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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.
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08-08-2025, 04:25 PM (This post was last modified: 08-08-2025, 04:28 PM by Damien.)
Damien
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones try to forget all them enemies and debts
The Lucky Rum Fountain bubbled nearby, spilling like liquid light into the chipped basin, the sweet-burn smell of it mixing with salt air and tarred rope. Damien held a glass of the white rum loosely in one hand. It was good stuff, went down smooth, and it was doing its work; loosening the edges without sanding down the vigilance that had kept him breathing this long.
He’d ditched his heavier gear for the night, wearing a plain linen shirt with the sleeves rolled past his forearms and trousers tucked into scuffed boots. The fabric was damp from the sea air, clinging a little at the shoulders. His dark hair was tousled, and there was the faintest curl to his mouth. Not quite a smile.
His crew had wanted to celebrate after the job, “a chance to let loose,” and the place had looked harmless enough from the outside. Hell, he’d even thought he might try a few of the coast’s more… tropical indulgences. But somewhere between the first drink and the second, the crowd had changed shape. Now it looked less like a party and more like a den — smugglers and pirates laughing too loud, performers and merchants flashing smiles with all the warmth of a drawn knife.
The port itself was a living thing tonight. Laughter rolled in with the waves. Lanterns swung on the rigging, tossing gold light across wet planks. The fiddle’s sharp cry tangled with the clatter of tankards, and the tang of grilled fish cut through the sweeter rum scent. Somewhere behind it all came the steady slap of water against the hulls, a reminder that every ship in port could be gone by morning.
Damien kept to the outskirts, where the light thinned toward shadow. It was a lot of noise, but it had a certain pull. Raw life, reckless laughter, and the thousand stories hiding in every salt-stained grin..
Somewhere in all that, he’d lost track of the crew. Or they’d vanished the second he turned his back. Either way, he was on his own. He leaned a half-step out of the crowd’s reach, eyes scanning the shifting press of bodies. Too-smooth smiles, hands that wandered just close enough to make him itch.
Every now and then, though, his gaze snagged on a face that almost looked familiar, or a voice half-heard through the din pulled him a step forward before he realized it wasn’t who he thought.
He felt like a greenhorn fresh off the boat, ripe for the plucking if somebody decided to try their luck… but some part of him, against better judgment, kept looking.
Torchline always held a special place in his heart, from the way that personal space seemed to be more of a suggestion than a societal norm, to the way the docks and the Port had a very noticeable shift when the sun began to set - smiling pleasantries of fishermen shifting to the cloaked, shadowed grins of smugglers that flitted through here and there. Today, however, it’s different. There’s a certain energy in the air that is vibrant, palpable, like he could reach out to it and touch it.
He’d stumbled upon it, of course, having come to run an errand (in which it was to attire some new clothing in varying shades for the colder Leafchange that King’s End harbored). And with the bag in hand, well familiar with the pirates and thieves that bounded around the docks picking up on somewhat defenseless people like the vibe he’s sure he’s giving off right now.
Thorn’s lucky in avoiding the mass swell of people, the scream of a fiddle and rowdy voices that lift and fall with the tune that ignites the party, backed by the echoing voices of the ocean’s waves rushing along underneath them and to the beach not that far away. And with a crowd this big? Well, he’s definitely not making the skyship back to King’s End, going so far as to linger on the outskirts and watch it with a touch of melancholy at seeing it take off and the party drift further into the open space offered.
“Well fuck.” Thorn mutters, reaching up to rake a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching briefly at his scalp as he thinks. He scans the crowd, lingering on a group of tourists swept up in the mess but looking utterly delighted, and then — then, Thorn scans those lingering on the outskirts along with him.
Catching eyes with someone, his brows pinch immediately, recognition stirring somewhere deep within him. Not here, not in Torchline, but older… It hits him a few seconds later, breaking his melancholy into a bright smile of disbelief, pushing his way through the brief crowd to get up next to the other man. “No fuckin’ way. Damien??” He asks, hope glittering in his chest as he takes in the older vision of an old friend.
