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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!
// i've got a lot to show for the time you're gonna lose //
With the pool party being chaotic as it was, upon the return to the Grounds, sends a letter out to Flora to ensure that she’d made it out okay. He hadn’t stuck around, not between everything that had happened leading up to it with Danta and the literal knife between his ribs, to seeing Noah take on Thalassa. He’d gotten out before he felt as though he would be forced to get involved.
But while he hadn’t stuck around in Torchline, he’d certainly felt as if reaching out to her would answer his question. And between the two of them, it had, but it had also created a lovely meeting point. The dark obsidian dick in the sky that was the Spire – a space the butcher enjoyed frequenting for the way it’s almost off putting.
He’s arrived early, dressed lovely as always, albeit dressed down, because the butcher is cleaning up by the time Flora would arrive. Pale white bones, still slick and wet that have yet to be dried are set off to the side as he burns away the remnants of blood with his scorch magic, humming a low but rather jaunty tune in the quiet base of the Spire. Ash is left behind on the makeshift slab of a table that he ignores as he collects the prize. A wolf skull, carefully prepared to be dried out for a very specific use.
He's got his sleeves rolled up, blood splattered only on the open ruffle of the white shirt as he burns away the rest of the blood on his arms, as if he’d taken care in ensuring the blood hadn’t gotten anywhere else. (He did, for those wondering). The rest of the evidence will be burned away the second he ensures he's got the prizes he'd claimed.
From somewhere near the mouth of the Spire, a tune rises to meet Asta's own—ever so slightly off-key, over-enthusiastic, unmistakably Flora. She doesn’t appear, not visually, but her presence winds into the air like perfume on a breeze, wrapped in bright irreverence despite the lurking shadows of the Grounds.
"Don’t stab me," she calls, voice sweet as honey, even as it echoes just enough to make her positioning ambiguous. "I was going to give you a hug, buttttttt.." There’s a pause, punctuated by a thoughtful hum and a bit of airily feigned disgust. "But now I see we’re working the butcher chic aesthetic again, and my outfit definitely won't be improved by blood splatter." She makes a tsking noise that does little to hide her amusement.
The gentle sound of her footsteps circles nearer—deliberate but unhurried. "Sooooo," she continues, voice still a touch sing-song, "what are we making today? Something menacing and practical, or purely menacing?"
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
// i've got a lot to show for the time you're gonna lose //
Flora’s arrival is heralded by an enthusiastic accompaniment of the tune the butcher hums, and while he lifts his gaze to take in the seemingly empty base of the dark obsidian that makes up the Spire. The smile on his face stretches easily, quieting to hear her sweet voice as it fills the space. “Luckily for you, darling, I was intending on changing.” He hums in response to the hug, his low chuckle warming the space.
He can hear her footsteps approach, and utilizing that to pinpoint her direction, the butcher tilts the wolf’s skull toward her with a softer smile. “Menacing and sentimental, as it turns out.” He touts, setting the skull into the bag amongst the rest of the bones, before delicately plucking the knives from the table to place them in the leather bound pack in each purposed spot, the blades gleaming as an indicator for their sharpness.
“Danta found a crow skull on one of our dates, so I figured I might sate some bloodlust and collect a wolf skull for my portion.” The crow and the wolf, reminiscent of the gore crow and the butcher’s own fyrhund.
Once all of the items are put away, the butcher’s pale shirt is loosened, pulled from his torso and utilized to wipe away the ash and the rest of the blood. And while the butcher’s skin appears quite normal in comparison to the last time Flora had seen it, a new pink scar sits on his ribs, carved and puckered at the edge of one of the bark-like scars that remain on his skin. “Now, I shall not ruin whatever lovely outfit you are wearing.” Teaching and expectant, the butcher sets the shirt down to open his arms for the much welcome hug.
"Ohhh," Flora breathes, her voice still lilting and unseen. "Menacing and sentimental? Be still my little heart." There's a flutter of air where her grin would be, audible only in the subtle shift of her tone as she tucks the image of a crow and a wolf skull together like some romantic horror story she’d absolutely pay to read. Or wear, depending on the occasion.
At his comment about ruining her outfit, Flora lets out a delighted giggle—wicked and indulgent, despite the fact that nothing visible confirms her presence. Then she moves, invisible no longer in proximity, the faintest shimmer of magic brushing the air as her arms slip around him from the front and her weight melts against his chest. "Gods, you're warm," she murmurs with a sigh, voice muffled into his collarbone as her arms hook tight around his ribs.
