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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 fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
Deimos didn’t make a habit of returning to the Hollowed Grounds often; the Ancients could fully renew and revitalize it, but there’d always be those ghosts in the back of his mind. Too many demons, too much loss, too many days and hours and seasons stuck in a world they couldn’t leave. Nowadays that felt like nothing, but the moment he stepped back into those terrains, roads, and routes, the way his gaze would traverse down certain paths, or flicker towards once-familiar rooftops, the age-old barbarity crept and notched its way to his spine. For all the bonfires and bars, temples and lakes, there would always be the hush and lull of a time from before, where rebellion tasted like the only thing they had left.
But Kiada lived and worked here, so he could stop by when the opportunity struck. He had enough gossip and tales to lacquer and layer upon her that she might find amusing or altering, so he altered the long strides of familiarity for the opportunity to walk past the massive inferno – let those portions feel better than all the graves and demons and immersed hauntings flickering against his mind.
The mud, as well, though he fired a quick round of flame at a blob near his feet, watched it dissipate into nothing. The destruction felt better than anything else hovering through his shoulders; so he snorted, then began the walk towards her office.
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Things were slowly going back to normal – a normal in which the butcher and Maverick have ended up returning to work. Enough that Danta’s in his office and Kiada took it as an excuse to zip out for coffee and to check in with Fox, such that when Deimos steps down the path toward the office to the door, Astaroth is slipping out of it and closing the door easily behind him, straightening up and heading out the back door of the backrooms to head out to the muddy street.
The hood of his wool jacket is tugged up to blot out the rain, sat a touch too high on his head with the help of his antler-horns. Stepping across the street and under the cover of the buildings beside him, the butcher looks up precisely in time to spot Deimos heading toward the Dusklight. Popping on a cheerful razor sharp smile, he nods his chin toward Deimos if he’s acknowledged, his shadows dancing at his heels with equally bright grins. “Deimos, hello. What brings you to the Grounds?” He asks, even if It’s none of his business, really. Call him curious.
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
Most of the time, despite his physical stature and prowess, Deimos intended to be unnoticeable. Simply someone walking from place to place, unassuming, unbothered, fully intent on his goals and nothing else. So when his name was called out over the muddy ether, his senses went wayward, spine rigid, eyes angled and turned towards the source. When it was someone familiar, not one of the many ghosts or embittered individuals, he snorted, inclining his head out of the doldrums and more towards an amiable course. “Asta,” came along with a nod.
He wasn’t surprised by the question though, used to it, given how often he avoided the place. He utilized the same tactic when anyone came stumbling into Halo, no matter how rare the occasion. Perhaps that made him a bit nosier, but also just as guarded and protective. The answer was simple though, and didn’t require any furtive traces. “Here to see Kiada.” His gaze went along the rooftops, the bonfire, the run of the place. “Things going well, despite the weather?”
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
The shark toothed grin remains on display as he’s greeted in turn, turning slightly as he offers the explanation easily – soothing the nosy part of the butcher’s internal flare. “Ah, I see. You just missed her, I believe I saw her departing with Fox for lunch. She should be back somewhat soon.” His smile twitches toward being apologetic, head tilting slightly as he regards the question and the glance around that the Sword makes.
Subconsciously following his gaze, the butcher nods. “Mm, as well as it can be given the circumstances.” The circumstances were mud and something the butcher was less keen on even as the rain continues to pelt down in droves. “I was just about to visit the training grounds. I hear it is less muddy there.” An easy indicator that the butcher’s trying to get anywhere that wasn’t soaking wet and awful. But it’s an offering too, if Deimos wanted to kill some time.
It would not be the first time they shared an impromptu training session.
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
Snorting, he wasn’t surprised, he’d been a tad bit early, so a shrug rippled through his shoulders. He could probably find something to entertain himself within the interim, despite his willingness to disappear and dissipate away from the ghosts.