Thorn looks different now, though the mop of hair is the same. Sea foam eyes are just as bright and excited as they had once been, but instead of being bundled in furs and jackets that Halo required with a slightly bulky build from the work his father often made him do, he's grown leaner and willowy. He's taller now, and with the heat of Torchline this season, he's wearing tight pants paired with a billowy sheer shirt, far more open than anything one would dare to wear in the cold climate they came from. And along his body, the tan of sun and the dark hue of tattoos spread, wrists wrapped in the dark ink of vines with thorns like shackles, trailing up the backs of his arms to his back and down, swirling their floral patterns along his hips to dip below his pants. His ears boast a few piercings each, shiny and glittering in the torch light of the Port as he beams up at Damien.
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones try to forget all them enemies and debts
Damien’s gaze slid over him again the way you recheck a face you think you know in a crowd, slow and exact. The tattoos caught the lantern light and looked like vines that had decided to stay put, not the crude ink of a tavern dare. The sun had baked Thorn’s skin into a color Halo never offered. For a second something like a smile loosened at Damien’s mouth, small and surprised.
“Thorn?” His voice was low but carried a note of something close to disbelief, a rough chuckle slipping out beneath it. He lifted his glass in a casual toast, a brief, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before he took a sip. Around them, the port throbbed with noise and life, but for the moment, Damien’s attention narrowed to the familiar face before him. He threaded through a wedge of the crowd, one eye on the gaps and the other on his drink—because as much as he’d rag on it if anyone asked, Torchline Rum was damn good.
Damien had always carried himself with the lean, sure-footedness of someone born to the North, but the years had sharpened that further. His frame was still wiry, but now it spoke of hard-won strength rather than youthful lean. The chill of Halo had carved fine lines at the corners of his eyes, faint but telling, and his hands bore the callouses and faint scars of years spent wrangling the wild rather than courting the warmth of comfort.
Where Thorn’s changes shouted sun and ink, Damien’s were subtler; the slow hardening of a man who trusted few but carried the weight of those he did with steady hands. His dark hair, still tousled, framed a face that rarely gave much away, but those who knew him could read the cautious calculation behind the dark gaze.
He moved with economy, every motion purposeful, like a hunter sizing up the forest rather than a man wandering lost. There was a trace of something soft buried beneath the armor — a flicker of quiet loyalty or hope — but it was a secret he guarded well.
When he reached Thorn, there was no grand greeting, no loud shout or wide grin. Damien slid in beside him with the ease of old habit, as if the years between them had folded away without a sound. It wasn’t warmth shouted from the rooftops, but a quiet settling—a tether in the noise. Finding Thorn here in the chaos made him feel ten times better, though he’d never say it out loud. This was as close to a hug as Damien got, for now.
His eyes flicked to the bags slung over Thorn’s shoulder, then back up with a faint smirk. “Where're you headed? Thought you were livin’ it up here on the beach.” He let the words hang between them, low and easy, a quiet invitation to explain without pressing too hard.
He shifted just enough that the flickering lantern light played across his face, casting half in shadow and half in a warm, amber glow. The corners of his mouth twitched with the faintest trace of a smile—guarded but genuine—and his eyes held steady, calm like still water beneath a restless sky.
“Crew wanted to celebrate after a big job,” he explained and with a shrug, he added, “Lost 'em somewhere in the crowd.” He glanced past Thorn, toward the press of bodies and the skyport lights winking above the masts. Then he looked back. “It's good to see a friendly face. If you’ve got a moment, tell me where you've been. If you don’t, well—stay a bit. The nights here are long enough for stories. Come on, let's find you a drink. Or just a glass, I guess.” Given that there's a whole rum fountain right there, acquiring a drink should be easy enough.
The disbelief in hearing his name slip from the other man is replaced immediately with relief. He doesn’t have a drink to toast with him just yet, but he nods his head as the smile blooms on his face brighter, and with a quick and brief glance around he’ll notice that the rum fountain is beside them and a multitude of empty glasses just waiting for the taking. He doesn’t grab anything just yet, not as Damien approaches and he slips further back into the shroud of the outskirts of the party, not wanting to be swept up just yet in the rowdiness of it all.