Only once her cheek rests contentedly against him does she tip her head just enough to mutter, teasing, "Did you and Danta get yourselves a new toy, then? Or was this work related?" Her fingers tap lightly near the fresh scar, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to show she'd noticed—even if her gaze had lingered longer than it ought to on the rest of him along the way.
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
// i've got a lot to show for the time you're gonna lose //
“Precisely.” The butcher hums with a warm laugh, flaring into the space that seems impossibly empty, despite the fact they both know it’s full to the brim of their personalities. He hears her giggle at his follow up comment, which earns a shark tooth grin as he slips out of his shirt to clean up, opening up his arms to reach for her wherever she’s ended up. But as she nears, he can see the glittering shimmer of the magic that keeps her invisible to the naked eye and at a distance, finding it easy to wrap his arms around her in turn as she rests against him. “I always am, darling.” He teases her with a knowing smirk pressed into the invisible crown of her golden hair.
His arms wind around her back, smoothing in starburst patterns against her shoulder blades and down toward the small of her back. He can feel her cheek pressed against the dull scarring sensation of his chest, before it tips up and her teasing whisper guides him to what she means (as does the soft tap of her fingers).
Chuckling softly, he shakes his head. “Neither, truthfully.” He hums, shifting to sit slightly against the slab he’d used earlier to carve the wolf up. Keeping her pressed and tucked into him, he explains further. “I have an old magic of mine that’s returned and it’s sparked some… Less than perfect memories for Danta.” He answers honestly, frowning slightly before he continues. “It was not on purpose, however, just a reaction to a nightmare he was still in at the time.” Because he’d thought it would be worse if he did try to stop him - like a repeat of the times he had restrained him - he chose not to. And now he boasts a beautiful, fresh, tender scar from the ordeal.
It wasn't that different from the scarred imprint of his teeth still sitting on Danta's forearm.
Flora chuckles quietly to herself, the sound muffled where her cheek still presses against his chest—because gods, last time she’d been wrapped up in him like this there’d been considerably more limbs involved and considerably fewer clothes and warm was not the word she'd have used to describe him then. That this moment is somehow even more comfortable now, warm and familiar and threaded through with zero expectations, only makes her grin.
"No?" she hums, soft and wry, tilting her chin just enough to nudge against his sternum. Her voice is curious, not concerned, but there’s something tender in the way her fingers sweep against his skin—just a quiet little press of attention, like a whisper of I'm listening given that he couldn't see the way her eyes were trained on his face.
Her arms remain around him, loosely now, draped like the casual intimacy of a hammock left in the sun. "Is that what the magic does?" she murmurs. "Makes nightmares true or something?" There’s no mockery in it, no teasing this time—only a flicker of thoughtful intrigue, like someone reading a story in reverse and wondering how it ends. She can picture Danta, tangled in a dream too real to shake, and Asta standing steady through the middle of it all, with the scar beneath her fingertips feels like a rather plot twist.
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
// i've got a lot to show for the time you're gonna lose //
Her arms loop around him in an easy embrace, loose and close and comfortable like they aren’t planning on going anywhere soon — which, he isn’t. And unless she does, he’s content to keep his arms wound around the invisible queen in his arms. He goes so far, in fact, that when she speaks next, his hand lifts to thread his fingertips through the invisible ends of her curls in gentle strokes. “Yes and no.” He hums, trying to recall how much of his and Danta’s tangled past he’d shared with her before.
“It is called Haunt. It allows me to become my most primal self.” Letting that hang in the air, he angles his face down toward her with a crooked smile, soft and gentle. “And as one of the tormentors of the Climb all those years ago, it was a trick I used regularly. One that Danta was unfortunately subjected to multiple times.” So while it didn’t craft nightmares catered to whomever he was around, it had a unique effect on the Maverick in the fact it was the reason for some of them in the first place.
As for the haunt in question, he loosens his hold on it, horns extending out with a few more prongs, appearing heavy and large and daunting as his shadows flicker around him in a warbling dance of excitement, as if eager to be unleashed. “Would you like to see it?” He asks, raising his brow toward her, trying to imagine the look that would cross her face with the offer.
A low, content hum spills from Flora’s throat as Asta’s fingers find her curls, the sound curling up like smoke between them, indulgent and wordless. She doesn’t bother to hide the way she leans into the touch—doesn’t bother to pretend she isn’t soothed by the simple rhythm of his hand in her hair, by the warmth of him beneath her cheek and the steady cadence of his voice wrapping around them both.
