descent @sweet-temperedsludge

               my    ( b e c o m i n g )   was not  gentle

                              i was  FORGED  in flames… 

                                    i was tempered by pain and the fires                                         that scorched through my veins 

                               i was broken, again and again

                                      melted down

                                                  remade 

                                                            reforged

                           until  n o t h i n g  remained of who i’d been before

boredofcinder‌:

Lothric offered little more than silence and grave nods while the Rat King addressed them.  By the time the Rat King leaves, it’s hard to tell whether he’s asleep, even for Lorian.  But he rallies and thanks Mire for showing them the way once the King is gone.

“If you ever find you are not comfortable with a request made to benefit us,” he continues, in almost a whisper, “say… something about the weather.  Or propose your own code, the specifics matter not.  So soon as you have indicated discontent, you need not explain further, I will not accept the favor.”

Lorian nods in agreement as he follows Mire.  He’s on board.

“You’ll find no clothes in my size, skulking about the castle,” Lothric continues, with wry amusement.  “It was my duty to lead a humble life and wear only these rags.  By now, they are threadbare and held together in large part by inexpert repairs.  If you had asked me, as a child, if I liked to wear only rags, I would have told you most readily that I did.  If I had told you I did not, I would have been swiftly punished.  I’ll not put another in a position to say they like any given intrusive duty for fear of consequence.”

By the end of his explanation, his tone is absent and defeated  He’s slipped back into thoughts of how pointless it is to try.  Insulting, even.  If he really cared about Mire or politics between rats and humans, he’d waste no time in delivering himself to Firelink Shrine.  It may even be too late.  The sun was a smoldering coal in the sky when he last saw it.  He has no way of knowing how long they have left.  For all he knows, the Fire could fade in the next few hours.  He can’t bring himself to even mention the coming end to Mire or the King of Rats.  If they really got to thinking about it, they might feel overwhelmed by the danger they’re in and change their minds.  If they’d shelter him at all, maybe they never understood the danger in the first place.  All he’s accomplished here is duping good people into helping him, so he can have ten more seconds to live instead of eight, at the expense of everybody’s lives.  And he can’t even tell if he has the decency to regret it.  All he wants right now is the chance to go to sleep, and he can’t make himself want anything more noble.  Their mother is out there somewhere trying to raise their brother Ocelotte to have a better life than the dark plans their father had for him, and still all Lothric wants to do is sleep.  Genuinely wanting to die for the world feels no more within his reach than flying.  It might have been possible if he’d been born another sort of creature.  But he wasn’t.  

Lorian is sternly unimpressed.  The apocalypse isn’t Lothric’s doing, the fire was always going to fade, he never asked for the burden of restoring it.  And it wasn’t supposed to be possible for anyone to link the Fire this far into its smoldering.  Their father did unspeakable things to make Lothric’s soul powerful.  Why validate that?  Why not reject a path like that, as he should have done?  And is unwilling human sacrifice ever a correct answer, regardless?  And the cycles only grow shorter each time the Flame is rejuvenated.  His death would hardly provide a tangible future for anybody.  And if he supported a system of human sacrifice, some wicked bastard would try to create Lothric all over again.  They’d either succeed and produce another whimpering victim, or they’d leave a sobering body count trying.

Lothric agrees with every point Lorian has.  They’ve beaten the subject to death between themselves many times over.  But he still doesn’t know what to do with this sudden glimpse of what could have been if the world was not ending.  To glimpse what he could have had is to glimpse what he’s taking away from others.  And he’s not sure at all that it’s his place to expect any but himself and Lorian to agree to their perspective.

“Mire,” Lothric whispers suddenly.  “I have led an isolated life, and you and your King are the kindest strangers I have ever met.  Please tell him that.  I missed my opportunity.  Please, tell him.  Please.”

The walls quickly closed in on the trio, darkening the area considerably, though not so much that they had to ignite a fire in their hand again, yet. Off this tunnel were several more, with equally large, arching doorways. Evidence of the size of creature which had gouged these paths were apparent in the raked lines on the stone, several inches farther apart from one another than the claws of rats. One pitch-black entrance echoed faintly of a deep, slightly asynchronous breathing. 

