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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!
Flying north is as good an excuse as any to get out of the frigid water and snow-heavy air around King's End, and it certainly helps that there's a potential new business venture to be found up here too. The desert isn't much to look at yet, but Jack can already see where things will one day be something along the shores of the Spillwave; as The Ark descends he spots crates of supplies, piles of lumber, tools and all the expected clutter associated with construction.
Sailing from sky to sea and allowing The Ark to kiss the Spillwave with her keel, he leaves the crew to do what they do best - some remaining on board to enjoy the sun and warm water, others joining him to come ashore and inspect the soon-to-be-region, if things go well.
Having shed his coat with the more balmy weather, Jack is left in a dusty blue shirt rolled to the elbows and a pair of darker pants, and as he meanders among a few crates shoved up against the foliage from the Suvahasi creeping in, his air magic is already at work around him to keep him cool. Nevertheless, he finds a shady patch to stand in and light a cigarette, eyes sharp behind his sunglasses for any sign of dream cacti - or crates containing the much more interesting stuff that comes from them.
you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me
- You think that you're the man. I think, therefore, I am. -
The port - now that it can be called such - bustles with life. The Marauder is moored to the pier, her crew going about the tasks she's given them to ensure the bare bones of the port aren't the only thing they leave. If she's going to be coming back for visits, she refuses to do so with the embarrassingly thin frames of the structure, an empty shell of the hub it could be once the region is up and running. She's promised Colt she'll stay a few more days and get the final touches added, organizing supply stores and familiarizing the locals with how a real port should look.
A man moves to set a crate of alcohol in the sunlit sand just as Thal's surveying the work. Her tail flicks nearly as sharp as her words, fangs flashing with threat. "Are those ears just decorations for the hole in your head? Alcohol goes in the shade. Don't make me say it again." The heat of the day is cut down by the Deepfrost season but sweat still beads on the workers' foreheads, a reddish flush coating their skin with an ever-constant reminder that it's still a desert, a place where any and all liquid is at risk for evaporating or turning hot enough to steep tea in. If these idiots can't get that through their thick skulls, Thal has little hope for the future of this trade port.
Rolling her eyes, she adjusts her black sleeves around her elbows, nodding to a pale, gangly man. "Spook, make sure we're not losing goods because of stupidity." Not needing to wait to know her orders will be followed through, she shoots another glare at the culprit before stalking through the sand towards the other clusters of barrels, crates, and piles of supplies. Other than alcohol, the more elicit goods have already been stowed away in the dark shade of the trees, out of sight from prying eyes or prying minds. She scans the other workers, her crew interspersed amongst them as she directs or corrects their progress.
When Thal reaches the edge of the forming port, she spots where The Ark has finally docked, the red sails and skyward approach making it obvious. She narrows her eyes, the blue turning a stormy shade as she becomes suddenly aware of who walks in their midst. Refusing to let the work falter just because the infamous Captain Jack Barclay has inexplicably decided to pay the half-functioning port a visit, Thal turns back on her heels to retrace her steps and ensure her instructions are being followed this time.
It doesn't take her long to spot the silhouette of a man lounging against the tree, cigarette smoke billowing carelessly into the breeze. He exudes a kind of authority she's grown to recognize and respect - but not shy from.
Glancing once more at the maneuvering and minor construction, Thal approaches the man from the side. Her steps are unhurried, boots barely shifting the sand even as she makes no attempt to hide her intended path. Her emotions, on the other hand, are carefully contained behind the practiced mask of swagger and confidence, a single eyebrow raising as she calls out, "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" The tilt of her head is casually curious, the glint in her eyes offering more caution and quiet scrutiny than her nonchalant stance suggests.
Jack's mind is as busy as his stance is casual, his magic hard at work as always to stretch telepathic fingers right to the edges of his range. The members of his crew mingling and exploring nearby make good enough anchor points, though the quiet buzz of information is soon interrupted by the stern tempest of an approaching woman. Thalassa creates ripples through the crowd's thoughts wherever she steps, such that she doesn't need to step intentionally for Jack to know where she is.