But when he says primal, her fingers twitch lightly against his skin in a gentle staccato that’s all curiosity—delicate taps that suggest both mischief and interest, the way someone might tease a sleeping tiger just to see it stir. The mental image of Asta at his most feral is not one she finds particularly off-putting (though it absolutely should be). But then he speaks of Danta, and just like that, her body sinks ever so slightly against his, the playful weight of her presence softening with a quiet sigh that feathers against his chest. "Oh," she whispers, the word fragile with sympathy, as if spoken too loudly it might wound. Her brows furrow unseen, and her hand shifts, not in withdrawal but in comfort, smoothing slow circles near where her cheek rests. "That makes a lot of sense," she murmurs, the sadness in her voice tender rather than pitying, fondness laced through it like a thread of gold. "Gods, I hate how much history you two have. And I love it. And I hate it again."
Still, when his form begins to change—when the shadows begin to flicker like candlelight caught in storm winds and his horns extend, thickening with new prongs like some forest god blooming under a blood moon—Flora lifts her head at last. The grin that curls across her lips is wicked, gleaming, and utterly delighted.
"Oooh, show off," she drawls approvingly, untangling herself from his arms. She peels away from his chest with a languid stretch, golden curls invisible still but dancing with motion. "Yes," she hums, stepping back just far enough to admire the emerging silhouette of him, the slow smile in her voice thick with want. "I absolutely want to see it."
Her arms cross lightly under her chest, chin tilted in assessment as she makes herself visible again with a flicker, her pale curls tousled from his hands, her expression bright with anticipation. "Don’t hold back on my account, but fair warning," she adds, eyes glittering, "If I faint from how terrifying you are, you're responsible for catching me, invisible or not."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
She’ll find that she doesn’t have to poke or prod him far in order to see the writhing illusions lingering under his skin. And as he explains, his fingers continue their idle patterns, thinking of the tangled past but very grateful for this portion of their lives to right the wrongs. Such that, when she offers her thoughts and that warm invisible touch down his chest by her cheek, he can’t help the soft rumble of a laugh that shakes through him, reverberating against her cheek. “As do I at times, I can assure you.” It’s a teasing tone that’s draped in his accent, before he asking her whether she wishes to see the nightmare made flesh.
And much to his quiet, thrilling surprise, she agrees.
His horns have stopped their extension for the moment, even as his shadows remain twitchy and excited with their anticipation of being let loose. But he releases her as she goes to move, tracking the shimmering form until he loses track of her again. Her warning is taken lightly, the butcher bowing in the cool air her absence has created, until he looks up to spy her visible and ready to see what horrors he can create. “I can catch you, darling, though it may not be in my more handsome form.” His shark tooth grin is aimed at her as he straightens up.
At first it’s subtle, the horns extending further, his shadows blurring together into tendrils akin to smoke trails but with thoughts attributed to where they bloom and grow. His smile grows wider, almost impossibly so, teeth sharpening and elongating into a shape that’s similar to the kind of jagged fangs a dragon might have. “There will be fire, but it cannot hurt you.” Unless he wills it to, he supposes, though he wouldn’t. Not on her.
His voice as he makes the change has dropped two octaves, a low baritone that sets an edge of discomfort and impossibility into the bones of those in his presence, and should Flora blink? Well, she’d miss the way his final form drapes over him like an old coat.
His horns are large, fiery, gnarled and hooked and impossibly sharp in a crown above his head, and rather than the striking and handsome face the butcher typically boasted, it’s been replaced with an equally fiery skeletal shape of a cross between a deer and a dog. Too sharp teeth surround an all white and orange mouth, like he’s burning from the inside out, and he extends, having grown a large amount in his size and height. His hands are sharp claws, obsidian that clicks against the floor and the table he’d been leaning against, tall enough that his horns screech against the top of the ceiling of this level as he evens himself out. His chest, appearing like an exposed ribcage with fire burning and cracking my beneath his ribs, expands like a mouth of its own.
He’s a bloody, fiery wendigo as his skull smiles at her wicked and sharp, the dark holes of his eyes boasting bright orange pinpricks for eyes. And he drifts a touch closer to her in a movement that has his shadows outstretching, faces blurring into them with equally wicked smiles and smirks, as if waiting for the show, stretching out toward Flora in an invitation. “What do you think?” That impossibly deep accented voice reappears, the man made dragon, deer, wolf watches her expectantly with that sharp edge of a predator in presence of prey.
She flickers back into view in a shimmer of sunlight and humidity. There’s no grand reveal, no gasp or flourish, just a quiet surrender to being seen. Because if the whole point is fear, then it would be rude not to let him have it. And gods, he earns it.