If the presence of the larger beings upset Mire, they didn’t show it. Though, listening to Prince Lothric regale them of his youth creased their features. They were not exactly one to talk of finery, as it was beyond them to discuss what things humans liked and disliked, but the idea of being forced into a humbled position against one’s will set them on edge, their shoulders tense as they led the brothers, frequent glances backwards indicating their intent listening. 

It was not as though they had nothing to say on the subject, only that it did not feel like their place to slander those who had molded Prince Lothric to their apparent whims. How could such cruelty be tolerated by his peers? Their master was right: humans brought nothing but filth in their wake. 

They should do something for the princes. Perhaps when they left to see what they could scrounge from the castle, they could seek out the materials with which to fashion Prince Lothric some proper clothes. While not exactly a hand at sewing, Mire had been mending and hemming and piecing together their own garments for quite a long time now; they wanted to imagine it would only be a matter of working on a much larger scale. A hand lowered to their belt for their parchment to jot the idea down as they walked, but it quickly occurred to them that they’d given the pad and pen away for Prince Lorian to use. They’d remember, surely, the servant decided. 

Stopping in front of an entrance that looked no different from the others, several minutes into the tunnel, Mire stood aside and gestured the brother princes in. “Here we are,” they said brightly. Just inside the makeshift doorway was a kind of piecemeal curtain made of foraged fabrics for some semblance of privacy, thusly tied back by twine. Opposite it was an oil lamp, which Mire promptly lit for their guests. 

The chamber was wide, but had a squat ceiling, just inches taller than the hole which led into it, and shaped roughly like a rectangle, with two walls shorter than the others. Along the entire length of one such wall was the literal nest itself, scavenged from soft, dried plant matter, torn cotton fibers, and straw, covered with a heap of various tanned suede and animal furs, all lying helter-skelter to cover the itchier substances. Equally so, the rest of Mire’s belongings were quite the mess: books, scrolls, and myriad writing implements took up most of the space, as well as a sort of table made from stacked stones and mud. Anything interesting they had discovered the rest of the world had no desire for ended up amid their collection-- ancient coins, bobbles, useless knick-knacks, even some jewelry laid in seemingly random order upon the far wall of hand-hewn shelves. The farthest corner from the nest harbored spare pieces of armor, whetstones, and spare tunics and breeches. 

“I... Understand it is not much, of course,” they started, rather wishing they had a chance to tidy their space a little before the princes would be sleeping in it. “But, ah-- Y- You are welcome to anything, of-- of course. I- I have quite a few things to read, f- for example.” 

Hearing Prince Lothric speak with such gravity made them stand stark upright, staring into his boundless eyes automatically. Before they realized they were doing it, Mire nodded enthusiastically. “I-- Yes-- Yes, y- yes, of course, Your Highness. I-- I- I would be happy to.” 

[ A really clever April Fools prank: actually doing all my fucking replies. ]

londoria‌:

What a dump, Yuria observed dryly as she trudged through the sewers that were remarkably filthy, yet it seemed fitting for beings disregarded by the late royal family that had once ruled these lands. For what were the denizens of the dark but rats that scurried under the feet of the gods? They were alike, in that way. Seen as pests no better than to be crushed underfoot or weeded out with fire. 

What place in Lordran was whole any longer, preserved in anything but an echo of glory? This alone was reason enough that the need for an Age of Dark was so desperately needed. The Age of Fire was barely a flickering light on a candlewick sagged with ages of wax with the chosen ones burning themselves down until some new fool was chosen to burn and burn again. 

Through was she taken until she came upon the Rat King himself, beady eyes reflecting light like pearls of onyx in the dark. A morbidly pretty juxtaposition, she supposed. By the tips of her claws did the cunning Yuria cross her legs behind in a curtsy, deserving or not as it was. Mockery was sometimes a tool in her arsenal, after all.

