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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 sun was painting gold across the sea, the water so flat and glassy it looked like the Arclight had forgotten how to ripple. Flora stood barefoot on the deck of her little sailboat, the stained-glass sails catching the light in dazzling bursts of colour—turquoise and amethyst and amber refracted into sea-sky kaleidoscope. With the wind in them, they would’ve looked like living murals, fluttering with poetry. But right now?
Nada. The sails hung limp, wide as her frustration, catching nothing but silence.
"Ugh," she groaned, hands on her hips as she glared up at the sky like it had personally offended her. "Seriously?"" She resisted the urge to channel one of her dads—her pride still far too intact to admit defeat quite that fast. "Fine," Flora huffed, throwing up her hands. "No wind? No problem."
With the kind of put-upon flair only she could muster, Flora pivoted on her heel and padded down into the cabin. The sailboat was snug, charming, and undeniably hers. Lavender curled in the creases of the wood just like Mateo had said it would—stretching out from its starter pot and slowly making itself a part of the ship’s bones.
She changed quickly, shrugging out of her shirt and jeans and into a blue bikini that matched her eyes and absolutely none of her intentions for the day. When she re-emerged, she tossed herself onto a sun-warmed cushion on the deck, one leg kicked over the side and dangling close enough to trail her toes in the water if she wanted. Spice—perched nearby like a smug little personal icecube—sent a stream of cool air swirling around her, just enough to keep the sun from becoming oppressive. "You’re the best," she murmured to her companion, lifting a cocktail glass from where it rested in arm’s reach and taking a lazy sip. The drink was fruity, cold, and strong enough to make this impromptu pause feel slightly less like failure.
The rumors are terrible and cruel But honey, most of them are true
Bassian’s voice is tentative at best as it echoes through the open door to Jack’s cabin. Having sensed his unease through the puppet strings of his magic - and knowing what’s causing it, which is worse - the captain in question still refuses to properly acknowledge it until the man himself appears.
”What?”
Jack glances up from where he’s been watching one of the shipmaker’s apprentices finish the intricate carving of a compass rose on the weathered boards just inside his cabin door. The freshly carved wood is bright compared to the lacquered deck surrounding it, and the apprentice is just adding oil and varnish to keep it in good condition. Stepping around him to brace against the doorframe, he raises his eyebrows expectantly at Bassian.
“We’ve, uh… had a bit of a scrape with another vessel. Or we’re ‘bout to. Murph says you’ll wanna see it.”
Jack knows already that Murphy is correct, but he schools his expression into something neutral, grumbles for Bassian to keep an eye on the apprentice, and heads to the upper deck on soft feet.
The salt-sweet breeze is welcome after the somewhat oppressive scent of varnish and fresh wood, though he’ll be the first to admit that it’s barely there compared to the strong headwind that would make for good sailing. Luckily, The Ark has no shortage of Abandoned with air and water magic, himself included, and so this doesn’t usually pose a problem. What will cause an issue is the fucking sailboat bobbing aimlessly into her path.
With his linen shirt half open and billowing as he cranes over the railing, Jack suppresses a groan and leans his forearms against the cool metal, gazing down at the stained-glass sails and the familiar, bikini-clad beauty now in the shade of The Ark’s considerable hull. ”Sailin’ only works if you sail, love,” he calls, holding up a hand for Murphy to give the order for them to try and angle out of Flora’s way.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
The sudden shade steals the heat off her thighs like a thief, and for a blissful moment Flora assumes it’s a passing cloud. Maybe the weather’s shifting, maybe the wind’s come back—maybe, finally, the sea has decided to cooperate.
Then the boat rocks. Not the lazy drift she’s been cursing all morning, but a proper roll, rhythmic and inevitable, like the swell of a wave heralding something big. Her eyes snap open, heart already rising to meet the dread crawling across her sun-drenched deck.