Damien moves precisely the same as Thorn remembers - like he’s got a purpose or he’s tracking. Sure footed and certain that each place he lands is precisely where he intends to, not that Thorn had seen him flustered much if he didn’t. He wore a perfect guise that had been perfected long before Thorn had a chance to see beneath the surface.
There were times, though, and those had been some of the better days he can remember from the cold climate of Halo.
Old habits become familiar again as he slips in beside him and Thorn’s smile twitches upwards, brighter. “Yeah, well, I was livin’ it up here ’til King’s End became livable. Guess I missed the snows just enough to go somewhere where it could a few times a year.” He sighs, rolling his eyes, before he shoots a smile and a soft laugh over toward his old friend.
He’d never really been one for visiting back home unless he had to - but Damien knew that already. He knew that Thorn’s relationship with his father wasn’t great, which had lead to him often finding a way to get out of the house to tag along with the woodsman.
Nodding briefly to hear that they were here to celebrate and he’d lost his crew in the crowd, Thorn snorts and sighs - he’d been there once upon a time, swept up in the bustle that was the parties in the Port. He glances out at the crowd before looking back at Damien with a flicker of nostalgia and a bit of relief for the tension that had lingered in his shoulders. “Well, my ship just left, so… Ain’t goin’ anywhere quick.” Offering a dramatic and resigned sigh, he laughs it off lightly as he steps to the side, snagging one of those empty glasses and dunks it into the fountain, snagging some of the liquor and returning, holding it away from his body enough to let the rum drip off the side of the glass without falling into his clothes.
“So yeah, if you’ve been tryin’ to find me, I’ve been livin’ it up in magical rooms.” Suddenly unsure if Damien even knows what Thorn’s career is these days — it had been aimed for architecture when he’d departed Halo, following in the Family Name with their building affinity — it’d be clear now that between Thorn’s appearance and the ease of which he flashed a charming smile here and there, that it definitely wasn’t what he ended up doing. “You still huntin’ an’ trappin’ in Halo?”
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones try to forget all them enemies and debts
Damien tilted his glass just slightly, letting the lantern light catch the amber liquid as he gave a faint, appreciative sniff. “King's End?” His voice was laced with consideration but void of much recognition, having not been there himself - least of all since it was made 'livable', as Thorn described. Damien let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head just a fraction. "So you still like snow… just in moderation, huh? Smart move. Can’t say I blame you.”
Though he already knew the reasons for Thorn leaving Halo went beyond the weather.
Damien followed Thorn’s motion toward the Lucky Rum Fountain, dipping his own glass with the same careful precision. The white rum hissed and spilled over the rim as he lifted it, giving a faint appreciative sniff before taking a slow sip. Lantern light caught the liquid as he swirled it gently, the warmth settling low and steady.
He took another slow sip as Thorn mentioned magical rooms, eyebrows lifting just slightly, though his eyes never left the crowd. He spotted a stretch of dock wide enough to lean against without being shoved by the press of bodies. With a tilt of his head, he indicated the space to Thorn, then led the way, weaving carefully through the throng toward the railing. A place they could talk and keep an eye on whatever or whoever drifted past them.
"Yeah, things haven't changed much for me. But I've been branching out a bit. Traveling more," He raised his voice over his shoulder, voice carrying as they moved. "Wherever the work takes me."
Once they were settled, Damien leaned back against the rough wood, glass in hand. He gave Thorn a measured look. "So now you're living in.. magical rooms.. in King's End?" he said with a tilt of his head, a trace of incredulity in his low voice and the faint smile. "That is what you said, right?"
From the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of a knife spinning in the air from a nearby contest, the crowd cheering as it struck true.
King’s End had spent the majority of their youth as a wild, untamed land. Until Sunjata had decided to put work into it - beginning with the Barrows and its refuge from the last war. It was something that had then spread to the rest of the region, in building the very brothel the courtesan works at, to even building it a town and a sky port to ensure it was connected with the rest of the world. And Thorn had been there since the brothel’s beginning, able to witness its growth day after day, month after month.
“Yeah.” Thorn says with a soft little laugh, hoisting the bag up and over his shoulder as they find a space to settle with their drinks, and Thorn takes a healthy sip that has his throat burning comfortably, the lightness of his body coming to the forefront. He doesn’t drink that often, choosing mocktails over cocktails especially when working, and as of late he hasn’t had much downtime at all to actually be able to indulge.