“May the Dark Sign preserve thee, Your Majesty,” Yuria began grandly, hand held in dubious sincerity to her chest. “I come with no ill tidings, Majesty, as so many might be privy to. Nay, instead I come questing alliance between our great powers. I, as head of Londor, and thyself whom’st I know wields power beyond even knowing the dead Sun Lord.” She smiled impishly beneath her mask, unable to be discerned so readily. 

“Indeed, these are grim tidings, are they not? Where duplicity is exchange’d far more easily than even camaraderie as it was in the old, gallant days. Why, all seem to scheme, do they not? Aborb’d in thy petty schemes, and such rot as that.” Like her, perhaps? Truly, she had no machinations for the Rat King and his ilk. Not now, for they seemed only a living species that was among the few left in all the realms. Useful enough for spying, the only service she could think of, if not the spread of diseases. Though, surely they’d be affronted by such a craven consideration. 

“If not, I shalt be upon mine way. For I’ve no need to dally, no threat to pose upon thee and thine folk.” Indeed, for her machinations were hers alone and with it, the desire to usher in the Age of Dark at long last and end this tired, decrepit Age of Fire.

Someone had not actively sought his audience for what felt like centuries, and this was hardly the place for political talks-- though, as he imagined himself not exactly to be the picture of the king he used to be, perhaps he would never be in so-called proper sorts for such discussions again. He ans his servant spared a moment to glance at one another, silently, equally baffled for a moment. A younger Rat King might have hopped down onto the ground to face the strange woman directly, but her unreadable mask set him slightly on edge. 

What record existed in this rotted world of his ancient kingdom, for this undead to have knowledge of he and his titles? He didn’t know her agenda, only that he had one, and that evidently involved an apparent use for his kindred, however few their numbers were. Distrust immediately knotted in his belly; no, he decided, he would be staying right here upon his servant’s shoulder. 

Their small fire cast her black-clad form in long, wavering shadows, outlining a regal if not admittedly eerie shape, though Mire tried their damnedest not to allow their distaste to display on their face, endeavoring simply to watch hers and their master’s exchange without speaking. Talks of the Darksign in particular made the middle of their chest ache, but they assumed the reaction to be psychosomatic.

Once the initial shock had worn off, the King of Rats found himself sorely disliking the overly-formal speech patterns she exhibited; whether she was just so pompous, or thought one of his age would appreciate the gesture, he cared naught. “Speak freely,” he urged after a considerable pause. “I wouldst, at the very least of all, listen of thine offer.” Sitting up, his forepaws balanced steadily on the human servant’s pauldron. “Thou art of the land of hollows.” It wasn’t a question. “I pray thou wouldst forgive me my ignorance of thy eminence. It behooves us little to maintain relations with humankind.”

retiretomysilence‌:

Warmth. What would it even feel like, how could he even fathom warmth, trapped in this perpetual damp fog for untold years? On occasion he dreamt of flames, the primal comfort of the bonfire after a long, bloody battle on frozen Forossan plains, and awoke with the lingering embers gnawing his fingertips until they faded–until those fingers, too, faded from memory. Considering all this, he suddenly felt very, very old.

The man had gone quiet, yet returned to conversation with no apparent urgency; the pace of talk required practice and he was dreadfully out-of-rhythm. “Your offer is certainly kind. But I could never impose upon your home.” He smiled underneath his helm. “From what I can recall, I believe there are grassy fields beyond these woods; if you have made it this far without danger, perhaps you may pursue onward and find some moss.”

This turnaround startled them a little. There was a small part of Mire that appreciated the consideration for their ability to keep their smaller charges safe, however his refusal furrowed their brow deeply. “A- Are you certain?” the servant couldn’t keep behind their teeth. Fumbling anew, they amended, “A- R- Rather-- You have-- have been so v- very kind to us, g- good sir. We, er, w- we would be honored t- to repay you.” 

Shifting for a moment on their feet, they looked over their shoulder, into the dense, whispering woods, laden with snow and unseen groaning things. It was not that they particularly wanted to continue along the worn path-- indeed, they worried for their ability to navigate backwards, should the break in the weather not hold-- but the sore need for replenishing food supplies urged them in the direction of venturing onward. 

