, palms open and angled upward in a calculated invitation. Not wide, not grabby—just available. A stable platform, same width as before. A known variable in a sea of new ones.
"If you’re ready," he says, "try standing on my hands. This will serve as the final step in combining your efforts before I believe you'll be ready to fly." If and when she lands, he'll begin to lift his hands. Slowly at first, watching her muscles adjust, the air drag beneath her wings as altitude changes without wind. He lowers again, then up. Then again. His rhythm is consistent—measured tempo, nothing erratic.
Each motion adds a layer to her calibration. Each pass another page of internal reference.
even if i had to lose you to know you, i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
The approval may be nothing more than a brush of a thought, but it's enough to encourage her progress, confidence beginning to line the efforts of her movements. Her concentration remains on the pattern of her wing movements, the rhythm of music guiding their continued cooperation like the elegant steps in a dance slowly becoming more natural with each rotation.
When he offers forth his hands, Nova doesn't break in her practice as she hops forward. Her feet find purchase on his palms, feeling the breeze press against her wings as he raises her higher. Each time he lowers his hands, she can feel the wind catching more and more against the bottom of her feathers, lifting her feet and leaving her weightless over his guiding touch more with each motion. It sends a fluttering of delight through her, a giggle chiming through the bond as the song becomes a soundtrack rather than a musical, accenting the flap of her wings.
Everest adjusts his stance as Nova hops lightly onto his palms, the weight of her body feather-light against his calloused hands. He watches her wings with quiet intensity, clocking the micro-adjustments in muscle, the pattern of resistance against the air. With each lift, the beat of her wings syncs more fluidly with the rise, and his grip subtly shifts to account for her changing centre of gravity. The soft trill of her giggle ripples through the bond like wind over still water, and it almost makes him smile—almost—but his focus remains pinned to precision. To control. To the method beneath the joy.
"Alright," he says softly, tone even as always, but with a faint upward inflection that hints at encouragement. "You’re catching lift now. We’ll go a little higher each time. Keep the rhythm." And he does. Each rise a little stronger. A little faster. He tracks her posture and the flutter of her wingbeats, listening to the song in her mind and the air under her feathers.
Then he crouches slightly, just enough to load tension into his legs. His fingers firm a touch under her talons—not too tight, not too loose—and he speaks aloud again, this time with clear structure: "On three, I’m going to launch you. Get your wings moving right away. Don’t think about the ground—just the air." A breath. Then the count. "One...two...three." And on three, Everest pushes up with a practiced, powerful thrust—palms releasing as her weight leaves him—catapulting Nova into the air like a dancer into a leap, trusting her to take the lead mid-flight.
even if i had to lose you to know you, i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
The moment she's been waiting for finally arrives, the man's words telling her that it's time. All the concentration and efforts have led to this, and Nova does her best not to let the excitement disrupt the pattern she's carved out, but the preparation coils like anticipation in her chest, fluttering and shimmering like a jar of fireflies.
As his hands launch her towards the sky, Nova feels her heart lurch, the salt-sprayed breeze catching against the curl of her feathers. She pauses for barely a heartbeat, relishing the weightlessness that steals her from the ground, casting her off into the air. Her beak raises to the sky as her wings begin to pick up the rhythm that resumes in her mind, pulling her higher, freeing her from the burden of gravity. Nova can feel the moment it releases its hold, the small threads of tension breaking away in a gust of wings and air to release her into the vast blue above.
Laughter sparkles through her, unbridled joy and delight claiming the entirety of her attention as she flies higher into the sky. Her colorful feathers catch the sunlight and she gives a chirp of pride that turns into a chiming birdsong as she tilts through a gust of wind. Look! I'm doing it! I'm flying!
Everest stays exactly where he is, boots planted firmly in the sand as Nova rises. His hands slip into his pockets—more out of instinct than need—his shoulders squaring as he tips his head back to watch her silhouette rise against the sunlit sky. There’s a brief, still moment in him that settles somewhere deep in his chest. It’s not pride, not quite—but something close. Satisfaction, maybe. Relief. The smallest thread of wonder, quiet and contained, just watching her fly.