All that to say he’s a fucking lightweight.
He finds a way to focus, though, glancing over at Damien with a twist of a smile forming on his lips to hear that he’s doing more or less the same as he’d known before. But to venture out? Thorn can’t help the soft laugh that ripples out of him. “Finally spreadin’ your wings. Damien Ulfsen? Who would’a thought?” It’s a gentle tease and a barb, especially from the young man who’d always had dreams of going somewhere else. Of not having to be confined to the harsh climate of Halo for the rest of his life.
So he nods, downing another sip of the glass before he’s snagging a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, plopping one in his mouth before he’s following it up with a lighter to light it. “Yeah, magical rooms.” He confirms with a nod that sends the stream of smoke to grow jagged. “I kinda went on my big adventure to do my architecture thing but found I had more fun bein’ a courtesan. So.” He shrugs a shoulder - sure that Damien would understand how absolutely terrible his father had taken it. “So I work at the House of Midnight. It’s owned by the Frey demigod so it’s rooms are fancy ’n can change to whatever anyone wants.” Which meant he always got to go on an adventure, one way or another, even if he was still confined to the same room.
And for someone who had a penchant of collecting and hearing stories from everyone? It was perhaps the best space for him to be in. To experience the thoughts and dreams other people had and the satisfaction that he has to work in order to see it.
He drags on the cigarette as he glances over at catches the glinting knife and the crowd that cheers their approval before he notes a hulking figure that's arrival has the crowd oohing and ahhing, and he can't hide the little smirk that tugs on his face as he watches the stranger give everyone else in the contest a run for their money.
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones try to forget all them enemies and debts
Damien huffed a soft laugh at the jab, his mouth quirking as if the words slid right past him. “What can I say? Had to happen sometime, huh?” he said dryly, though the faint weight behind Thorn’s words lingered just long enough to echo. It was easy enough to shrug off, to let the good-natured tone smooth over whatever thought tried to surface.
He lifted his glass again, watching Thorn over the rim as the younger man lit his cigarette and explained himself. Damien’s brows ticked up a fraction at the shift from architecture to courtesan—though there was no judgment in his eyes, only the measured curiosity of someone turning a thought over in his head. “That’s… a change,” he admitted after a beat, the words slow, careful. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Guess you weren’t kidding about the rooms being magical if they can make you stay in one place.”
Still, he couldn’t help the flicker of concern, however well hidden. Halovian fathers were rarely forgiving, and Thorn’s had been harsher than most. Damien let that thought hang unspoken, letting Thorn choose whether to fill the silence with more detail.
The roar of the crowd spiked again, pulling Damien’s attention sideways. Another knife spun end-over-end toward the target, but the hulking newcomer had stepped up now, thick arms moving with surprising precision. Steel hit the board dead-center with a crack that carried over the music, drawing gasps and jeers from the crowd. Coins exchanged hands quick as gulls diving for scraps. One man shouted too loud, already drunk, and stumbled dangerously close to the line of competitors. Damien’s gaze narrowed slightly, a hunter’s instinct pricking at the back of his neck, but he leaned back again against the railing, glass loose in hand.
“You’ll have to tell me more about this House of Midnight,” he said at last, voice low, almost casual. “Sounds like the kind of place that’s never short on stories.”
It did have to happen eventually — which is honestly something that Thorn understands perhaps better than most. Having set foot outside of Halo in order to take up architecture and the family business, he’d essentially done a complete 180. Buildings and plans were further from his mind than they’d ever been, instead choosing to be more of a collector of stories and experiences rather than building the spaces where that happened.
So he drags easily from the cigarette, the smoke mixing with the bitter tang of the alcohol to leave an ashen taste on his tongue when he nods his head back at Damien and flashes a brighter smirk than the faint one his friend has offered. It doesn’t last long, though, because it breaks into a warm laugh at the barb shot back his way.