He straightens from the tree a moment before her voice hits the air, the Captain taking a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaling it upwards, where his air magic carries it away into the endless blue. "Depends. Who's askin'?" he wants to know, getting an obvious measure of her behind the dark lens of his sunglasses. Flicking the ash from the smoke, eventually Jack shrugs at the makeshift port.
"Heard Hak Etme was up and comin'. Business an' pleasure will draw all sorts." Even Jack Barclay, clearly.
you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me
- You think that you're the man. I think, therefore, I am. -
She stops a short distance from him, not familiar, but not fearful as she crosses her arms across her chest. Her perceptive eyes take in the details of the man, dark sunglasses, unbothered attitude, drawling tone. They remind her very much of someone else, and she nearly scoffs at having never recognized the resemblance based on descriptors of the Captain alone.
The blue-black of her tail flicks with quiet irritation when she tilts her head. "The one who's making this port more than a few pieces of rotting wood." The sharpness of her tone isn't threatening but barbed with a stubbornness that says she's happy to give him as many answers as he gives her.
Thal follows the flick of his cigarette with mock boredom before drawing her gaze back to him, and when he finally gives a vague, half-assessed answer, she offers an amused smirk. "There isn't much of either yet." Still, she rewards the bit of information with a nod towards the small hub taking shape, a couple storage structures and stalls creating a skeleton for more to come. "But it should be up and running in a few weeks time."
"That so?" Jack scoffs around the cigarette hanging between his lips. "Well if I see 'em around, I'll be sure to give 'em my regards." His gaze slides over her shoulder as if to take in the port properly, not just what the patchwork of thought feeds him from the workers and his own crew. "Mm, it's lookin' a bit skin an' bone," he agrees of the lack of leisure or opportunity in the port right now. Lucky he's good at making his own fun, eh?
Jack's about to respond to her second remark with some actual substance regarding how things ought to look when they're finished, but before he can get the words out, something strikes at his calf from just within the treeline. Hissing out a curse and turning immediately towards it, he spots the preying orchid already running away on its roots, leaving a few prickles of blood against his pant leg and a very incredulous looking Captain.
"I think fuckin' not," he quips. And yes, maybe unleashing a whipcrack of lightning towards a flower is what some would consider a bit much, but they weren't just bitten by one, were they? Regardless, the arc of electricity snaps across sand and undergrowth to zap the preying orchid without Jack so much as raising his eyebrows, leaving behind it the scent of ozone and, unfortunately, a small and charred crate caught in the crossfire. "Might wanna consider some pest control while you're at it."
you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me
- You think that you're the man. I think, therefore, I am. -
His obvious assessment of the less-than-impressive port is met with a scoff of her own. "Should have seen it before." Her eyes scan the work, overcritical of its pathetic state. At least they can actually dock without fear of stepping straight through the pier or losing their ship to the tide. It's still nothing to boast about, but the efforts have made a drastic difference in the functionality of the port, and she's not finished with it quite yet.
Thal's head snaps back at his curse, watching as the preying orchid scurries away with its prized taste of Jack Barclay. But the bliss and envy of women everywhere is short-lived and short-circuited as lightning cracks through the air. It obliterates the flower into a scorch mark in the sand, the nearest crate blasting open to send a white powder clouding the air (sorry Jack, it's only flour).
Having not had a moment to even react to the threat, Thal doesn't have to pretend at her nonchalance, only needing to dampen the utter awe at having watched him just decimate the creature without more than a thought. She purses her lips as she takes in the destroyed crate, smothering a bit of fire that had sparked along the wood just to do something other than gawk.
His comment draws a flicker of her gaze, her thoughts preoccupied by the abundance of inconveniences this region is already proving to possess. Colt might be strong and stronger willed, but it seems like a tall order to expect everyone to be willing to put up with the same risk for such a minor profit. "I'll take it under advisement," she says. Although the way she glares at the lost crate suggests he won't be her first call.
Uncrossing her arms, Thal turns back to the flow of work that hasn't stopped despite Jack's impressive display, already spotting where people need reminding or direction. "Well, unless you need something or have any more helpful 'recommendations,' I'll leave you to your..." she waves her hand at him, having decided that whatever he's doing (probably gathering intel) isn't going to interfere with her work.