Flora stumbles backward the second the fire catches in his chest. Her shoes skid against the stone, breath catching in her throat as the shadows bloom—not like vines, not like flowers, but like teeth—grinning, pulsing, hungry. There’s a sound that might be her name in the air, or maybe it’s just her own pulse, thunderous and unrelenting in her ears. He is awful. Magnificent. Terrible. Crowned in fire, ribcage cracking like kindling, a creature built from the things she only used to imagine were waiting under her bed.
But he’s also her friend. And she knows the rhythm of his laugh. The weight of his arms around her. She shivers, not from cold, but from the war between instinct and understanding. Between the memory of the man she's come to know so well and the horror standing in his place. "I—" Her throat’s dry, voice as thin as tide foam, so she swallows and tries again. "I can see why you were good at it." It’s not praise exactly, but not condemnation either. "What you had to do. Back then."
Swallowing hard, the queen inhales a shaky breath, her limbs begging her to run even as she continues to let her eyes drink him in. "You’re terrifying, Asta."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
He watches her step backwards while his chest comes to life. Fire blooming within the caverns of his chest, nightmare incarnate as he lowers his head when she speaks, stuttered as it is. His antlers protrude far larger than his usual triple pronged obsidian, but even they seem large for this shape and form with how gnarled and elegant they have appeared.
He doesn’t want to prolong it out, though, because as he watches her reaction and the way she seems just about ready to high tail it out of there, he knows she’s really taking his appearance to heart. “Thank you, darling.” It’s that same, impossibly deep baritone of his accent, echoing disconcertingly with his usual voice as he starts to drop the haunt.
Just like that, the flame and draconic wolf are gone — leaving the butcher behind just a few inches away from Flora now, with minor changes from his appearance. His horns are no longer just the tri-pronged ones, instead boasting a rack of sixteen points, eight tines per each antler extending out like a clawed hand for the heavens. “Are you alright?” He asks softly, reaching out toward her with a warm hand, unsure if she’ll let him know that she knows what lives under his skin.
Asta’s voice reverberates through her like thunder softened by velvet, each syllable rattling down into the marrow of her bones and stirring something restless beneath her skin. The bass of it lingers even as the fire fades, even as the monster uncoils itself and leaves only the man in its place—though even that is up for debate now, with those horns fanning out like a cathedral made for gods with darker appetites.
She breathes in sharply, the air catching at the back of her throat before tumbling out in a stuttered exhale. Colour clings stubbornly to her cheeks, flushed high like she’s been caught in something intimate or dangerous—maybe both. And perhaps it’s only a trick of her nerves, but the shadows around her seem to curl a little closer than before, like the dark hasn’t quite let go of what it saw. Her pulse hammers. Her fingertips twitch at her sides. But still she nods, lifting her chin in defiance of whatever tremble her body hasn’t quite banished. "Yeah," she says, a breath softer than her usual drama, but steadier than she expects. "I’m okay."
She huffs a laugh, brushing a curl back from her temple with more bravado than ease. "I just—yeah, I definitely wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley." Her gaze catches his, something wary and wry shining in the ocean depths of it. "Especially if I didn’t know it was you under all that."
Her eyes flick down to his hand—warm, familiar, offered like an anchor—and then back up to his antlers, taking in the new shape of him, even now. "I can see why it'd be hard for anyone to say no to you when you're like that," she adds, a touch playfully despite the horrors Asta had been forced to enact upon others and the trauma it had left him with.
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
// i've got a lot to show for the time you're gonna lose //
Relieved to know that she’s okay, the butcher’s smile is bright and lacking any of the additional sharp crocodilian teeth that his primal form had. And with it, the low rumble of agreement escaping him. “I have frightened a fair few.” More than that, if he’s being honest. But the amounts had been lost to him over the years, because obviously once you reached past twenty people it all just blurred at the end of the day.
Her playfulness as it returns is a comforting notion, and he nods his horned head still boasting the large cathedral of tines, looking nothing short of a devoted demon to his goddess of chaos and blood. But he’s softer - for her, because it’s Flora, and he could never truly be his worst self toward her.
“Yes. Fear does… Immense things.” His nose winkles a touch - because while effective, he’s also been on the receiving end of it more than once. At least it makes him well rounded, so he thinks. That he can dish out just as much fear as he’s received.
Either way, the butcher departs from Flora momentarily to snag the bag of goodies to sling it over his shoulder, collecting the bloodied shirt and returning to her side. “Shall I walk you back, darling?” To chat a bit more even while she returns to her shimmered invisibility, not that the butcher minds in the slightest.