His chin dips, amusement flaring in the seafoam of his eyes as he nods. “See, you get it.” He touts with a knowing look. It’s one that leaves him quiet as he glances over to see how the party is progressing. “I started out just doin’ it part time so I’d have a place to stay while I explored and picked up tips ’n tricks, y’know? But then I kinda.. Got a variety of clients that all had these different experiences ’n it was way more fun to hear and see ‘em talk about ‘em than it was knowin’ I’d have to go back to Halo to build the same kinda houses over ’n over again.” He thinks Damien would understand that, honestly. And given the fact that Thorn has spent the last few years solely as a courtesan, it’s clear it’s a better choice. He’s happier like this.
“Oh gods, no, there’s so many.” Thorn says with another smoky laugh that’s muffled by the commotion that happens from the crowd as bets are made and a drunkard drifts too close to the game for comfort, impacting it enough to where the self appointed bouncers of this little spontaneous event have had to drag the guy out. It’s to the sounds of his shouting and wounded pride that Thorn’s smile turns softer and sweeter as he flits his gaze back to the other man. “The rooms change ’n they can show me what they’re talkin’ about. Like it’s real. You can smell it, feel the sun on your skin.. It’s pretty fuckin’ incredible. You should come by sometime.” And he could show him just a taste of the varying places he's been.
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones try to forget all them enemies and debts 'cause they'll just chase you round and give you sour dreams
Damien tipped his glass again, savoring the burn as Thorn spoke. The man’s laugh had always been infectious, and though Damien’s own smile was subtle, it lingered longer this time, edging into something genuine. The more Thorn described it—the rooms that bent to their whims, the chance to live fragments of other people’s lives—the more Damien felt a flicker of something caught between envy and intrigue. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he leaned an elbow on the railing. “Sounds like you’ve been traveling without ever leaving the same four walls,” he said, almost wistful. “Can’t say I’ve heard of anywhere that offers that kind of… escape. Might have to take you up on that invitation sometime.”
The warmth of the rum was settling into him now, a steady thrum through his chest and the faintest edge loosening from his posture. The noise from the contest pulled his gaze back, where the hulking competitor was still holding the crowd’s attention. Damien squinted as a drunkard got dragged off, but his eyes weren't on the commotion. They were tracking the line of coins, rings, and trinkets piling up at the edge of the makeshift ring. Most of it was nothing remarkable—gambler’s scraps, things people could lose without thinking twice. But one gleam stood out among the rest: a slender silver torque, etched with details so fine the lamplight caught on them like fireflies.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for Thorn to hear above the din. “Now there’s a prize worth the trouble.” He nodded toward the torque, glass still in hand. “Not every day you see a piece like that.” His mouth curved into the faintest grin, one that carried the edge of challenge.
Straightening, he took another pull from his drink in a smooth swallow, keeping the glass safely in hand. His eyes slid back to Thorn, half-curious, half-provocative. “What do you say? You interested in a little competition? Could be fun to show these drunk bastards what real aim looks like.”
He has been traveling without leaving the same four walls. And it’s something that’s as thrilling as it is enticing – getting glimpses into other people’s minds and memories, the opulence to some spaces that weren’t at all what they were like in real life but with the added fantasy flourish added in. So he hums a soft laugh, a shrug of his shoulders once he’s taken another sip of the rum from his glass. “Lemme know when you’ll be around and I can show ya how they work.” A crash course.
He, too, is warm from the liquor as it fills him and he relaxes tenfold being around an old friend despite the crowd that still pulses with commotion and excitement for the game at hand. He watches it idly, snagging on the main prize just a heartbeat after Damien’s spotted it. His lips quirk up as he crosses his arms, getting a little bit more comfortable where he’s standing (because he isn’t too keen initially on entering the game when he can watch from back here.) “Does look real nice.” He admits, eyeing it a bit more before he spots Damien downing a healthy sip from his glass in his peripheral.
So he straightens up, pushes off of the beam he’d been leaning against to hear the proposition. “Sure, fuck it.” Thorn says with a laugh, kicking his bag under the ledge so it’s in the shadow so no one can swipe it. He downs his drink, feeling the buzz in his veins before he’s loosening out his arms and stepping over to clasp Damien on the back, gripping his shoulder with a playful motion. “I’m pretty rusty, though.” Which is his sly way of saying I know you’re not gonna go easy on me but don’t rub it in.