And there it is: The Ark. All billowing sails and smug maroon menace, cutting through the stillness like it owns the sea (because of course it does), its hull so close and massive that the stained glass of her own sails throws fractured rainbows across the polished wood like a failed attempt at a charm spell. And him—leaning over the railing like sin made manifest, shirt open and billowing, hair tousled by the breeze that magically decided to show up for him of all people. (Or possibly conjured by him).
Jack's voice slices the air like a smug blade., and it takes Flora a second to recover from the sheer injustice of it, because this? This has got to be intentional. Who just happens to drift into their ex’s windless patch of ocean, looking like every mistake she never stopped craving?
Flora bolts upright, one hand shielding her eyes from the glow of divinely-lit disaster above. "Nautical right of way goes to the vessel with less power!" she yells up, indignant and flushed, curls bouncing as she storms to the rail. "Also, you’re blocking my sunlight," she adds, knowing the captain will care little about either accusation but finding herself too tongue-tied at the sight of him to conjure up anything better.
The rumors are terrible and cruel But honey, most of them are true
”Read that in a book somewhere, did you?” Jack calls back down to her with raised eyebrows, despite the fact that Flora had likely learned such a thing from him on one of the many voyages they’d made whilst she’d been a semi-permanent fixture in his cabin. Now, of course, she’s both a siren and a stain on the ocean surrounding The Ark, and he makes himself take a deep breath and let it out again before he responds any further.
”You’re lookin’ a little dead in the water,” he drawls, head tipping to the side as he examines her lacklustre sails and the way they flutter sadly in the non-existent gale. ”No oars to get her goin’?” He barely resists a smirk, knowing better than to expect Flora to rowherself anywhere.
Considering for a moment before straightening up, Jack shrugs his shoulders. ”Good a time as any to toss all your shit back to you, I guess. Hang tight and I’ll have Bassian bring it up.” AKA, yes, I have been leaving you on read.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
"ReAd ThaT in A boOk SoMewhErE," she mutters, mostly to herself but loud enough for the sea to carry fragments up toward the Ark’s deck. She doesn’t bother raising her voice again—not when the damage is already done and Jack's up there, insufferably handsome and infuriatingly unbothered—as if he hadn’t shattered her like driftwood on the rocks and left her to piece herself back together with nothing but salt and spite.
In her mind, the words are louder. Hotter. A slow, relentless crackle like lightning under her skin—bruised-purple heat blooming through the wreckage he left behind. You read it, she realizes, the notion needlingt through her like broken glass. You saw every word I wrote and said nothing. Not even a fuck you. Just silence. Like she didn’t matter at all.
And he’s so casual about it. So godsdamn indifferent that it makes her want to scream. In the space between her thoughts, the mental image of her mind twists sharp and acidic; a shipwreck half-swallowed by the sea, coral blooming through cracked wood and ruined sails tangled with memories too jagged to keep. There’s glitter scattered like sand across the ruin, luminous and impossible to fully wash away, no matter how long the tide comes in. He is everywhere inside it—every rope, every nail, every echo.
Still, outwardly, Flora straightens. She tugs at the hem of her bikini top with more aggression than strictly necessary and turns just enough to toss a hand toward the ocean with queenly disdain. "How generous of you," she calls up, sugary venom lacing each word, though the poison is one that sinks into her skin. The weight of it presses like wet rope across her chest, because no matter how sharp her tongue, she’d never wanted it to end this way. Not with sarcasm and sunburn and stolen wind. So, Flora turns away before she can break her own resolve and flops down on her towel again with more force than necessary, knocking over her drink in the process.
The rumors are terrible and cruel But honey, most of them are true
Jack stands, impassive at the side of his galleon as the barbs and splinters of Flora’s true feelings crack across the web of his telepathy, the captain left gazing down at her with a curious mix of nothing on his face. Nothing but careful neutrality, nothing but dozens of locks to a chest he might never again crack open. Whistling sharply through his teeth to get the attention of one of the crew, he leans back to speak to them, sending them scurrying away below deck.
