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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!
08-11-2025, 08:48 AM (This post was last modified: 08-11-2025, 08:48 AM by Ashetta.)
Ashe
Early dawn spills gold over the snow, painting Halo in a light it doesn’t deserve.
I’d flown in yesterday, wings carrying me over miles of frostbitten emptiness, the horizon carved sharp in winter’s hand. Yes—I’m still tracking her. I wouldn’t call it stalking, and “hovering” sounds far too soft, but… it is. Theea is grown, stubborn in all the ways I was, yet still I can’t loosen the tether in my chest. I know she’s safe in the Citadel for now, with plans to return home in the morning, so I force myself away from the gates. At first light, I’m gone.
This place… gods. Halo has teeth, and it’s bitten me before. The worst of my memories live here—more bitter than the Guild, sharper than any old wound.
Kalt’s death. That pain outweighs them all.
Maybe that’s why I find it easier to wear my furs here, shifting into a form that feels safer, a black wolf slipping through the shadows of the pines. I pad through underbrush, paws crunching on the thin crust of snow left in the night’s quiet hours. It won’t last the day, but it bites cold against my pads in a way I both love and hate. It drags me into the present—the scent of clean ice, the frost-laced branches, the sound of distant water—and keeps me from drowning in old grief.
I don’t like the cold, but I grew up in it. This stretch of Halo feels just enough like home and just different enough not to break me. I don’t have memories with Kalt here, though I know he’d have loved it—running with me through the trees, wind in our fur. The thought jabs deep in my chest, sharp and unkind.
It’s then that something cuts through the ache. A new scent on the air.
Familiar. Vaguely. I can’t place it, but it tugs at me like a frayed thread. My ears snap forward, sharp and alert, my head lowering toward the snow. Golden eyes narrow and gleam, catching the early light as my breath plumes in the cold, listening, searching the treeline.
Some of the Sword’s favorite moments were in the hues of dawn, where Halo haunted in all its mystique, glory, and power, nothing much more to be done but to be drawn into its predacious divides. Sometimes he was the stronghold, the guard, the shelter, the sanctity, and other times he couldn’t be anything more than particles in the wind either; and content to be in the throws of the wild, ancient winds regardless. He’d maneuvered across his region like a knife or a dagger, a cold, dark blade into the Leafchange parallels with naught more than freedom, liberation, and deliverance on his heels – whisking through massive paws and contorting strides, until there were no answering sounds but the screams of pheasants dying between his claws or fire or teeth.
Then he caught another’s scent on the wind – raising his nose to the air, snagging at information, at telltale notions of other predators on the horizon. Something familiar hovered just out of reach, like a vital clue he’d only disturbed once. He contemplated bothering at all – the frozen lengths of the tundra were full of creatures similar to him – but that devilish inquiry and curiosity drove him onward, following tracks and trails.
So when he eased out of the treeline, multiple birds in his maw, he spotted the black fur against the white snow easily – a wolf he’d happened to see before, but many, many years unraveled between. His ears flicked back and forth, blue eyes narrowing to specious developments, clearly trying to decipher – before he ultimately extended the notions first. Hello.
The figure breaks from the treeline in a spill of shadow over snow, and instinct pulls my hackles up before thought can temper it. He’s enormous—wolf-shaped, but heavier, broader through the shoulders, paws sinking deeper into the crust than mine ever could. My ears cant forward, then back, head lowering in wariness. The cold gnaws at my paws, but I stand my ground, muscles taut beneath my fur.
Not a wolf. Not exactly.
Hellhound.
The thought hits as I draw in his scent, threading past the copper tang of fresh kill—birds, still warm in his jaws—past the frost and pine resin. There, buried deep, is something that sparks against my memory like flint on stone. My ears twitch forward again, gold eyes narrowing as a faint plume of breath escapes me, curling up and vanishing in the golden dawn light.
Then his voice cuts into my mind, low and familiar, and the puzzle locks into place.
Deimos? The name leaves me with a note of uncertainty, the question carried in the tilt of my head and the subtle shift of my weight onto my hind paws.
I study him a moment longer, ears shifting in restless thought, another slow cloud of breath slipping from between my teeth.
I believe we met once… a long time ago. My daughter—Theea. She said she knows you.