Then, the courtesan steps forward, pushing through the beat and pulse of the crowd to get to the section of barrels that signify the competition.
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones try to forget all them enemies and debts 'cause they'll just chase you round and give you sour dreams
Damien’s laugh came low in his chest at Thorn’s clap on the shoulder, the kind that acknowledged both the challenge and the excuse wrapped around it. “Rust comes off quick enough,” he said, stepping to match his friend’s stride as the crowd made way for the next round. He tipped his glass again—steady, unhurried—before setting his shoulder against the press of bodies.
The crowd shifted to make space as they neared the barrels that marked the line, the smell of sweat and sea-salt thicker here. Damien’s eyes flicked to the “pot” piled on a rough plank nearby: trinkets, knives, a little coin—and that torque gleaming like it didn’t belong in hands this rough. With his free hand he reached to his belt, tugging free the hunting knife and its sheath that had ridden there for years. Its hilt was plain but sturdy, leather-wrapped and dark with use. Without ceremony, he laid it among the other offerings.
“Stake enough for me and my friend,” he said, voice level, though a line of sweat was beginning to bead along his brow. A few mutters rose—Halovian steel was worth more than half the junk already on the pile.
The nearest “barker”—a wiry man with gold teeth and a scar splitting his lip—leaned forward, eyeing Damien and Thorn both. “Fair enough. Both of ya in.”
As the knives were handed out, Damien’s gaze slid past Thorn toward the barrels. The hulking man from before was still there, arms thick as tree trunks, his last throw splitting the inner ring clean in half. The crowd ate it up, valuables flashing between hands, odds shifting with every thud of steel. That was the man to beat—not the drunkards, not the smugglers, but him.
Damien tipped his glass again, slow and steady, before leaning just close enough for Thorn to catch his words. “That one’s the problem,” he whispered, nodding faintly at the giant. “Crowd’s in his pocket already. If we’re gonna take the pot, we’ve gotta throw him off.”
A grin tugged at his mouth, quick and crooked, before fading back into something measured. “Think you could do that—get under his skin? Doesn’t matter how. Just shake him loose, even a little.” He shifted the knife in his grip with easy familiarity, glass still loose in his other hand. “Leave the rest to me.” Damien had a long-con game of his own to play, but a little help from a friend never hurt.
The knife he was given felt lighter than it should have, an unfamiliar balance compared to the tools Damien kept on his own belt. He rolled it across his fingers as he watched the other competitors begin the round, glass still tucked loose against his other palm. He squared his shoulders once his turn came about. The crowd’s noise dulled in the moment, just the thrum of pulse and firelight marking time.
He didn’t throw hard. The knife left his hand on a clean line, but the spin was slow, deliberate. Steel bit just outside the inner ring with a dull thock, firm enough to stick but far from the kind of shot that would earn gasps. A ripple of half-hearted cheers went up, and someone at the edge of the crowd barked a laugh, already shifting their coin toward another man’s favor.
Damien only huffed through his nose, lowering the glass from his mouth. By all accounts he might even try to look a little embarrassed, casting his eyes downward. Whether the flush of his face was truly born of shame or liquor didn't matter. The smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth said the rest: let the competition think he was nothing to worry about.
They make their way to the start of the competition – Thorn eyeing the way Damian sets out the Halovian steel as his barter for entry for the both of them. And Thorn, always so great at reading people and managing situations in that regard, flashes a crooked grin at the “barker” with an incline of his head. The knives are retrieved with a small little “thanks,” before he’s stepping away from the space to appraise just what they’ve gotten themselves into.
He spots the man, because of course he does. He’s hard to miss with all that bulk and brawn. Hearing Damien’s whisper, Thorn dips his head slightly with a hum of agreement – something that suggests that it was a task easily done. The blade is light in his hands, thumb brushing against the smooth handle as he steps aside to let Damien take the first attempt. And while he’s doing it, Thorn sidles up beside the big bulky hulk of a man with his charming grins and suave appreciation.