And by the time Flora has knocked over her drink and dropped into a sulk on the little deck of her ship, a heavy rope will land with a clonk somewhere beside her. A shadow falls a moment later, and if she deigns to look up, it will be to see the captain himself sliding down to her vessel, boots pinched against the rope to keep it taut, a large bag slung over his shoulder.
Landing with a light, hollow thump on the deck of her ship, like some interloper boarding it for nefarious means, Jack the would-be pirate instead tosses the bag at her feet and glances around at her limp sails with a raised brow. ”A’right, move,” he snips, stepping by her so he can get at the delicate canvas and manoeuvre her out of The Ark’s way.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
The rope hits her deck with a thud, but it’s the boots that follow—the lazy thrum of a body landing where it shouldn’t—that makes Flora freeze mid-sulk, half-curled in her deck chair and still sticky with sun-warmed frustration. She looks up slowly, and as the bag lands at her feet, and she barely resists the urge to kick it overboard.
"You don’t ask before boarding?" she snaps, standing so abruptly the cocktail glass nearly tips again. "I've seen you kill men for less for pulling that shit on the Ark." Her curls bounce as she steps deliberately in front of him, blocking his path toward the stained-glass sails with a fire in her aqua eyes that practically dares him to move her.
"No," she says flatly, arms crossing her chest; because he doesn’t get to come onto her ship and start rearranging her life like he has done since they'd met. "You can wait. I want to make sure you didn’t forget anything. No need to do this twice."
She crouches down, fingers brushing the coarse fabric of the bag, as if touching something he’d handled might explain why her heart’s pounding like it’s still seventeen and meeting the captain for the first time. She rifles through the contents—spare shirts, trinkets, the gold dagger she forgot she left under his pillow once. Nothing obvious is missing, except..."Where’s your half of the parchment?"
The rumors are terrible and cruel But honey, most of them are true
”You ain’t me,” Jack points out, ”an’ this sure as shit ain’t The Ark.” Having been forced to pause in front of her given that she’s quite suddenly obstructing his attempt to get her the fuck out of his ship’s path - right of way or no right of way - the captain can do little more than raise his eyebrows, as if asking whether this is really something she’s going to make happen.
”No?” he repeats with a raise of his eyebrows, scoffing and giving an exaggerated gesture for her to go ahead before taking a half-step back so she can rifle through all the belongings she’d literally asked him to return. ”Right,” Jack drawls, ”as if you wouldn’t show the fuck up on deck whenever you wanted regardless. Ironic for someone who’s suddenly hot shit about gettin’ permission to board.”
As for the parchment, Jack’s smile is sly and not entirely warm as he regards her with eyes the colour of the ocean to either side of her sailboat. ”In my back pocket where it’s been for a while,” he says. ”If you want it so bad, you can take it from me yourself. I’ll wait - I don’t mind.”
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Flora’s smile sharpens, sweet enough to poison, delicate enough to hide the blade behind it. "You’re right, Jack," she purrs, voice slipping low and dangerous, a ripple of silk over steel as she tilts her chin defiantly. "I’m not you, and this isn't the Ark." She shifts closer, hips swaying just enough to be deliberate, curls brushing against her shoulders with the soft sound of waves lapping at the shore. Her voice lifts then, eyes still locked onto his as if daring him to look away. "Spice—bring me my daggers, would you?" She doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver, even as the dragon's answering trill rises lightly through the air and the soft flurry of wings signals her obedience.
Between them, the air thickens with memory, with the bitter-sweetness of evenings spent curled in his cabin, of ink-stained fingers and whispered confessions, of promises—spoken and unspoken—that Flora had tucked carefully between the pages. Her mind, usually a garden overflowing with vibrant blossoms, is now a storm-ravaged landscape scattered with broken petals, the colours faded, torn into pieces by a wind named Jack Barclay.
