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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!
Peace might’ve prevailed, but that had never stopped the Sword from continuing to gain and share his skills. A defender, a guard, a shelter, a shield of his own, he ensured the rest of his cohorts and compatriots could mirror the same – that Halo would eternally be a safer structure and sanctity for its people.
The Barracks were alive on that pulse of thought and energy, Deimos amidst his fellows, twisting and turning from blade to blade, the clash of steel, the careful footfalls, the precise movements, billowing and surrounding one another. One would fall back, and then others would ripple through – either attacking targets or upon other opponents; the rich laughter flowing when a mark hit and notched or missed on a close call.
He paused momentarily, stepping off towards one of the braziers as others swarmed to where he’d left off. Chuckling to himself as he shifted another bout of directions, he rolled his shoulders, snagging at his canteen nearby to swallow down a horde of water – eyes flickering over to watch the rest of the momentum unfold.
Really, why haven’t I just moved here already? I’m always in Halo, always searching for some excuse to drift back into its cold embrace. I used to think it would be too hard to live here again, too heavy with memory—but every time I return, I find myself settling as if I’d never left. Torchline still holds me, though. My Nonna told me once to settle where home is, and I think I’m still trying to figure out exactly where that is. For now, Torchline gives me family, connection, something I can’t walk away from yet. But when that part of me feels secure… what then?
Maybe then I’ll stop wandering. Maybe then I’ll find home.
For now, I’m content to bounce between coast and mountain. Today the air is sharp in my lungs, crisp and biting, seeping through the lighter layers I always insist on for sparring. I’ll warm up quick enough. Afterwards, there’ll be firelight and cider at the Kraai to thaw me out.
The Barracks aren’t quiet like last time, when Damien and I had the place to ourselves. Now they’re alive: steel ringing against steel, voices shouting with good-natured jeers, laughter spilling out when a strike lands true or a partner stumbles. The camaraderie isn’t something I crave for myself, but gods, it makes for good practice. It's a decent place to sharpen skill in a storm of others doing the same.
I pace toward a practice dummy, unsheathing my shortsword and giving it a quick spin. Its weight is still strange, so unlike my daggers, but my hands are beginning to learn it. I’ll keep both sharp—no way I’m losing what I’ve worked for. And this, too, will become a weapon I can trust.
I draw back for my first swing, but the sight of a familiar figure catches me. My blade cuts wide, careless, as a grin spreads across my face. Perfect. He’d said he would, hadn’t he?
Sliding the shortsword back into place, I cross the packed snow with a bounce in my step.
“Deimos!” My breath clouds in the cold as I call out. “Are you busy?”
Deimos would have a lot to say about homes, had she asked. He’d lost his many times over the multiple lives led – had fought and defended them too, strived to be everything he could for regions that might’ve let him been torn asunder for that goal. But this world, with its endless snow and natural defenses, with its beauty and hardiness and every ounce of strength poured into its vastness, kept him tied, tethered, and not scorched or burnt away, whole rather than ash.
So he stood there, watching and surveying his troops with a shake of his head and a juvenile grin on his features, taking a few gulps of water before inevitably returning to the forefront. He must’ve missed Theea in the crossfire of movements and motions, smaller than most of his counterparts, tucked against dummies and training targets – his brow arching as she appeared nearby, materializing out of the ether. “Theea,” he nodded, making no comment about seeing her in Halo again so soon – though he’d had to wonder what kept bringing her back, besides the guild and perhaps the fondness of friends; most others despaired at the thought of Halo in Deepfrost.
He laughed at her inquiry, putting his canteen aside by his hordes of other equipment. “Usually,” he rumbled, just to see if it could rankle at her edges for amusement’s sake. “Did you want some help?”
I like it when people laugh most of the time, but it’s especially satisfying when the stoic-seeming ones do. Guess it was a funny question; Deimos is a guildmaster and the Warden of Halo. Of course he’s busy. Probably really busy—but he’s here, and he’s offering.
I bounce twice on the balls of my feet, nodding, energy fizzing. “I think I need more work on the shortsword. I keep treating it like a dagger and with beasts and stuff, I think I want some distance, right? Maybe. I’ll always have the daggers on me, but if I can figure this thing out, I could be a real asset.”
I bite my lip to shut myself up before I can actually talk his ear off, clear my throat, then draw the blade. “I keep fucking up with it and I want to not, so—short answer: yes. I’d love help.”
At least with Theea, it would never take long to get to the heart of the issue – verbose and quick to cut to the chase. His brow arched briefly at her estimation, nodding along – he’d always been content with a blade, but he’d utilized throwing knives and the daggers for distance too, and could understand the difficulty in transitioning between both. He’d seen her abilities with the tiny, pointed, puncturing beasts already; but not with how she’d handled the other armament. “All right,” came with the residual rumble of acceptance, gaze already flickering towards an open area. “We can try over here.”
