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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!
There’d be no more thoughts of ships, not in his mind anyway – not in the fleeting instances of vacation machinations anyway. Perhaps it was his turn to lose some value in coherency, the moment her hands roamed; a sibilance, a hiss, as fingers wound along him. An intentional barb to their game – as he tended to simmer along their foreplay far longer just to have her unfurling at the seams multiple times, to take those idle frameworks and cast incessant, building flames – and he echoed some guttural groan into her ear, a distant patch of a roar stuck somewhere in his chest. Not fair might have been uttered into her flesh, but he wouldn’t be able to recall if it made it past his teeth, mind numbing and warping into naught more than that incessant, driving need they both seemed to be sharing.
As Evie had no intention of relishing or savoring any slow buildup, any light crescendo, he could only bound a laugh into her hairline, before his mouth moved back over hers, hands sweeping through and removing any other lingering garments. In return, fingers dipped between her thighs, pressing, caressing, stroking, wanting to hear the wanton sighs and the breathless whimpers, foundations for when his cock followed suit.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
The groaned complaint catches somewhere against her skin, but it only makes Evie grin, unrepentant, and twist her wrist on her next upstroke where she holds him just to prove a point. Or perhaps just to revel in the ability because she doubts Deimos will allow her to heap the attention on him 'in excess' for long. Not that Evie would consider it so, but her husband is a man of equality at minimum, and endearing hypocrisy beyond - as proven by how he divests her of any remaining clothes to instead lavish her with attention.
If it's noise he's looking for then he's rewarded plentifully. She drapes her arms over his neck, the tickle of his loose hair blocking out early morning sunlight that gets fully winked out when she draws him down to kiss him and pour her moans into his mouth instead. One knee rises to hook over his hip and drag him closer to telegraph her insistence. Already she is wet beneath his fingers, inner thighs twitching and trembling with stoked desire. No warm up or coaxing needed, just hunger. Need and appetite and, perhaps, primal victory from the dissipation of the dark clouds that had been hanging overhead. Just as animals flourish, procreate, and spread once safety is assured - and are they not little more than animals, especially here?
No one has ever made me feel this safe, this free, this me
Animalistic in every sense of the word, especially with his Attuned portions, the primal dissipations were readily apprised within moments. He was usually not so quick on the draw, far more prone to let them linger in those fastidious ties, waiting to unwind her multiple times before giving a thought to his own. But Evie’s insistence earned her little more than a sentimental eyeroll, changing the optics again for the space and chase together; he supposed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there would be more time elsewhere to remedy more fervency. Especially with things like repose, hovering and harboring, rather than the bow of defeat, failure, or war framing his shoulders.
The moment she drew him down though he was suitably lost, entangled, swallowing and consuming her moans, sharing his groans, the grumbles, the extension of their ardor, lips dragging over hers, sliding down her neck. He only acclimated to another angle when her leg hooked around his hip, closing gaps and notching snares, a trap he’d willingly placed them within. Keeping his fingers close to her thighs, brushing, stroking, amplifying the senses, he gradually guided his cock into her core, a purposefully, slow draw, to fill, to pervade, suffuse.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
Precisely, time is apparently plentiful now with peace hovering on the horizon, so why not celebrate with a bang first? Evie nearly snorts a laugh at the thought - amused by her own basic humor - but keeps it tethered only by the soft noise that replaces it as his lips crest over her neck and she feels the glancing, not-quite-there heat of him against her when she draws him down. It's enough to make her hips twitch and her thighs clench around him, instinctively trying to correct the angle to get him inside properly.
Not that she has to wait long, trembling with anticipation under his hands as they come to her thighs. As he slides inside her spine arches and her head falls against the pillows, moan sweet and low with appreciation. This is how it's meant to be, where he should always be; between her legs, inside her arms, as close as the world will let them get. Evie locks her knees around his hips to allow him to move as he desires without allowing any notion of retreat, lest he take the opportunity to tease and draw out their ends. "Didn't think I'd - be this pent up," she manages between hitched breaths, a light sheen already settling over her neck and shoulders, flushed and impatiently rocking her hips down against him. "Won't last." A warning, but also a promise - to make up for it later, to revisit with replenished stamina. Something far better to do now that they don't have to huddle over papers and plans, fretting and guessing. Praise be, she cheekily prays to the gods and any fates that oversee them today.
No one has ever made me feel this safe, this free, this me
At the arch of her spine and the spill of her moan, his own rapacious needs contorted to the back of his spine, flickered through each raw and rhythmic movement. As she sank into the mattress and pillows, he persisted, though he noted she didn’t permit the slow, leisurely pace he’d fully intended to set; a scheme course-corrected as he snorted into her neck, trying not to laugh. Instead the ghostly billowing of his breath turned into sumptuous, rich groans, placed into the curve of her shoulder and neck, or against her mouth, sketched outlines of amusement and scintillating pleasure coaxed despite the alteration in plans.