Deimos was a master of patience and fortitude; waiting for something to erupt or fracture. When it was only uncertainty echoing, his name, an inquiry beginning to take form as recognition in his own mind – days spent within the Grounds, and venturing towards the Greatwood; like lifetimes before now. He merely snorted – instead the deepened rumble came as his head tilted in mirrors and echoes, amused. Ashetta?
More or less because he’d seen her daughter wandering within not long ago; with her daggers and knives and much like her mother in the way of yearning to render things apart – but with much less bloodshed. Until the void luxere attacked, ultimately.
A residual arch to his brow formed, habitual no matter the shift he took on, listening as memories conjured and contorted. Yes. She followed my hunting party out. Figuring this wouldn’t be much of a surprise, his eyes roamed elsewhere, studying the land, before rendered back to the black wolf. What brings you this way?
My jaws part in something that, on two legs, might have been a smile—here it’s a flash of teeth, not in threat but in recognition. The golden light spills over us, catching on the faint steam curling from my breath, my chest rising and falling with a sharper edge now that memory has a face to match. My ears tip forward, tail shifting in a slow arc behind me, and I lift my head, pride flickering in my gaze.
I’m proud of her, I tell him, voice carrying both warmth and relief. For holding her own with you. It’s no small feat to keep up with Deimos, and I don’t pretend otherwise. Another cloud of breath escapes as I dip my head slightly, not in submission but in gratitude. And… thank you. For making sure she was safe.
The honesty comes easier than I expect. My paws shift in the snow, the thin crust breaking beneath them with a crisp crunch, grounding me in the present. I’ve been staying close to her, habitually, I suppose. She's in the Citadel. The words come quieter, my ears angling back a fraction. I wasn’t ready to let her go. To see her age so swiftly, thanks to Frey.
I breathe out, the cold biting the inside of my nose as another pale cloud rises and vanishes. So I follow. Not to smother, just… to be close. My gaze lingers on him, measuring whether that sounds like the truth it is—or the lie I keep trying to convince myself of.
He snorted at the flash of teeth; incapable of doing so in return with the kills all protruding from his mouth, blood spilling over the snow, but better than an alternative, he supposed. He wouldn’t put it past her to be lunging and full of daggers of her own accord for any reason; the Sword was simply hard-pressed to do so unless someone wore over his fortitude and slammed into the emblazoned steel.
But he could sense the pride, and his ears flicked back and forth again, catching words and fragments, the comprehending nuances. I think she was…shocked, initially. She recovered well. Coming face to face with creatures that wanted nothing more than to annihilate one’s existence did have a certain gravitas – especially when woefully unprepared. And you are welcome. As he would’ve done so with mostly anyone – unless they were an enemy, or they purposefully irritated him. There were scores enough of those individuals around to leave them drifting amidst the corpses and predators, letting the world send them to an early grave.
But Theea hadn’t been that – perfectly willing to accept advice and swing her knife so that it struck true. I did offer her a spot in the guild if she wanted, in case her mother wasn’t aware – brow arching at the notion of the Accepted spending more of her time in the Citadel. Not many came to prowl and visit.
The admittance thereafter though would be something he’d also have to eventually get over on his own – when it came to Erebos or Amhran; perhaps some growing pains already discovered in Kiada. He hadn’t deigned to visit those feelings – too immersed in other semblances of the world shifting around them. Understandable. He wouldn’t pretend he did much the same, but his was a toddler and a Raeling grown from a plant. We do many things to ensure our loved ones are safe. He fought in wars and galvanized a region with weapons and defenses.
Wondering if Theea knew her mother was tracking her, he pondered over the inquiry rattling through his brain, but then figured it didn’t much matter; not his business. Instead, he offered an alternative, places to put wariness, brandished within vehemence and liberating outlets. Looking for something to do? Saw a flock of ningos nearby to harass.
If I were standing on two legs, I’d smirk outright, picturing Theea’s face in that first moment—the sharp flash of shock giving way to those swift, sure movements Kalt and I drilled into her from the moment she could hold a blade.
My brows lift, the lupine curve of them high at the mention of the guild. She did tell me about it, I say, tone carrying a note of quiet approval. What does she need to do to become one of you?