Content to hear everything else was well – despite extenuating circumstances, the unsaid offer through the training grounds almost had him laughing; a desperate aspect to not be haunted by refrains and pieces of things he’d strived to put together here too, once. But it’d changed since then – gone through many an alteration under Ascended rule, and he could fathom, much the same in this stead too. So maybe it wouldn’t have any wraiths at all – almost as if he’d never had a hand in it. He tilted his head, offered a slight smile. “I could join you, if you would like. I need to work on my fire magic a bit more.” At least, to sharpen and hone it to the degree that he wanted, just as he’d done with his air incantations amidst the Family debacle.
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
It’s an offer he isn’t sure Deimos will take – but his shark-toothed grin brightens when the Sword agrees, even going so far as to mention fire which honestly was perfectly up the Ancient’s alley. “Lovely.” He agrees, the cane clicking against the ground as he twists in step, prepared to lead Deimos over toward it (not knowing the history the other man had with the place). “I will never decline a good battle with flame.” He informs Deimos with a warm laugh.
Despite the rain and mud, the training grounds does look different. Rebuilt and adjusted with the expansion of the Grounds since the war – not that Asta would know much in regards to it. The prisons are the same, but they don’t delve out all the way there. Instead, they approach a cordoned off sector beside a building fit with plenty of weaponry and people filtering in and out to practice on targets that have since been replaced and rebuilt.
The butcher drifts in, avoiding the weaponry because their intention is magical skills anyway, heading toward the open expanse of a small muddy field – dried somewhat from other magical means and far less spongy than the walk here had been. Turning to Deimos, the butcher slips out of his overcoat and sets the cane off the side on a fence post, prepping himself for the impromptu training session.
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
There wouldn’t be any need to lead; Deimos fell in step, knowing the way down paths and routes, trails and streets, committed to memory over cycles of patrols, striving for a larger goal than inevitably shifted into an entirely different region. He made no mention of it; he’d now spent more years in Halo than he had in the Grounds, but some portions still stuck to his ribs every now and again, especially after seasons of trying to find a familiar bakery steeple in the distance, or abandoning all their ambitions and aspirations to other realms – no talks of sedition in basements, no scrawling hints and whispers of rebellion amidst festivals. It’d gone to other sanctions and particulars; from fighting Ascended to the Family, war upon war until there they all were again, standing in dust, ruins, and the new.
“I figured you would be up for it,” he chiseled back with a slight grin, easing off the wayward ghosts as they rounded corners and came upon the building. The alterations were obvious; re-structured after multiple calamities, but the essence remained. Maybe more people filtering in and out. Maybe new walls and frames. The backbone and purpose were still there though, and that would be enough. His eyes still scanned the armaments as they passed with nothing more than a light smirk, and then they were back into the drier fields, and he ignored the great swath of memories peeling over his mind. “Let me know when you are ready,” as he took his place, stalking several yards away.
Upon the signal, he ignited a large conflagration of flame, intentionally bearing down upon Astaroth as if it were a sweeping wall.
1/4
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
A warm chuckle escapes Asta to hear that Deimos thought he’d be up for it. He supposes it’s a good thing to be – readily available for any training ventures should one need it. The butcher, for all of his creature comforts and contentness, was always willing to indulge in the fresh chaos of a fight. And with the promise of it being one of fire and flame, he’s even more content to stay warm throughout it as well.
So he settles in once they reach the training grounds, prepping himself until he’s ready and with the signal given with a called out "ready", he watches from a few paces away to watch as fire flares toward him. His grin brightens, sharpens into something more calculating as the sweeping wall rushes toward him and he takes the moment to part the flames with his own mastered magic, carving through it like he’s parting a sea – remaining in the middle aside from the flick of his tail that brushes the edges of the fire without pain (good ol’ Ancient perks), as he sends a fireball of his own back at Deimos.
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
Deimos snorted as he watched the fire wall parted, not unlike some long lost biblical stories, anticipating the motions. Fighting any Ancient came with the clause of precision over flames, but he’d like to think he could still give them a run for their money simply on power alone. Head tilting, he watched as the fireball came his way, before snagging at it with his own mastery.