He’d carried the parchment with him, pressed so close it might as well have been written on his skin. And still, not a single godsdamned reply. Not even an empty "fuck you," not even a taunt—just silence. Silence that seeped through her days, bled into sleepless nights, whispered endlessly that maybe she deserved this.
It hurt worse than any blade she could throw, deeper than any cut she’d ever endured, and yet here she was, reaching for him again like an addict grasping for poison. She braces herself, fingers reaching unflinchingly toward his back pocket, her eyes narrowed with anticipation.
The rumors are terrible and cruel But honey, most of them are true
”Yeah? You gonna slice me up in front of my whole crew?” Jack wonders with the slightest tilt of his head, the softest of breezes stirring the sun-bleached tips of his hair around his shoulders. ”Why not go the whole hog and channel one of your daddies to take care of business for you instead? You’re all kissed and made up now after all, right?” The defiance in his own tone might very well have been fed by Flora’s feelings, but he’ll never admit it.
Her fingers reach around him and, like they always would, like a serpent striking out with its fangs, his hand encircles her wrist, calloused and warm and gripping tight. ”Of course I didn’t reply to you,” he whispers, his voice whiskey sweet, like the promise of a hangover to come or of a fight outside a bar. ”You hurt me, I hurt you. That’s only fair, right?” He raises his eyebrows, as if trusting that if nothing else, pettiness is still something Flora might understand between them.
Jack releases her hand and reaches back himself - but instead of the parchment, he withdraws a crumpled letter, one she’d penned herself, one delivered to his hands by Sohalia after she’d made a decision that could never be taken back. ”Figured you might as well have this back too. Makes me sick to look at it.”
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Flora’s gaze flickers upward to the Ark’s railings just as Jack’s words settle like embers on dry grass. She sees the way his crew abruptly pulls back, shadows scattering from the sun, and despite herself, a wicked smile curls across her lips. It’s brittle at the edges, sharp enough to draw blood, and gods does she wish it would. "Actually," she drawls lightly, eyes returning to Jack, "yeah. That sounds pretty tempting. Though maybe I’ll just skip straight to having one of my daddies sink the Ark instead." She tilts her head sweetly, baring her teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. She'd always joked that him leaving her would have brutal consequences, after all.
Then his hand encircles her wrist, fingers firm and familiar in ways that ignite memories she’d rather drown. Her pulse jumps traitorously beneath his grip, but Flora forces her chin higher, her sneer deepening to mask the ache behind it. "Hurting you was a godsdamned accident, Jack," she snaps back at him, voice dripping venom, "a stupid, fucking mess I made while trying to protect Torchline from the Family. Your hurting me? That’s just you being an intentional asshole. As usual."
His hand releases her, and for a breathless second Flora thinks she might have won—that maybe she’d finally cut through his careless armour and left a mark behind. She swallows around the bitter taste that floods her mouth and gives a laugh brittle enough to break. "And here I thought you were made of stronger stuff than that." Her fingers close around the paper, crushing it tight. Raising her chin again, Flora holds out her other hand expectantly, unwavering despite the pulse still hammering in her throat.
The rumors are terrible and cruel But honey, most of them are true
”Mm, I’m sure that’ll make the people of Torchline feel like you’re the queen for them. Level-headed, mature, cool under pressure.” Jack doesn’t look up at The Ark on purpose, despite knowing and feeling the spike of nerves and expectant retribution from the crew, particularly some of its younger members. ”Go on,” he goads. ”Self-sacrificin’ hero of the region - that’s you, ain’t it? Drown a dozen or so men who got nothin’ to do with it, all ‘cause you’re pissed at me.”
He’s confident that she won’t, and yet her actions over the past season have enough of a seed of doubt growing in the back of his mind that, just for a moment, Jack does flick his eyes up to the railing.
Then Flora says it - that all of this was an accident, and the captain can’t help but scoff out an incredulous laugh. ”An accident you ain’t once apologised for. But then why would you need to feel sorry when everyone else is gettin’ you off tellin’ you what a good job you did?” He snaps. ”It was an accident you decided was worth the rest of your bullshit plan. ‘Cause fuck me, right? I’d always be fine.”