While I wait for his answer, my thoughts slip inwards, down old and jagged paths—into the harrows and trials I’ve waded through for the sake of those I love. All the things I gave up without hesitation—a finger, my freedom, my immortality, more. All the people I didn’t protect well enough. The list is far longer than I like to think about.
I’m grateful when Deimos breaks it, pointing the way toward something else. Something simple. My tail sways once, twice behind me. I lower my head a little, breath pluming white in the golden dawn. Hell yeah. Lead the way.
Not much, he laughed through the bond, a deep rumble as he shook his head and several feathers dwindled down to the ground. If she wants to make things official, she can come see me at the guild sometime. There she’d be able to root around and discover things for herself – the massive library, the bounties on the wall, the layers and lacquer that had gone into the building and organization.
When she said nothing more about protection, he figured it’d either hit a nerve or deliberated with comprehension. Regardless, he said nothing more on the subject. Both of them had enough paths and roads traversed to understand the juxtapositions of protection and sacrifice.
Besides, there were birds to annoy.
He gave another singular arch of his hellhound brow before the acceptance came – and he snorted, plumes of air filtering through his nostrils, and then he was on the move. Still clutching the fowl tight in his jaws, his long strides swept down the well-trodden path, and then through a cluster of trees, a tight-knit grove, sleek, swift, and fast, perhaps to see how venturous the wolf was feeling.
Then I’ll have to ask her why she hasn’t done it yet, if she’s so interested, I say, voice curling with a dry sort of amusement. Sometimes she's more shy than she seems. My brow quirks in return to his, and one side of my mouth lifts higher than the other—a crooked, lupine smirk that bares the faintest glint of fang.
And then the Deimos is leading the way.
He slips from the path like a shadow loosed from its anchor, long strides cutting through the snow in clean, powerful arcs. I lope after him, paws punching through the thin crust with soft, rhythmic crunches. My breath streams in steady clouds, curling and vanishing in the golden light that spills low across the tundra.
When he veers sharply into a narrow thicket, I pivot without hesitation, falling into his wake. The world narrows to the line of his powerful frame ahead, the trail of his scent on the cold air. This rhythm is muscle-deep for me—Kalt and I spent hours like this after he became a hybrid, moving as one creature, weaving through the world at speed. I’d learned to read the smallest flick of an ear, the subtlest shift in weight, and follow without thought.
Running with another wolf—even one built from hellfire and shadow—touches something I didn’t realize I’d been starving for. It’s an unexpected balm, a fleeting stitching over the frayed edges of old wounds. My heart hammers in my chest, loud as war drums. My lungs drink the cold until they burn, and my legs stretch to devour the ground, every stride blurring the white and gold of Halo into streaks of light and shadow.
He could only shrug at the implications; there could be a myriad of things. Perhaps she’d changed her mind. There’d been other notions to consider. A horde of other challenges looming ahead and around. But he’d also never been one to pressure anyone – so he presumed Theea would meander her way through the guild hall on her own time. The shyness made him snort though, given his own introverted way of persisting amidst the world. I could always assign her a task, if that is more her style. He gave a houndish smirk in response, and then there were other things to focus upon.
He didn’t unfurl fully – not yet – not until he saw Ashetta was more than capable of keeping pace. Only then did he unleash all those semblances of cold-hearted liberation, the kind lurking through predacious endeavors and raptorial predilections, melding and meshing with the snow. Strides swept and turned, launching over logs and collectively toiling through the underbrush – swift, keen, sure, certain. The wild was a haven for him; where he could express those more vehement tendencies always so carefully corded away – where control wasn’t wholly necessary, where he could unleash and calculate the finer points of violence and nothing more.
He inhaled, catching the scent of the flock again, and rushed across the grove, until he came to a sudden halt, then blended his frame into the shadow of a few towering trees. Just around the fallen log, he warned the fellow hybrid. We can ambush them from the sides, unless she had a different plan. Sometimes the rush straight into the cluster of bewildered birds was enough.
A challenge. I think that's wise; she should earn her place, I say as we run. I match him stride for stride, lengthening my gait when his pace quickens. It’s as if my paws already know the rhythm of this forest—though it’s not familiarity, it’s instinct. Every root is stepped over cleanly, every fallen log cleared in a smooth leap, every rabbit hole skirted without pause. My heart thuds heavy in my chest in time with my paws, the sound echoing in my ears, and it feels good. Wonderful. My legs stretch far, muscles pulling and releasing in time with the larger beast ahead of me.