Her laughter dances down the bond like windchimes in a breeze, and his mouth curves in a proper smile. The rare kind. The kind that doesn't need to be seen. He doesn't shout, doesn't wave—he knows better than to disturb her focus now. Instead, his voice threads softly through the bond, steady and calm and warm with approval. If you start feeling tired, he says, look for a thermal. The warm air will carry you—makes it easier to hover so you don’t have to flap as much.
And even though she doesn’t need it anymore, he adds just a little quieter, You’re doing great.
even if i had to lose you to know you, i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
Taking to the sky with a lot of practice like a natural, Nova is reluctant to admit that she has no idea what a thermal is. She tilts her wings just enough to turn around the outer edge of the cliffs, staying closer to the man so she can hear any of his other instructions. In the process, she feels a shift in the air beneath her wings, the Leafchange breeze gaining new density and heat that ruffles her feathers. Instinctually, she slows the tune of her song, letting time lapse between the beats of her wings like bubbles of music muffling the sounds before popping in a release of color and melody.
It gives her a moment to focus on something other than the rhythm of her movements, glancing down with appreciation to the shrine and the glittering cliffs. The world is so pretty from up here! I never want to come down! Although there's the small tiny little issue of landing that she hasn't thought of yet, and she can already feel the unfamiliar strain of new muscles beginning to tire.
Everest lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon glare, tracking the flare of Nova’s feathers as she wheels above. Even from the ground, he can feel her joy pouring through the bond—bright and buoyant, as if she might carry the whole sky with her. He sends a quiet wave of encouragement back, not words, just warmth. Steady pulses of reassurance. He knows the feeling—gods, does he know it. That first taste of flight, the wind cradling your bones like a secret, the world suddenly so far below you it can’t touch you anymore.
But flight has rules. And bodies have limits.
Careful, he murmurs through the bond, like a hand on her shoulder. If you stay too long, you’ll push past what your wings can handle. Muscles can tear. And healing flight muscles? Not fun. Another pause, his voice laced with a thread of wry honesty. You’ll get stronger over time. But your first flight should end before you want it to. Trust me.
even if i had to lose you to know you, i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
The warmth of praise sends her higher, physically and emotionally. Her wings catch an updraft as she hears his voice, twinkling laughter immediately flowing from her carefree mind. Don't worry! I'll be fine!
And she is, alternating between a shaky glide and a melodic flapping as she makes her way around the lighthouse.
At least for another minute.
Then she starts to feel the strain that begins as just a little extra effort that she has to put in when her wings move against the wind. It doesn't hurt yet, but she notices it and the energy required to keep her elevation only seems to be increasing with each second. She's not tired, but she begins to think less about how fun it all is and more about how she plans on landing.
Fluffing her feathers against a gust of wind, Nova gives a mental clearing of her throat. But maybe I'll come down for just a minute. And maybe she'd appreciate some guidance on how to do so.
Everest simply watches, smile lingering until the first ripple of strain begins to echo through the bond. It's faint at first, like the subtle warp of a feather out of alignment, but it’s enough. He shifts his stance slightly, posture straightening, hands slipping free from his pockets.
You’re doing great, he assures her gently, voice a steady anchor even as his eyes track her descent. But if you’re ready to come down, there’s a few ways to land without faceplanting into the sand. There’s the barest flicker of humour in the thought, quickly tucked away as he continues, all clarity now. You can descend on a shallow angle—let your wings catch the air and glide down slow. Like sliding down a hill, not dropping off a cliff.
Pausing, Everest considers. Or, if you need to stop fast, flap harder just above the ground like you’re treading water. That’ll let you hover a moment and drop down gently. Not wanting to overstep, he pauses for a moment. Then, a soft offer, genuine and unassuming: Or I can catch you. His arms fold loosely across his chest, gaze still skyward, but there’s nothing smug or showy about the offer—just quiet readiness, the kind that’s been through this before.
even if i had to lose you to know you, i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
Nova hears his tips with a curious level of interest specifically correlated with not 'faceplanting into the sand.' Her mind tries to grasp what he says as she divides her attention between the slowly fumbling rhythm of her wings and the ideas he suggests, immediately balking at his final note. I can do it! At least she thinks she can - hopes she can.
