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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!
Every day there was some other nuance or issue to encounter. If it wasn’t strange dreams in the Peepholes, it was some merchants feuding amongst themselves. If it wasn’t a monster wreaking havoc somewhere in the vicinity, then it was a flock of ningos harassing an older lady. And today, it was a fallen tree. Right in the middle of a busy street.
It’d been an elderly pine, likely due to falter within one or two bad snowstorms by winter’s end. Deimos didn’t feel any remorse for the deposed monolith, even if the two, younger individuals had been pointing fingers at one another at the cause and fault (with some streak marks of blackened portions on the bark, one could guess some lightning magic and uncontrolled proportions had been involved). After discussions and wrangling adults and said children, the Sword had said he’d take care of it, and there he was.
Shaking his head, and only giving one roll of his eyes, he’d already dragged a couple sleds over, figuring there was no need for the giant portion of timber to go to waste. Thereafter, he began incantations along the top portion, beginning to utilize both Earth and Air to cut away stray branches and the canopy of needles.
"Ahhh, she fell sooner than I expected," Iskra murmurs as he strolls up behind Deimos, the man hard at work as he drifts around the canopy of limbs and needles that he's presently working on. Goose gives one, sharp bark as if his own brand of agreement, although it likely has more to do with his thoughts on which branch he'd like to gnaw on than any sage wisdom regarding tree longevity.
Thumping the dog's head against his leg with his free hand, Iskra pets the mongrel with a rough adoration. "Glad this is all the commotion turned out to be. I was worried it was something worse than firewood offering itself up." Iskra laughs faintly, smearing the dog's ear around absently before giving one, final parting pat and then pushing forward to the tree.
"I can help," he offers, not waiting for agreement before unhooking his axe from his belt and sending it driving into the other end of branches opposite of Deimos' focus. The wood shivers against the force and the bite of the metal.
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
Brows furrowed in concentration, he’d still paid attention to his surroundings; an age-old habit from too many intervals of enemies plunging from all directions. Nowadays it was simply to spot incoming individuals, so he gave a gruff snort at Iskra’s appearance, shaking his head as the Earth magic split another component off of the main trunk – air incantations lofting it in front of Goose as an offering. “It had some assistance,” which the woodcutter would be able to spot instantly, what with the tarnished, scarred proportions.
Pushing his air out of his face, and then opting to eventually place it into a messy bun configuration, he settled another contorted and collection of brambles and boughs into a sled. “That is true. I know the others would like to use the road,” at which he glanced up, noticing a few huffing their way around or turning to go back a different route with carts. “But they can wait a moment, and we can utilize this.” Nodding at his implication of helping, he broke off some more pieces, ignoring the ongoing chatter nearby. “How has your Deepfrost been?”
Goose leaps forward to seize the offered limbs, front paws lifting off the ground with the eagerness to seize it before allowing it to drift towards him, much like one burns their mouth on something they know is too hot in desire to taste it sooner (and soon after, tastes nothing at all). The husky gladly trots off with his prize, head tilting as the unbalanced weight of it drags him sideways a bit. He'll go find a snowdrift to lie in and hold the stick between his paws so he can properly gnaw at it. "Don't bloody your mouth on the damn thing this time!" Iskra shoots over at the dog, as if he can understand him, much less be inclined to heed him.
Amusement quirks Iskra's lips to the side at Deimos' comment. True enough, Iskra spies the blemishes of magic on the trunk as his axe cleaves away branches, his pace respectable beside the Warden's magical might if only from the habit of expertise. "Your boy?" he wonders, knowing there'd be little left if it'd been Deimos himself to have marred it. Some in-town practice of incantations is not surprising.
"Won't take long," he agrees, grunting as his axe sticks and requires a wriggle to get it free. He thumbs the end of it, a reminder to sharpen it when he gets home, then sets it back against the wood until the bough is sheared away. Gathering his own armfuls of limbs to cart to the sled, Iskra brightens at the question, thoughts immediately drifting to the fine time he'd had with Mel here for so long. "Best one yet," he beams, unloading the branches in one great heft of his arms. "The festival was a fine one this year, and Melita really enjoyed immersing herself in Halo." Enjoyed might be an optional word for some of the activities. "Planning to head Torchline's way for Longnight again this year, trade roles." Become a beach bum with her for the week or so of darkness, a true Caido snowbird. "You? Things well with the newborn?"