The command of the conflagration was a comfort; a sharp balm in the pit of his ribcage. Easy machinations and sieges, amplified assaults, something distinct and familiar. From there, he altered it, shaped it to something bigger, brighter, and far more incendiary, and then sent it wayward, fast and swift, back to Astaroth. It probably didn’t look too unlike some version of hot potato, seeing who could bat the flames back the most.
2/4
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Oh Deimos most certainly can give Asta the run for his money on the mastery of fire. He’s still feeling the effects of being locked away in stone after all that time, plus it doesn’t help that some of the abilities he’d grown used to having in the Climb had changed once they’d returned to him. As such, the dragon in his skin is one thing that the butcher never even dreamed of. Fire, though, was inherent to who they were, and it is the one the Ancient has the most experience with.
The fireball is sent and he watches as Deimos takes it as though he’s plucking it from the air (wow what an interception), and the butcher barks a warm and amused laugh as it comes back careening his way. He tries to snag it this time, grabbing the bigger ball of flame and parting it in the middle not unlike the wall, gritting his teeth as he splits the fireball in two and launches both of them back at Deimos as he avoids the embers that spark from the movement.
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
While he might not have been born or contorted from fire, Deimos certainly had the lineage and experience of honing the element – time and time again, poised to utilize it in either destruction or prowess, its usefulness in destruction, mayhem, or shelter a boon to his machinations and methods. Even now, they could twist and turn it into something substantial; honing their abilities to better themselves, to sharpen their capacities, for another day, another time.
He tilted his head, watching to witness how the next round of flame control would beckon. As Astaroth changed the fixtures, he grinned, waiting for the impending opportunity. As they flickered back to him, the Sword caught the twin infernos once more, snagging them so they hummed around him, before he also began to reshape the embers. Coiling and contorting them into a rapid, maneuvering circle, it would look similar to that of a large chakram or a shield as it was sent back, winding and rapid towards the Ancient.
3/4
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Now that they’ve gone into multiple facets of the fiery ability, the element of chaos and heat bends to their will to become twin flames that are shot over toward Deimos. The butcher watches as it’s snagged, sharpened, honed, and a chuckle escapes him with the easy consistent flick of his tail to see as the fireballs become reshaped. It’s a circle of a sort, arriving with a sparking speed that the butcher finds himself having to dodge, but not before he reaches out for it in return.
It’s with a half spin that the butcher avoids the brunt of the fire, watching as it sings past his arm and hand, heating it with a delicious warmth before he’s changing its shape once again. It becomes thinner and sharper, not unlike the threaded cane set up against the fence post, lashing out like a whip of fire toward the Sword.
the fire can't touch me for I have burned too many times
A back and forth flex of powers; he snorted, amused again, when Astaroth dodged the makeshift chakram and then altered it again. More of a whip sort of facet than anything else, and while he skillfully evaded the rapid course of its reach (it would’ve been a painful, biting blow), he went to snag, to control, to contort again.
Almost as if tugging on it by invisible thread and intangible devices, he pulled, intending to scrape back demand and command of the elements. Rotating the flames back to his prowess and potential, he instigated another round of motions and maneuverings – extending the embers to separate beacons by the dozen, firing them off in rapid succession, one after the other, to simply see how the Ancient would defend, or perhaps, strive to change on his own.
4/4
the sea can't harm me for I have been drowning all my life
// a beast in the business of selling forgiveness //
Asta watches as the fire sent back over toward Deimos is snagged once again. The sharp thin line of the fiery whip as Deimos evades the attempt of it lashing out at him. Embers fly off, dying the second they touch the mud. And Asta releases the fire almost immediately upon Deimos reaching for it, like it gives him an option to prepare for whatever he sends back.
The fire becomes separate entities, thrown out at him in rapid succession and rather than avoid each one individually, Asta grins a shark-toothed grin over at the Sword as he conjures fire of his own into a spiraling shield, pelted by each fire sent his way. Some break through, avoiding the bulk of the butcher, some melt into the shield he’s created, and when he’s sure that Deimos hasn’t launched any more assaults he sends the shield over toward Deimos in its spiraling whirlwind that almost looks as though it’s a portal to hell.