His long strides swept past the other warriors hard at work; their shuffling steps or recoils of wooden or metallic edges echoing and ricocheting off one another. Several gave nods as they walked by, and before long Deimos had secured them a training target, a dummy clearly intended to resemble one of the Family members, that had been patched up time and time again. Maneuvering it to a formidable space where she’d have all the room necessary to unleash her actions and movements, he figured they could start there, before he started amplifying the particulars. “Show me what you have been doing first,” stepping back, inclining his jaw towards the effigy.
Inside, I’m practically sparking—the Sword himself agreeing to help me—but I paste on the best version of cool I can manage. No hesitation, no second-guessing. I fall into step behind him easily, trying not to look like a pup at his heels.
No one spares me a nod, no greetings for me, but I lift a hand anyway to a few soldiers as if I belong. They don’t look twice. All of it’s for him. That’s fine. I’ll make sure they start seeing me too.
We stop at a dummy patched and beaten to hell, its stuffed head and stitched body a crude mockery of the Family’s forms. The sight makes me smirk—long gone, but apparently still useful as target practice. His command comes simple, a step back and a tilt of his jaw, and suddenly I feel the sheepish prickle of being watched. Doesn’t matter. I shove it down, set my shoulders, and nod sharp. "Right. No problem."
I draw the shortsword in one clean motion, grip tight, and lunge in with a diagonal slash across the dummy’s chest. The weight pulls heavier than I expect but I try to roll with it, twist my wrist, and swing back low across its midsection, stepping into the motion with a snap of my heel. To finish, I pivot, dragging the blade upward in a rising arc toward its shoulder seam—quick, decisive, and maybe a little reckless, but sharp enough to feel like I’m cutting air clean.
I step back, exhaling hard, blade still in hand. "So?" My heart’s in my throat, but I hold his gaze as if waiting for him to say nice try.
He watched – ever the scrutinizing, examining force. Years upon years and lives upon lives of mauling, devising, and fighting had taught him to observe the masses for many things: confidence, ability, prowess, the predictability of notions and motions. One step could signal or signify a certain strike, could posture a threat or nothing at all – and Deimos had never been one to underestimate anyone. Many had abilities unseen and unheard until the precise moments they were needed, and he didn’t relish being caught unaware or on the back foot because he presumed another simply incapable. Most of such thoughts didn’t combine into Theea anyway – Ashe’s daughter, so likely already trained in several armaments, and he’d seen her skewer void luxere, despite the hinges of inexperience.
So as she went through the movements, slashed, cut, delivered another sliced angle to the decrepit dummy, he studied. She seemed a little surprised by some of the heavier inclinations, unsurprising given her predilections for daggers rather than the broadsword, but that could be cured in time and practice. “Good,” he nodded, eyes narrowing in brief speculation, and stepping away, producing a wooden sword within his hands, a brief golden glow to hallmark and signify the creation magic woven instantaneously. They likely wouldn't have to parade through the bare basics. “I wanted to see where we could start,” which might just be brief practices in slashing techniques and motivations, but he figured there were other areas they could preside within too. “Now show me how you would come at an opponent,” raising his training blade briefly, pinpointing on himself, as he readied a stance, easy, certain, muscle memory honed and prepared.
The grin hits before I can stop it—he said good. I try not to let it puff me up, but it’s hopeless; warmth flickers through me faster than any fire. And then he raises his own training blade and—oh. "Right. Got it. You're the enemy."
For half a heartbeat, nerves spark hot in my chest. Deimos isn’t just any training partner. He’s the Sword. The man who could probably split a mountain in two if he felt like it, or something.
But that’s what makes this better. Even if I end up flat on my ass, I’ll walk away sharper for it. I can only learn from a man like him. Probably something I should have remembered with those shields with Damien. I'm supposed to learn from every loss, even when they piss me off.
So short little me squares off against a man who looks built from glaciers and stone, and I refuse to flinch. My grip tightens on the hilt; I adjust my stance the way I know. Then I dart forward—probably too quick, too close, too much like I’m holding one of my daggers. Again. The shortsword’s weight lags half a breath behind me, but I compensate with speed, sliding in low and aiming a clean slash toward his thigh.
It’s not elegant, but it’s precise. My heel pivots in the snow-packed dirt, breath fogging, veins alive with the charge of the strike.
He arched a brow at her statement, before muffling a small, juvenile smile from peeking out of the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t unheard of; he’d been many individuals’ enemy, from the Voice and her Ascended constituents, past warriors on opposing sides, or the Family’s. But certainly not Theea’s, and many others he’d helped to train. Still, it amused rather than deflected or irritated.
But she seemed to regain her courage and might, coming at him with speed – a favored tactic, and one he would’ve insisted upon for her anyway. With her size, swiftness was important – to get in, and then get out – before anyone could wage some serious, detrimental blows. But he could see the way the sword was a little too awkward in her grasp, heavier than all those daggers, and he utilized that lack of foundation by simply maneuvering off to the side, catching the glint of the blade with the wider portion of his own armament. “Good use of your speed, but the weapon is lagging behind you.”
Then he stepped back, aiming the wooden blade towards her shoulder – just to see what she would do. Correct her position? Gauge the weight of the blade and alter her stance? Counter? Block?