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
The dog appeared to be an impending, walking piece of chaos, but given Belial’s own frequent antics, Deimos couldn’t make much of a comment. Instead, he quietly ducked his head and suppressed a laugh as the canine made off with its prize, before cleanly slicing through another portion of branches and tossing them into the makeshift kindling sled.
The inquiry caused his attention to deviate though, and from there the chuckle couldn’t quite be choked down. “No, not from Erebos. Some older kids practicing,” or so rumor mill and gossips had churned upon notice. “I will have a word with them later, mostly for not telling anyone it went down.” For he couldn’t be a hypocritical measure – he often implored others, and himself, to practice…just not into road ways and significant paths. Once they’d cleared out the branches, the Sword moved to settle down by the trunk, beginning to carve portions away with his earthen magic slicing through proportions, before moving to his own ax and barreling muscles and power into the motions, the clatter of logs keen and the rhythm easy.
As for best Deepfrosts yet, he granted a grin, brow arching before the explanation was freely given. “Good to hear. The skijoring seemed to bring in more people.” Either because of the chaos, potential for ruin and bloodshed, or just the jovial aspects. “Though I will always take recommendations for next year.” Trading roles for LongNight dispositions seemed worth the effort; he could recall being there once or twice for the never-ending twilight, and booze amongst bonfires was much better than what had been locked down in the Hollowed Grounds. "Any plans down there?" He hadn't heard of what Torchline had been planning, other than traditional components.
He harkened another laugh at the inquiry over Idalia. “She keeps us busy, for certain. But things are well,” if not exhausting.
06-13-2026, 12:12 PM (This post was last modified: 06-14-2026, 03:54 PM by Iskra.)
ISKRA
Iskra's rough grin remains seated at the idea of boys, Deimos' or otherwise, galavanting with magic in tow through the town. "Ahhh, to be young and reckless again," he sighs with a nostalgic twinge of longing. "Much harder to be old and reckless." Responsibilities and consequences too numerous in comparison. One would have earned him the loud chiding of a furious mother, the other possible jail or exile, potentially death. Well, admittedly, death had been possible as a boy too.
Glad to not have to pretend to be unimpressed with some boys when he is anything but, Iskra just shakes his head in mild regard as the boughs are cleaved and gathered. "I'm sure you'll intimidate them straight," he laughs faintly, trying to imagine if he'd have been more worried to be told of by his mother or Deimos if he were in their shoes. Neither is the real answer.
"If I get inspired by anything, I'll be sure to let you know," Iskra assures, but short of putting children into a tree-felling arena, he's currently short on ideas to offer. "No idea," he admits of Torchline's festival of sorts, Halo's ringing in the season and Torchline's ending it in much different ways. "Last year was colorful powder for the bonfires and enough partying to litter the shore with drunks, so I expect something similar." Which is to say, it would not be a disappointment for it to be the same. He'd thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Getting back to the tree, axe in hand, Iskra considers where to begin striking the trunk to get it down to sizeable logs they could haul off the road. "Glad to hear it," Iskra commends of the young babe. "Has Erebos transitioned into the role of brother well? I know sometimes the first child can get jealous." He'd been his family's youngest, but he'd seen how some of the rleationships between the siblings were strained at times.
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
He granted a loud snort as he broke through another log, listening to both diatribes of ages and reckless endeavors. “Does not stop some,” he responded, not giving names to the afflicted but there were quite a few who drifted amidst the modicums nonetheless. Deimos would like to think he hadn’t been of the rash, careless, and heedless variety; there’d always been a sense of caution to him, but he’d also followed after some of his more headlong brethren in the past, and there was some imprudent audacity mixed in there from time to time. Being cool, composed, and level-headed most hours kept him from rushing into too many instances without a plan – if one forgot the time they’d set Sunjata’s guild on fire…
Tossing the split portions into the next sled, he arched his brow at the notions of intimidation – smirking a little. Some days he couldn’t help it, given who he was, and preferred the terrifying, menacing aspects because most would leave him alone. Other instances left him in a quandary, especially when he hadn’t meant to be a domineering factor; which was most often when he’d slink back into the shadows. “I will try,” as if it’d be difficult.
