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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 wild winds beckoned no matter the season, and Melita found herself at the sails again, rippling through the skies as Sila followed alongside and Fangorn remained tucked along the deck, vines fastened to the rigging. She turned them towards the less than familiar outset of Stormbreak’s skyport, figuring she could dock the Firecracker there and then go be fucking annoying to strangers.
Eventually they landed, and she found herself narrowing her eyes at anyone else nearby, striving to find either familiar faces or people to irritate (they didn’t have to be exclusive). Hopping out of the boat, she began tying ropes off, ensuring it wouldn’t be hovering and going off anywhere while she was busy infiltrating the stuffy little world’s wake.
10-13-2025, 11:19 AM (This post was last modified: 10-21-2025, 12:01 PM by Astaroth.)
// allow me to introduce myself //
It was only aimed to be a quick jaunt – which is good, considering the amount of exhaustion that lingers in his bones and the biting cold that makes it worse. Thick, fur lined gloves keep the cold temperature away from turning his fingertips grey, but it’s clear he’s slow and sluggish as he steps along the Falling in the Skyport. A bag in hand, perusing the wares of last minute merchants trying to make a little bit more money in case visitors had forgotten something.
He gives into it, perusing them all until a familiar shock of red blooms in his peripheral and the butcher steps away from the wares to drift over to the Firecracker and flash a bright, sharp smile of greeting to the captain. “Good afternoon, Melita.” He calls, wondering what she’s here for if anything.
Finishing the knots and tying portions off, she adjusted hat on her head, contemplating a whole multitude of tasks in front of her via Ludo, and the possibilities of mimicry, when she heard another individual call for her. Turning her head over her shoulder, she fixed her gaze upon Astaroth, eyes widening slightly in surprise – figuring he’d be the type to hibernate around this time of year. “Asta, hey,” and she met him halfway, gaze already taking in the slower strides, marked and chiseled by the cold.
Ensuring Fangorn and Sila were close at hand, her head tilted upwards, gilded gaze meeting his with her usual flare for feral mischief. “How are things? I was just thinking of antagonizing some strangers. Would you care to join me?” If not, the Honeybee didn’t figure him for a snitch.
He is usually the type to hibernate this time of year – especially more so this season than the last – but he had to come and get a very specific fabric only made here if only to surprise Danta when he returned with the spoils of his little quick trip. Thankful to have someone to distract him from turning to stone or falling asleep, at least, the butcher steps toward her until they meet halfway, nodding his horned head toward Sila and Fangorn in greeting.
Then, with her mischief and her question, a low laugh leaves the butcher as he considers her. “Things are good.” He starts off, letting his lips curl in a playful and sharp grin. “And if I ever deny antagonizing strangers, then you will know I am quite ill.” He boasts a little proudly, agreeing to her little game with immediate ease and very little time to consider.
She waited, the picture of innocence as her arms drifted behind her back, save for the massive grin on her features. Sila hovered along her shoulder, while Fangorn drifted below, vines curling along the partially snowy paths. “Welllll,” she winked, as soon as his agreement was assured, “I have to copy someone,” which she wondered whether it could be him, or some other unassuming passerby. “And I figured why not cause a little chaos at the same time.”
Her gaze drifted towards the marketplace nearby, distinctly crowded as people made their way by, trying to forge their way towards the skyport or grab last minute supplies they’d forgotten while packing. “See anyone you really want to bother?”
Her grin was enough to rival his own as he makes his agreement, settling back on his heels, gloved hands folding together in front of him as he listens for the task she plans on doing that would annoy strangers. “I see.” The butcher says – not wanting to be the person that is copied (gods knew previously there had been a few centuries ago that had tried to take up the mantle of the Butcher of Whitebrim unsuccessfully).
So he chuckles softly, letting his dark gaze flicker around until he spies an old man perusing the wares of the nearby shop – cane in hand, back bent, old and tired. “How about him?” He asks, nodding with his head toward the man that’s absolutely the most frail person, but could make for quite an amusing attempt to imitate.
Her eyes went towards the person Astaroth pointed out – imagining, before reality hit, that it might be someone regal and refined, or caustic and ridiculous. When her gaze landed upon the frail and infirm old man, her face fell flat, the deadpan expression sent back to the butcher. “Really? This’ll be funny only for you,” she scoffed, but readily taking up the mantle and the challenge.
Not wanting to be wholly recognized, she drew her hood up over her head, and then grabbed hold of her staff, using it some sort of walking stick as she hobbled over to the portion of the market square. She’d strike a rather deranged image; a much younger individual with a bent back, one hand rubbing down the length of her spine as if injured, weak, and decrepit. Even leaning heavily upon the weapon, making loud noises as she stalked past, then slowed down, a number of passersby. “Anyone want to help me cross the road?” she croaked, trying to see if she could attention from those choosing not to gawk.
“And I will certainly get a kick out of it.” The butcher promises her, his grin slanting into a playful smirk. She doesn’t seem opposed to it, though, which is a good sign to the Ancient, and he settles in to tighten his warm jacket around him, tucking his face into the scarf that hides half his face – mostly from hiding the grin and amusement that’ll spark from seeing her get into character.