She snatches the letter away and a muscle feathers in Jack’s jaw, his hands frost-rimed and Flora’s sails beginning to flutter with a breeze that has nothing to do with the weather. ”Yeah, well maybe I ain’t when it comes to you,” he grates out, still not reaching back for the parchment in his other pocket. ”Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Flora? Was I not worth even a stray thought about it?”
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Flora groans dramatically, her head tipping back in exaggerated frustration as Jack effortlessly dismantles her bluff before it even gets a chance to land. Of course she isn't going to sink his precious fucking Ark—but the fact that he knows this without hesitation only makes the bitterness taste sharper in her mouth. Fine, she thinks, unable to quiet the fierce indignation simmering inside her. She shoots him a scowl edged with begrudging irritation, silently cursing how well he knows her, knows her limits—knows exactly which threads to pull to unravel her completely.
His accusation, though, slices deeper. An apology? Flora's mind whirls at the very idea, a storm of pride and hurt and wounded confusion tangling her thoughts into knots. How the fuck is she supposed to offer an apology now, when seconds ago she'd been vividly picturing flaying the floral tattoo straight from his arm, the petals scattering like tears in the ocean? How could she possibly force sincerity through her teeth when her heart still thrashes between resentment and a desperate, aching love that she wishes she could tear out by the roots?
The internal snarl of her thoughts is louder than any words she could say, raw and unfiltered in a way only Jack can truly hear. What would it matter anyway? her thoughts hiss bitterly, her chest tight with the sting of being misunderstood yet again. It would just sound like another fuck you, because that’s all we ever seem to say now.
But then Jack's final words land, and Flora’s mind erupts with frustration that flares white-hot through every tangled thought she has. "Not worth a stray thought?" she echoes incredulously, her voice nearly breaking under the weight of everything unsaid. "Are you fucking serious? You were every goddamn thought, Jack. You were the one who said we needed to be in their way, that you saw what Dahlia could do. That they were a plague that was going to consume everything unless we did something to stop it."
Her eyes flash with a sudden clarity, aqua sharp with hurt and something else—something fierce and accusing. "But that's not really what you're pissed about, is it? You’re mad because I didn't run my entire fucking plan by you first." Her voice hardens, bitterness bleeding through as she turns his own words back against him. "We've only been together a Few SeAsOnS, right? Why exactly do you think you're entitled to know every step I take, every move I make, when you were content as fuck otherwise for me not to overstep my place as just your girlfriend."
She tilts her chin up defiantly, staring him down like a tempest. "I wanted us to be more. But you—" she pauses, swallowing the ache that threatens to choke her, "didn't, so.." So he was afforded the same courtesy given to her co-leader and her best friend.
The rumors are terrible and cruel But honey, most of them are true
Flora’s thoughts flay outwards, a thrashing storm of sharp words and bloody frustration that poisons the air between them, but Jack doesn’t bother to raise any mental defence against it. He flinches - subtle, but there - and chews at the inside of his cheek, flexing his fingers as if he might be able to shake the ice out of them. Rolling his shoulders and huffing out a soft laugh under his breath, he swallows down the bitter and malformed crux of her argument with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
”How fuckin’ dare you,” he says, flicking away the water now dripping from his fingertips. ”Actin’ like all this happened off the back of some unresolved argument, like you snuck out and did this to spite me as a last resort. We were at the Greatwood not days before you pulled this off, agreein’ to be better, to keep goin’, to make it work.”
Raising both hands to rake them back through his hair, Jack inhales a deep breath and lets it out again, at last seeming to realise that what he’s waiting for is never going to come - not like this, not from Flora. ”Here, then,” he mutters, taking the parchment from his pocket and handing it back to her. ”That’s everythin’. Step aside, now, an’ I’ll sail you back into your patch of sun an’ be on my way.”
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
