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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!
"No, she definitely lives there," Carlo is hissing from where he's crouched behind the corner of a building that leads onto the street where the medical clinic - and therefore Fern - is located. They haven't been up into the floating reaches of Haulani much (read: at all) yet, and so far his opinion is that it's open, breezy, and that it has great views and a plethora of opportunities for trouble for two young entrepreneurs with identical faces. The only problem with that though, Carlo is realising, is that a third person is often necessary to facilitate whatever quick-change tomfoolery they're attempting.
And besides, they've been trying to meet Fern since they got kneecaps, so this is long overdue.
Unbeknownst to Carlo, though, he's nodding at the building right next to the medical clinic, his hands held up to his eyes like binoculars as if that will make it easier for him to see their third musketeer and surely best friend for life. "I bet we could get a crate, then I could stand on it and you could stand on my shoulders, and we'd be able to see through the apartment window. Then," he continues, because this is only step one (step three is profit and step two is TBC), "the three of us can head to that marketplace and get one of those big pretzels I keep seeing."
Calan nods at once, because if Carlo says she definitely lives there, then she definitely lives there, and it would be rude, probably, to let the lack of proof slow down a plan already showing this much promise. Crouched beside his brother with his own hands held up like binoculars, he squints hard at the building beside the clinic. "Perfect," he whispers, nodding decisively, though the word comes out with the sort of confidence usually reserved for people who know what their target looks like, where she lives, and whether she has any interest at all in being recruited by two identical strangers for pretzel-related business. None of this troubles Calan, because the plan has a crate, a window, an eventual best friend, and food at the end of it, which makes it structurally sound in every way that matters.
He lowers his hand-binoculars just enough to glance along the street, checking for crates, ladders, distracted adults, possible witnesses, and anything else that might become useful if looked at from the correct angle. "We need something sturdy," he adds, still whispering, because spying requires whispering even when nobody is close enough to hear, "and we need to look like we’re supposed to have it." Yelling sure dad, we'll grab this crate you asked for would probably do the trick.
Utterly unaware of the shenanigans unfolding outside, Fern proceeds with the very intense check up she's overseeing in the clinic. Well, the home above the clinic, but that seems like a detail that isn't necessary. The stealth of the two boys is clearly superb, and aided by the stethoscope currently fitted to her ears.
"HURRY NURSE!" Fern cries out with all the drama worthy of a mid-day housewife watch. "HE'S FADING IN MY ARMS!!!" Desperately, Fern clutches the stuffed dog to her chest with one hand, the other frantically shifting the stethoscope around. Her brows furrow as she strains to hear the pulse of the inanimate object above the wooksch, crrrrrf, woump of the fabric shifting beneath the highly sensitive instrument.
Because stabilizing is not a worthwhile pursuit where theatrics is concerned, Fern builds the scene with a steady drum of bare feet back and forth across the living room and its windows. She marches with all the authority of her made up degrees as she fights for the life of the stuffy, occasionally lifting it up and striking it boldly across the face. "LIVE DAMN YOU! LIIIIIIVE!". She's swaddled in an oversized white coat, it belongs to her mother, looking more like a ghost that's gone awry in the wash than the world's youngest doctress.