The conviction in her hitches, in her unsteady breaths, did initiate a bark of a laugh this time, in between his own muddled moans. Deimos had enough stamina, fortitude, and endurance to take these stoked emblems and infernos for quite a while – but he had no intention of incensing embers already promised to be conflagrations. “Fine,” he joked in a quick murmur, gritting it out between clenched jaws and teeth, then dashing his lips downward, following paths of encouragement, entangled in her, in the sway, in the ecstasy. Sometimes it was best to let the fire itself consume and devour – so he altered the pace, deeper, quicker thrusts, accompanied by the addition of his fingers, to drive her into the spread of blankets, to spiral outward, to be unfurled, no longer knotted and gnarled.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
He seems to intrinsically know that though they are both happy to accommodate each other's desires - speed included - today he will have far more success rising to meet her where she's at than trying to spin her out like yarn in his talented hands. Some of them aren't demigods with stamina and immortality to spare.
Though perhaps she is playing with fire anyway by asking for faster, harder, more - because her husband has never ceased to deliver, and that is a wondrous problem to have sometimes.
Evie doesn't have the breath with which to wail, though if he could see into her chest he'd see it caught there like twisting, colorful smoke. Like this, she can do little more to speed along his own end or to amplify his pleasure than to focus elsewhere; nails down his back, a squeeze of her hand at his nape, the focused clench of her own body around him when she has enough brain power to do it. It's hard not to feel selfish sometimes when you're down in the pillows at the mercy of a rather attentive husband, but Evie's willing to be selfish for a morning.
Instead she lets herself pant and whine his name in fitful bursts tied to the pace and angle of his fingers against her clit - yipping high on clipped tones when he is a little too perfect in his approach - to communicate her reverence. "Please please please pleASE -" she babbles, though what she's asking for is lost in the headlong chase for swift, indulgent release.
No one has ever made me feel this safe, this free, this me
Pliant in his hands, he waited for the keen awareness of her being pushed right over the edge, dangling along a precipice, yielding to all the perilous ventures sparking and warding off in her mind. At least, that was how his felt, rising to the challenge in an unbidden rush, another moan concealed in her nape and dragged out of his lungs like a muted roar, focused entirely on her and her and her. Though the pitch of her voice was doing wonders for his own movements and motions, clenching around him just as much as her body did; a pressing need, an invocation.
The barely coherent babbling seemed to simply light a further fuse; if he wasn’t laughing into her skin, he was hovering on the plains and peripheries himself, guided by her wanton outcries and a sharper, swifter approach – tied to them perhaps going over the brim and brink together. Something about sanctity, about sanctuary, about shelters and safe harbors touched and scorched too; hand continuing to unwind, unfurl, down by her thighs, adjusting the roll of her hips and his own, altering the thrusts to drive her onward, into more than just pleas and appeals. He could feel his own release building down his spine and unfurling at the seams, closer and closer until the finality struck – muffling his moan into her mouth as the sinuous surgency rushed through - crossing those borders and fringes at her plea – then intending to usher hers right alongside.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
She's no miracle creature, she's never orgasmed just from being fucked, but with the prickling sensitivity of her skin and the leaping hope and tentative safety in her heart she wouldn't be surprised to make history today. It won't be necessary - Deimos' clever hands and unerring, laser focus ensures that - but it still speaks volumes.
Her flush drips like paint from cheeks to chest, turning the Evergreen rosy all over. It's hard to breathe when his thrusts are so pointed, his fingers so precise against her, brushing just past where he moves inside her in furthering tendrils of maddening sensation. Her hips jolt and hitch as if uncertain whether to press into each touch or away from it, battling between heightening tension and sprinkled moments of overstimulation. Not that she ever twitches away for long - the pleasure is too intoxicating, even when it cuts its teeth against her nerves at times.
Evie hovers on the edge, teetering, for longer than expected. Completion just out of reach. Stomach taut, thighs shaking, moaning with every breath. But the second Deimos comes it seems to tilt the scales, the sight and feel of him the final straw she didn't know she needed until it was already broken. His name is a muffled shriek of a thing as she blindly buries her teeth in his shoulder, more animal than woman, and shakes through her own orgasm in hard, deep waves that leave her whimpering with each aftershock.
No one has ever made me feel this safe, this free, this me
Deimos was no miracle worker; but he was patient, thorough, meticulous, and giving. His intentions in bed had always been to ensure Evie received far more. So he waited, patient as ever, until she broke over too; rose-edged and lined, biting into his flesh. The surge of her teeth scarcely bothered him – inspiring amusement while she came down from semblances and arousal, his name a far more prominent echo.
He might have snorted, but instead tucked her against him, listening, feeling, as all the aftershocks left her hovering in motion and place. “You okay?” came on a rumble thereafter, only peeling away to gaze down at her, thoroughly sated and amused all at once, a singular arch to his brow. “And you can still have breakfast too.” At which he wrinkled his nose, mind coming back to the forefront of everything else they’ve been intending to do before becoming wholly, and rightfully so, distracted.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
It takes a bit to recover, but they're in no rush. When the inquiry comes, Evie merely hums in contented but nevertheless drained response. Words are unnecessarily difficult and Deimos knows the compendium of her hums, tsks, oohs, and aahs by now. Who needs Attunement really?