I’ve always been a little feral by nature, and the wolf in me… she’s been waiting her whole life for moments like this. Every time I let her loose, a little more of the joy I’d lost along the way comes back.
When he pulls up short through a grove, I slow with a bounce of my forepaws, tongue lolling, breath huffing in visible clouds. My gaze catches on how he all but vanishes into the shadow of the trees, the dark of his coat dissolving against the trunks and frost. My jaws snap shut as I draw in a breath, scenting the air—there. The flock.
Ningos. Fat, white-feathered birds, their meat rich and their down lining coats and hats across Halo. My mouth waters without thought. I’ve eaten raw before; my instincts remember the taste. And they remember how satisfying it is to scatter a flock just for the hell of it.
I nod once to his ambush suggestion, a flash of approval in my eyes. I like your style, I murmur through the bond.
Circling around the fallen log, I sink low into the snow, my belly nearly brushing the crust. My tail stills, ears pricked forward, every muscle locked in waiting. My eyes track the movement of the birds, already picturing the eruption of wings and chaos. I glance once toward him, holding steady, ready for his signal.
Making a mental note about challenges, he nodded, and then there were motions blurred against stark white, the invitation into brutality with all its malicious edges. The ningos were their residential fowl; inept, irritating, and idiotic, a curse most of the time. But they were useful, and even if they didn’t render these apart, feathers and fat and meat could be utilized easily.
He withheld a bark of laughter at her statement, sending naught more than amusement through Attuned tethers anyway; there were other notions to fixate upon. Placing the pheasants down, where he’d remember to collect them afterwards, he didn’t bother lowering his frame. It was a far too encompassing thing, but tended to the shadows easily, rendered in the lack of light. But he watched as she circled around, waiting for the opportunity.
And there the birds twittered and fluffed, none the wiser, dumb and dim, rolling about in the snow. No need for any elaborate plans.
Now, he signaled, before his own eruption of movement and motion. If the beasts had been paying attention to any noise or smell, they would’ve noticed them long before – but they held to their namesakes, bewildered, stupefied, and shrieking, as the blackened course of his Stygian frame lunged. Powerful and potent layers launched gracefully into the thicket, jaw enclosing over tailfeathers as one intended to take off and never made it airborne. The rest spiraled and surged, some ultimately towards Ashetta, others amidst inane circles, the confusion and chaos collected, contorted, searing at nerves.
The second his signal sparks through the bond, I launch. Snow scatters under my paws, the cold air tearing through my lungs as the flock erupts in a blur of white wings. A few bolt straight toward me, panic in their beady eyes, and my jaws snap shut around the first one—there’s the satisfying crunch of hollow bone, the warm burst of blood flooding my mouth.
I shake it loose, letting the limp weight drop into the snow, and wheel on the next. A sharp bark drives a pair upward, wings beating frantically, and I leap after another that makes the mistake of running. My teeth clamp down on tailfeathers, yanking it back to the ground with a muffled squawk.
The flock scatters, flutters, and stumbles around me, and I’m grinning inside the wolf, tail wagging in a steady, eager rhythm as I dart after another, just for the hell of it. The chaos is loud and messy, exactly as it should be.
The shrieking contained within his maw ceased almost immediately after; one crunch enough to sever spines and cords, before he was onto the next. Rapid, churning movements; muscles bound and unwound in a series of seconds and instances, brought to feral disregard and predacious discord as fangs settled into another striving to bound for escape. Punctured, pierced, and laid down at its brethren’s still, prone feet, he persisted onward – leaping to catch another in its mid-flight crescendo.
The panic was a sight to see – clusters of ivory feathers raining down upon them – spiraling en masse and delusion. He could hear several changing course, maybe considering arming themselves to come peck eyes out or irritate, annoy, until they were gone – two decided to be bolder forces and charged, streamlining for Ashetta.
And three for him.
He let out a deep, rumbling bark that scattered one immediately, defecting to the east, as the other two sharpened their audacity, and he ducked, swiveled, from beaks, from outstretched wings, only to lunge back, snag at the end of plumage and tear.