Not enough to be taken out of the game, but with enough flirtation and playfulness that the other competitor doesn’t give into initially – too focused on the crowd that chants his name and appreciations. But with a few murmured phrases while Damien takes his shot, Thorn doubles down. A little flare of illusion magic has the man scenting something familiar so long as Thorn’s standing near him, and it’s enough to have him glancing around for whomever the scent reminded him of.
It's still enough to get in his head after Thorn steps away, flashing Damien a smile that seems to set the vibe of the game the woodsman is playing. “Damn, huh?” Comes the tease, because he knows Damien can and often does do better than that. But now it’s his turn, and Thorn steps up with the light blade between his fingers, stilling as he aims and when he throws the knife he adds a little cushion of air magic to help the spin of the blade before it thunks into the target’s edge, too, far from the bullseye but at least not too terrible.
He'd said he was rusty, after all.
So it’s with an airy, playful smile that Thorn collects the knife and steps back with a sigh, stepping by the hulk competitor and flares another hint of that illusion magic to keep him on edge.
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones try to forget all them enemies and debts 'cause they'll just chase you round and give you sour dreams
The next knives flew in quick succession. Some stuck, some clattered to the dirt, and the crowd’s mood swung with every throw. The big man’s first knife buried itself near center again, splitting the wood with a crack that drew a chorus of coin changing hands. He bellowed, grinning wide, soaking in the chant of his name—until Thorn sidled past, grin all charm and voice low with some murmur Damien couldn’t quite catch. A beat later, the hulk’s nostrils flared, head jerking as if he’d scented something on the air. His grin faltered. The next knife he threw hit hard but crooked, sliding just shy of the bullseye, and the groan from the gamblers was thick with disappointment.
The laugh and tease Thorn lobbed his way earned only the lift of Damien’s brow. He answered it with a sip of rum, letting the burn slip down his throat as if he hadn’t just put on a show of mediocrity for half the crowd.
The pot had swelled high: a fat sack of coins, trinkets, blades, bottles—and at its center, the silver torque gleaming like a crown. Winner would take the lot.
Damien’s glass stayed in his hand as the knife came back around. He rolled the blade in his other palm once, easy, as if the weight didn’t matter. For a moment he just studied the board—its scars, its knots, the places steel chewed deepest—and then he breathed out slow, steady, letting the noise fade to a hum.
The throw was unhurried, smooth, a flick of the wrist as casual as brushing snow from a sleeve. Steel spun end-over-end, faster than before, and buried itself dead in the bullseye with a crack that silenced the dock for half a heartbeat.
Then the roar hit, sharp and chaotic. The barkers shouted, grabbing for the pile, before dropping it all—coins, scraps, and the torque gleaming atop it—into Damien’s reach with reluctant admiration.
He caught the torque in his free hand, the other still cradling his glass, and tipped the rum toward Thorn with the faintest of grins. “Not half bad.”
The moment barely had time to breathe before the grumble started. The big man’s scowl cut through the crowd, nostrils flaring again as his glare snapped between Damien and Thorn. “Bullshit,” he spat, voice thick and ugly. “No way you two walk off with my pot clean.” A ripple of unease ran through the gamblers, some shifting to pocket their losses, others leaning in like sharks scenting blood.
Damien didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t even look rattled—just took another sip and let his gaze turn to Thorn, a silent suggestion already clear in his stance.
Time to take their winnings and move before the crowd made up its mind.
09-25-2025, 12:33 PM (This post was last modified: 09-25-2025, 02:52 PM by Hawthorn.)
Oh, darling, if I ever cross your mind
As all of the events unfold, Thorn’s amusement is buried deep beneath the confident mask he wears as he watches the next throw. It cracks the dock with a thunder that’s only as loud as the crowd is after. The smirk that blooms across his face is buried behind the glass of rum he downs, focusing when the man he’s been distracting comes up.
“Shoulda been focused then, yeah?” Thorn says innocently, a sweet thrum from his tone of voice as he helps snag the rest of the pot that Damien hasn’t grabbed. He meets the other man’s gaze and nods, downing the rest of the glass and sets it in place of the empty space where the pot had been and begins to slip out, sparking some of his illusion magic behind them to make it appear faintly that they were slipping away into shadow.