No Torchline or traditional festival ideas to take root, for now, but his mind was already mulling future complexities, brows furrowing slightly as his eyes narrowed and he leveled the ax through the next round log. “Sounds about right,” he mustered amidst the rounds of tools and broken lumber. “I cannot have too many getting drunk and wandering off,” as he made a gesture towards the expanse of the Tundra around them and outside the walls, for why they didn't incite and encourage wintry inebriations. “We could do a side thing with fire though…,” Nina would probably enjoy taking that on – he’d give it some thought.
Erebos and his current status as big brother hadn’t gone without its own hitches, but he smiled just the same. “He was not very keen when we first told him, but I think he has come around. Once she is mobile, I think he will find it more enjoyable.” For right now, all she did was scream, sleep, and eat – and while Deimos and Evie couldn’t be prouder of such infant accomplishments – Erebos wasn’t as impressed. “But I take him with me on separate occasions,” so the jealousy and envy wouldn’t appear as rampant. “Did you have a big family?” He found he didn’t quite know as much about Iskra’s past – though the Sword tended not to delve too far into histories, given many might do the same to him.
Wood gives way to the point of his tool with a familiar shape. It resists at first, the motions feeling almost futile, arms burning with the exertion. Then, with repeated efforts, aim careful to sink into similar portions over and over again, the origin chosen where the split is expected, it finally will crack open. It's a small victory, but one he gladly takes every time.
Finding that split now, Iskra chases it higher up the trunk, getting the tree marked into sizes they could wrangle. "No, we wouldn't want that," Iskra agrees, wandering a much deadlier outcome in Halo. Though, he wonders how many have strolled over the raised portions of Haulani in Torchline, or waded into the surf and sunken to their demise. The world offers little kindness to those with sharp senses, and even less to those who have dulled them. "The fire would be welcome I'm sure, and Nina's tales could keep everyone entertained, maybe some theater with the flames." Of all the times, Longnight is when they depend on the warm glow of the element most, and Nina becomes most revered. "Fire dancing has always been a thrill," he considers, wondering if Nina knew how to.
Iskra cuts a portion of the main tree away, then splits it further with a heave of effort and practice. He leans his forehead into his shirt sleeve, wiping away some budding sweat before leaning down to collect the now firewood and deposit it in the sled too. "That sounds about right," Iskra chuckles faintly, imagining a time when the worst thing in his life had just been the antics of his siblings. A simpler time. "Before long they'll be fast friends." You know, once the baby could do more than cry, and Erebos' protectiveness might find a foothold.
"I'm not in touch with them anymore," Iskra says with a frown that suggests he wishes it were otherwise sometimes. "But yeah, I have several brothers and sisters. Our parents have passed though, and life has taken them far and wide." It once had not been so, when he was very young, and perhaps the fondness of those times is as much for everyone being together as it had been childhood. "We mostly all got along, but you know how life is. You gotta chase the htings important to you."
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
“Hm. Fire tales in the evening, perhaps, for our Deepfrost celebration,” much more of a spectacle, with flames dancing amidst the abyss. “Will need something else for the day – I do not think we have done sled races before.” Depending on how they opted to conduct such a project, it could be via downhill platitudes, trickery, and deceit, or amongst a sleigh, not unlike some age-old chariot rounds. Contemplating this with a smile indented into one corner of his mouth, he’d further ponder as he struck a blow into another portion of wood. This one was horrendously knotted, and took several more well-orchestrated and strength-laden sieges to render it split. “The dancing, however,” his brow furrowed – imagining it was either something akin to people dancing on hot coals, careening around an open conflagration, or likely somewhere in the middle. “Not sure I have seen that. What would it look like?”
Prying some of the segments of wood apart, he tossed the next batch into the sled, the echoing sound no longer as loud, dulling with the amount of portions launched within. Whether or not Erebos and Idalia would be fast friends would tell in time though. Notions of Iskra’s own family drew him further into quiet and mulling perplexities, siblings taken far and wide. Much had been the same in his own interim – though he’d been drawn to war, and the rest had dispersed by the time he’d returned, amongst other footfalls and tragedies.