Ah, and then she goes, her staff as a walking stick, a hood hiding her more notable qualities, stealthy and appearing quite old, her voice shaky as she calls out for help. He chuckles softly, tail flicking behind him with the amusement of it. Of course, her actions cause the old man that she’s copying to glance at her sidelong – huffing some annoyance while other, kind hearted souls break from the gawking crowd to go over and offer an arm to her – ignoring the old man (despite how he’d been utterly silent aside from his annoyance, perhaps too stubborn to ask for help).
Surprised that the whole stupid thing was working, she chanced half a glance to look back at Astaroth with a blatant shrug, before resuming her newfound character. Before long she had multiple arms offered, and she pretended to hobble, limp, and gimp upon the cobblestoned road. Once she was safely ensconced on the other side and granting thanks to many a traveler, she utilized her staff to slowly traverse towards a bench, where she could slowly sit down and stare at the older man.
Who seemed very…annoyed?
Good. She didn’t grin from behind the cloak, but it was readily apparent in her eyes. Seconds later, she adopted the elderly individual’s grim, stony fixtures, trying to mold her features into something similar. Not wanting to leave the Butcher out, she waved him over with a quaky, put-upon voice to fit the caricature. “Oh, come over here sonny. You look like you’ve got a story or two to tell.”
It is working beautifully, to the point that the butcher has joined one of the groups of onlookers, smirking behind the shawl that hides half of his face. People arrive to help, granting her a safe passage toward the bench before they continue on. The man she’s impersonating is stubborn, though, and continues to go without help – frowning and grumbling and talking to himself like someone who’s lost his mind.
He's old, though, perhaps he has.
Ah, but then Melita is calling out to him and he breaks from the crowd that starts to fall away, drifting over with practiced ease over the somewhat slippery cobblestones to reach the bench to sit beside her and take in the full grimace that’s on display – glancing back to the man across the way as he huffs a little more hot air. “You are doing an impeccable job, darling.” He says lowly, tilting his horned head back toward her and her “frail” composure.
Tracking the old man with her narrowed gaze, she couldn’t help but hide a slight grin. Astaroth’s advance had her further amused. “Why thank you, young’in,” she countered with the same quaky voice, watching as the actual elderly individual seemed to be all turned around and confused; another person walking up to him, perhaps offering assistance or advice.
Dropping her vocals to her own, and a whisper as well, she grinned again, hand wrapping around the staff, looking as though she was leaning into it rather than simply laughing with the Ancient. “Anything you want to try?” She didn’t want to be the only impersonator or portion of amusement. There were hordes of others to bother, men, women, and children milling about, heads and minds elsewhere – should he want to try a different mask for the moment.
Another quiet chuckle escapes him as he settles into the bench, one leg crossing over the other, his arm sweeping behind Melita to rest upon the back of the bench as he shoots her his shark-tooth grin. “It has been ages since someone called me young.” He teases her, amusement flickering in the dark of his gaze. He, too, tracks the old man as he scuttles away, lips quirking into a small smirk before Melita’s true voice reaches him – conspiratorially as they peruse the rest of the crowds.
His head tilts, the edges of his sharp horns shimmering with the edge of ice encasing the tips to make them appear almost sharper and shinier as he considers whom might become his victim. “Mm, why not?” He hums, flashing Melita a wink before he wiggles a couple of fingers only in her vision and watches as a shadow grows darker, stronger than the rest around the area to follow a haughty, prissy woman arguing with a vendor over a price. It puppets her movements in an obvious dramatization and overreaction, dancing of its own accord to ‘yell’ at the vendor.
Melita’s laugh betrayed some of her pretenses, but she remained hunched over, appearing frail when she was anything but. She rolled her eyes at the ‘young’ comment, given that in comparison to heralds and shit he was probably still a speck of dust, but she let it go, eyes flickering to where his head tilted, surveying the scene he set.
When the shadows stretched, her mouth rounded into a makeshift gasp, but coated in veracity; utterly delighted when the darkness shifted into something resembling the yelling, irate woman. Always loving when a Karen was dealt full force with their own bullshit, the prissy, haughty individual turned when she must’ve noticed the sharpening shadows, and began shrieking – either in horror, or indignation. Always hard to tell with those types. “I love it,” she uttered in her croaky voice, hand still wrapped around her staff like a cane. “I could have another go, I suppose.”
At which she promptly employed her own incantations above the woman’s head, and the chaotic tendrils of the wild enchantments revealed and dropped a raining plunge of brightly hued ducks.
Both of them portraying two people in conversation, as though they’re being pulled away to look at the scene that unfolds with the Karen that begins to lose her shit. It’s with very well practiced motions that the butcher’s brows rise, making the shadows continue to spark and bark, a show of imitating her shrieking freak out whether or not it was at the shadows or not.”Thank you.” Comes the low rumble of gratitude to Melita, pretending as he watches the Karen that they aren’t the source of her struggle as she continues to shriek.
Oh, but it’s nothing compared to Melita’s addition – in such a lovely display of chaos that sends the Karen into a full on melt down as bright rubber ducks begin to plink against her head, picking one up to look at before she starts screaming louder, growing more demanding and so red in the face that the butcher’s fairly certain she’s popped a blood vessel or two.
He hides his laughter in his sleeve and scarf, pulling his gaze away to not give her a reason to come marching over toward the two of them. "That is brilliant, darling."