"Foooood," she moans in agreement, deciding words are fine if they net her the fuel necessary to get a few brain cells back in working order. Floppy-limbed, the Evergreen noodles her way across the bed to half-fall off the side and onto her feet. "I'm going to go clean up, if you'll be the best husband ever and have food ready by time I'm out?" It's almost a given, but she gives a smiley version of puppy eyes anyway, already halfway out the door in a robe she'd snagged with her telekinesis. No sense in traumatizing their children - or companions.
No one has ever made me feel this safe, this free, this me
He smirked; given the response, she wasn’t wholly out of sorts – and with the mentions of food, he was already rolling out of bed himself. The intention had already been there for partaking in getting things started, figuring she’d want to shower and dress before coming down. Laughing, he found his own robe and tied off the ends; he could shower after. Erebos wasn’t quite awake, by his companions’ assortment in the nearby room, so they had a few spare minutes to hasten things onward. “Sure.” Concocting a plan for breakfast – omelets and whatever assorted fillings they had left in the cupboards and fridge, he rumbled towards her as she disappeared behind the door. “Be thinking what we should do for the region this season,” while she was in there, melting in the heat – his mind was already melding towards soldier formations and trainings again.
Heading down the stairs, he snagged at the necessary pans and ingredients, cracking a few eggs and listening for the sounds of any toddler or Raeling feet. When no one appeared yet, he persisted, grabbing bits of ham and cheese, and vegetarian sides for Amhran.
While waiting though, he figured he could multi-task, and while things were cooking (turning them all over at the appropriate intervals), he began creating the robes necessary for the upcoming masquerade, ushering them along and in between his palms until they unfurled along the counter – black, Stygian, a little plain but adorned in several other details to ensure one would know who they belonged to.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
"BAH!" she calls back dramatically over her shoulder, careful not to be loud enough to disturb their son but still making her (feigned) objections known. Breakfast is enough enticement to allow the work-related mood killer, but only just.
Keeping her wash straightforward instead of luxurious, Evie trots downstairs, lured by the smell of food. Deimos is already mid-creation it seems, which she isn't surprised by. They'd loosely thrown options and ideas around beforehand and magical creation is by far the easiest route - and it ensures neither of them have to go into the Citadel's market sector for fabric and notions.
"Okay, work first so I'm not tempted by both food and arts-and-crafts. We've been pretty consistently preferring training since Halo's doing so well in infrastructure - stay the course?" She maneuvers around the kitchen island as she asks, prowling around the food even though it's not finished yet. "Though you'll never complain about focusing on recruits," Evie teases with a grin. It's a core tenant of her husband's existence, and she sees it as a virtue - though not one that can't be used for a bit of teasing, just as he teases her for her trashy romance books.
"The ends should be more raggedy," she adds as an afterthought, standing on her toes to peer at the costumes in his hands. "Maybe fake bloodstains for creepy factor?"
No one has ever made me feel this safe, this free, this me
“Stay the course,” he rumbled in response, an easygoing and juvenile grin forming along the corners of his mouth as she flipped her designated omelet once more. Working on his, he peeled it off the pan, and did much the same as before, checking and waiting until the portions were done. “Fine by me. It would be nice to have everyone ready before Deepfrost.” Because while they’d talked about peace and the semantics of repose, it didn’t mean the Sword would ever deign to be complacent – they’d remain a well-practiced stronghold. Especially since the last winter had been catastrophic by many means.
He arched his brow at her suggestion towards the costumes, and he sized up the portions, glancing back and forth on where to place the particular ‘fake bloodstains’. Clipping along the ends wasn’t too hard, and he made them appear far more frayed, trailing blots of crimson down some portions, as if it had been strewn on passing whims and bloodshed. “That better?”
As she perused and inspected again, he tended to the food – while concocting a mask as well. It wouldn’t be the typical Ludo one though, going more for his own preferences, unfurling it between his palms as it beheld as a hellhound fixture – long muzzle and fangs, surrounded by pretensive embers.
Then, eyeing the eggs, he snagged at a plate and placed the her designated omelette upon its fixture, passing it over.
under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed
"Exactly, we don't have the excuse of people going to ground for Deepfrost anymore to justify training to avoid going stir crazy," she laughs as he neatly slides her omelet off the pan and onto a plate at the perfect time, knowing she prefers hers slightly under-done and gooey. With the work they'd all done, there was no fear of being locked in Halo for an entire season anymore - so instead of planning outlets, they'd instead be better off training now because surely their soldiers and citizens would be tempted to snowbird more frequently during their harshest season.
Shoving a bite of egg into her mouth, Evie hums her approval over the modifications Deimos makes, waving her fork jauntily for emphasis. The alterations to his mask are fitting, and she smiles as she swallows. "I don't know if I can say you'll look handsome considering you'll be hiding your face with it, but I'm going to anyway." Which really just cements the seal of approval, right?
No one has ever made me feel this safe, this free, this me