Chasing things important to you kept his eyes narrowed, though the focus was mostly on the parameters of logs, drawing the matter over and over again. “Understandable.” That was why he’d been so determined, so rigid, so unyielding in ensuring Halo was a stronghold, and that his family was safe, tucked under his reaches or extended outwards into shelters and sanctities he could reach. “What kept you in Halo?”
There is a valid point to fire being best enjoyed at night, at least in the most theatrical sense. It could certainly roar and roast merrily through the day, enticing everyone over to warm hands, a staple already around the city, but perhaps with a more tremendous fire pit to really offer some spectacle. At night however, it becomes encompassing, and it'd be then that Nina and other tales and shapes could really play their part.
"I would be so in for sled racing," he agrees swiftly, glancing over a the Warden with a semblance of boyhood. "Could even get some enchanted ones going at the Gilded Market. Perhaps smoke screens or jumping sleds, or something." Personalities built into the wood, perhaps proving to be the difference between a victory or a burn out.
Iskra continues to strike at the fallen tree, his strength and approach cleaving through the bark as much as his axe does. "Well," he grunts, the effort breaking apart his words as he explains to the best of his abilities. "The few times I've seen it done, someone has torches they're juggling or spinning about. Then it becomes a two-sided torch pole that they twirl, and so on it builds until they and the fire appear to move as one, but nothing burns. It's not fire magic, so much as it is someone who can dance with fire." It's own impressive feat, because it requires technique in avoiding the blaze whereas magic requires the thought of it.
Depositing the split pieces, working almost in tandem with Deimos, Iskra considers for a moment as he brushes his hands off on his pants before pursuing more chopping. "Guess it just started to feel like home after a while." The simplest truth, really. He takes his axe back in hand, driving it into the wood repeatedly. "I originally came here to get away from my old home and the death of my mother. Tried to give myself as opposite a life as possible to the one I knew." He doesn't add that he did so specifically to keep the memories at bay, not that it seemed to do him any better than the bottle. Or maybe it did, and staying in Torchline would have been far worse, and he left more in ruin than now.
"While I only meant to be here until I felt better... that took longer than I expected, and I found a part of myself here I didn't even realize I was missing." Gathering up more of the broken apart wood, he deposits it in the sled and leans into his shoulder to wipe away his sweat. "Now, I go back to Torchline and it doesn't feel like home anymore. Things have changed." He shrugs faintly. "Not everything, but home is here now." Picking a bit of wood that dove between his fabric to rub at his skin, Iskra regards their work. "Think this is cleared enough?"
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
He considered the contortion and creation of said enchanted sleds; easy to accomplish with his own incantations and the thread of those within the Gilded Market. Fortune could favor the bold with however they opted to pick their chosen vessel – and if his smile took on a deviant smirk for a moment, his own reflection of boyhood, then so be it. “Easily done,” he winked, before lowering his ax in finality, listening to the satisfying plunge of serrated edges into lumber, twisting it into broken portions.
The explanation of the fire dancing made sense; finding others to train and participate might be a more idle problem. “Maybe Nina has some apprentices,” that would be willing to take on such a role, if they weren’t already employed in such a manner. But it was something to consider and chew upon, rather than circle and pace his house during LongNight’s inevitable threads.
Placing the next set of logs into the sled, Iskra’s story sounded similar to many; some of the same chords as his own. Moving away from things that offered nothing but pain or bitter memories, echoes of the past he didn’t want to pursue him – though Deimos trudged through snow on rancor and disease, an illness luring him into wandering amidst a home he’d known for a great long while, just lifetimes apart. It’d been an evasion and an escape on his own terms, and granted him the ability to mend all those broken components. “So you feel better now?” he inclined with a tilt of his head; at hoping that this wintry world had somehow healed more than just him and a few others who took solace in a realm many wouldn't dare to tread.
Glancing back at the rest of the tree, he nodded. “I can have some of the others clear the rest of the brush. Want to help me deliver these, and then we can take the rest to the Palace?” An easy place for storage, and whomever needed it after these initial rounds could snag portions at the shelter. Waiting for a response, he altered and shifted into his hellhound decrees, already taking the string in his mouth towards the heavier sled.