Like sliding down a hill... She thinks it more to herself, but it ripples down the bond, an adorable level of concentration leaving it devoid of giggles or popping colors. Pointing her beak down, she begins to plummet back towards the shore, the speed giving her the impression that this was not what he meant. Tilting back, she flares her wings to catch the air, the force tugging at her muscles enough to have them trembling with effort. A tiny spark of alarm flashes in her mind, telling her she might not be able to handle this, but she refuses to give it any space.
Despite the support under her wings, she's moving down at a somewhat concerning pace, the ground getting closer by the second. Rather than panic like she wants to, Nova stubbornly recalls his other point, and just as the sand looks like it might be her grave, she focuses her mind to flap her wings in a life-saving moment of fluttering wings, barely slowing her enough so that her feet fall heavily onto the beach.
Her breath comes out in a deep sigh as she gains her footing. When she's sure she isn't going to faceplant or have her heart explode, she tucks the delicate appendages back against her body to hide the small tremble, puffing her colorful chest. See? I got it.
Everest doesn’t move to intercept—though the instinct is there, coiled and ready. Some lessons are worth the stumble, and with her size and lightness, there’s little real danger beyond a bruised ego. He tracks her descent without flinching, noting the jerky adjustments, the determination that holds even when alarm flickers bright in her mind.
When her feet finally meet the sand and she steadies herself, his smile broadens into something warm and approving. He gives a slow, deliberate clap, the sound light in the sea breeze but genuine in its praise. "You’ll be an expert in no time," he says, voice steady and without a trace of condescension, as if he fully expects the prediction to come true.
Straightening, he slips his hands into his pockets again, head tilting slightly as if only just realising something. "I haven’t even introduced myself," he adds, tone softening into polite formality. "My name is Everest Hart."
even if i had to lose you to know you, i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
Accepting the praise and expression of faith, her chest feathers puff again, her head raising with pride. She won't 'practice' but maybe Nova will spend a little more time as a dreambird to get used to the mechanics of it all. Now that she's got the flapping part down, she'll be taking to the skies every chance she gets!
With a final ruffle of her colorful feathers, Nova accepts his introduction in human form. Her blonde and fuchsia hair peeks out from beneath her sunhat, her pineapple stitched green dress fluttering in the salt breeze as she stands barefoot in the sand, tilting her head with a glittering smile. "Hi Everest! I'm Nova!"
She rocks forward onto her toes, a giggle on her lips that's as warm as the thermal she'd ridden. "Thanks for the tips. I guess my shift isn't broken." Not that she'll admit she needed 'help' but Everest's assistance in figuring out the process probably saved her a lot of time and headaches. And now, she's able to turn to one of her rainbow feathers that had fallen into the sand, tossing it to the wind that snatches her laughter like an offering. "Thanks for the shift, mom!"
Everest certainly hadn’t formed any picture in his mind of what Nova might look like as a person; it simply hadn’t occurred to him to connect the vivid dreambird in the air with a girl in a sunhat and a green dress stitched with pineapples. The shift between the two catches him off guard in the quiet way most things do—no outward flinch, just a small pause as his mind catches up. Speaking to her as a bird had been easy, the conversation buffered by feathers and flight, and now it takes a moment to find the same rhythm on two legs. He offers a polite smile, the corners of his mouth tilting up just enough to show it’s genuine, though his gaze drifts to a spot just over her shoulder rather than meeting her eyes for long. "Nice to meet you," he says, the words carrying that faintly careful precision that comes when he’s watching them in his head before he lets them out. "And no—your dreambird shift definitely doesn’t seem broken."
The thanks, mom rolls past without him chasing after it, not out of disinterest but because prying isn’t something he’s good at. There’s a lot he might not understand, but he knows the weight of being asked about something you’re not ready to talk about, so he simply dips his head in quiet acknowledgement. His hands press further into his pockets, shoulders settling into the loose posture of someone easing the edges of a social interaction toward its natural end.
"I should probably be going," he says, tone still mild, though the soft nod he gives her isn’t abrupt so much as it is a gentle step back from the moment. The wind catches at his hair and shirt, and for a second he glances skyward again, as if already picturing the quiet of open air before turning back toward wherever his feet will take him next.
even if i had to lose you to know you, i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