Leaving the details of mischievous sleds and fire dancing to Deimos' capable hands, Iskra will further help where needed in regard to either, but for now, focuses on the present challenge of clearing this fallen tree. Their work progresses well, helped along by Deimos' prowess, no stranger or axes or wood himself given he runs a city that thrives on the fuel. He just didn't make it his daily habit the way Iskra did.
As they load up the sleds, Iskra shifting to ensure nothing will comes spilling out with careless stacking, he nods easily to the question. "Better than I have in a long time," he agrees, a certain quiet lowering his voice. It's not shame, as it had once been, but the recognition of a past self he's started to lose touch with, unable to recognize the way he thought and acted a year or so ago now. It's frightening, really, to look back and see how clearly lost he'd been, and yet how firmly he'd convinced himself trudging round and round over hurt was a fine path to take. "Grief take time," he says carefully, adding on, "but it also takes support. I hid when I should have asked for help. But, I hope I won't be so foolish as to do it again." He knows without a doubt that he'd still be wandering that same trail without Melita shouldering him towards somewhere new, and before her, he might have been dead long ago were it not for Goose.
Surveying their sleds, Iskra nods along to Deimos' idea. "Sounds good," he affirms, the shape of the warden already changing, the new four-legged version arresting Goose's gnawing of the branch. His head jerks around, one section of his lip caught under a front fang, ears strained towards Deimos with clear interest. "He's busy!" Iskra calls over to Goose, catching the clear sight of a dog about to make a poor choice. "You should be too. Stacy." Goose sighs impressively and resumes his gnawing, though the sideeye he flicks their way tells the story of his thoughts. Fortunately he seems likely to stay put, so Iskra grabs hold of the other sled's line and begins to heave it through the snow and march on towards the first house Deimos leads them to.
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
“So does healing,” he offered in response, knowing full well the paths, curves, and trails of too many lacerations cut deep into the soul. But if Iskra thought himself in a better place, even after years of hiding, then all Deimos could do was nod, understanding the difficulty of such terms were upon the likes of those under Caido’s predilections.
Once he’d shifted though, he granted an amused bark towards Goose – there’d be no time to play on this particular errand – and took the line. The tug and pull of the sled kept him content and contained, and with Iskra following along there’d be no attempt to unleash and unfurl in some sprinting rampage down the road (as fun as it sounded). Instead, he kept a calm and composed stride, behemoth movements still quick and long enough to keep directions clear.
The first house was one of the many trackers; given the time of day they wouldn’t be home for hours. Dropping the rope, the hellhound sauntered towards his cluster of logs, taking several in his jaws, and then marched over to promptly drop a few onto the man’s porch.
Deimos cuts an imposing figure in this shape, flame standing him apart from the frozen world they travel through. The hellhound version isn't one Iskra has seen often, usually tucked away in woods and not having been overly present at some of the fights that've broken out about Caido, more like to shrug and say it wasn't his fight. It had always gotten him too close to his parents, fighting, and it's only recently he's found the strength to practice his arcane abilities enough to grow them. There's a natural calling to it, or perhaps unnatural given the shifting voices that hum whenever the magic stirs, but he holds onto those notions, too used to being a fractured man to wonder at norms.
Still, a faint laugh slips free at the notion of Deimos and Goose playing, and Iskra shakes his head as he follows along. Bits of ice shine where Deimos' heat melts some of his footsteps, and Iskra glances at them in passing. He mulls over the last bits of their conversation, the mixtures of grief and healing sitting kindly on the back of his mind.
"I know these folks," Iskra says brightly as they round upon the first house. He might not be as social as some, not as prevalent as Deimos, but this has been his home for years enough to know people in certain trades or who frequent similar spaces as he. Shuffling to the side of his sled he loads up an armful of branches and split logs from the trunk, depositing them alongside Deimos' stack. "That should do them pretty well," Iskra nods in confirmation of the delivery, returning to his sled and rope to proceed, grateful the load feels a touch lighter now as he tugs it along. "Could do a wood pile stacking contest," he muses aloud as they walk, and an idea of a massive jenga-style competiion arises in mind.
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