One of their compatriots sneezed, another fussing over his comrade for a moment. Mire frowned. “I... Perhaps, y- you would think a- about it?” they tried. “We-- We will be returning this way a- anyhow.”

brumetowerassassin‌:

“I’ve heard of - oh by the gods.”

That was partially out of awe, and partially out of a very slight hint of fear. Aye, he never went down to the doors simply because of the sheer possibility of getting lost in the area, and the scorpioness that guards the entrance usually accessible was never known to be nice; everything was entirely new, and those hulking warriors with weapons at least three times as large as he was?

Not one that he wants to pick a fight with.

Maldron eyed the knights wearily as he passed by them. They met him back with an unwavering,  yet soulless gaze.

Paying little attention to the mammoth beasts, Mire offered little more than a weary, slightly hesitant wave. One or two snuffled at the pair, but otherwise gave them a wide berth, milling about or standing statuesque in the frigid water. 

The servant was more than eager to stop being wet, taking long steps and hurrying Maldron forward in the direction of a ladder carved from the almost greenish stone ahead. “N- Navigating up there,” they gestured at the catwalks with an upturned palm, “is-- is admittedly m- much more, er, agreeable. I- I think.” Sparing a thought to extinguish their pyromancy, with the growing, albeit dim light, they gestured for him to start up the ladder first. 

Equally unperturbed by the groundwater, the population of rats grew the farther inside the two traveled, going about their rodent business like a well-oiled machine. A few paused on small hills and shook themselves, trading small, white stones with one another before continuing on their way. 

conceited? you mean well aware of who the fuck i am? absolutely

Enjoy some photos from Dark Souls 2: Scholar of the First Sin.

fishermcn‌:

@sweet-temperedsludge

A three hour journey into a tunnel so narrow the walls on both sides scrape against his shoulders and so short he walked with a bend in his back better suited for a man thrice his age, and the sheer relief Sam felt is nearly palpable. 

For a month’s time he’d been trapped in that ramshackle village of broken down houses and people above this shrouded maze, scrounging for what little food and drink there was to find in the miserable place when his nerve wouldn’t betray him. The ones with sense enough to speak plain rather than in riddles called it Majula, home to any and all things that belonged to nothing and no one anymore; a where for something to go when there was only nowhere before. 

A fitting place for one such as himself had it not been for the ceaseless roar of the ocean in your ears and the sight of the pitch waters in your eyes no matter how tightly shut either were. It was everywhere in that place, echoing in the wooden walls and shaking the rotten roofs fierce enough to fear for yourself. No matter how closely he’d pressed himself into a dark corner, no matter how desperate he’d been to shut it out, there was putting it out of mind, no passing of that torment. It sought to drag him without mercy back into the memories of home he’d locked away, and the nights and days were unrelentingly cruel in their reminders.

But here, enveloped in the damp darkness of the underground with nothing but mere sparks of light to guide his way, there was no biting wind howling from the tops of cresting ocean waves. There was no violent crashing of the sea against the sheer cliff faces, no heavy stench of the churning waters burning his nose or thick salt on the air to further ruin an already scorched throat. There was no sign or symptom of the dread tide here, no mention of the depths that thought to drag him down along with all the rest…

Here… Here he was safe from the sea. Safe from what dwelt beneath its waves, seen or unseen.

But maybe not from whatever keeps making that sound, Sam groused, a frown pulling at his face from beneath his cloak. They’d begun nearly an hour or so ago, a quiet rustling of claws against stone and a bit of muted chittering here and there. Subtle enough to slip the notice of an untrained mark, but the ears of a hunter as paranoid and well-trained as himself they were hard to miss. Something, or rather several somethings had it in mind to stalk him down here… maybe it was time to catch them in the act.

Coming to a sudden stop, he reached within his cloak and lifted something from the satchel at his side. Holding aloft the near painfully warm jar in his hand, he gave it a vigorous shake, stirring the butterflies within into taking renewed flight. Their flapping wings flared to life, and for a few seconds the tunnel is brightly illuminated, chasing away the veil of darkness in favor of revealing the culprit behind the noises he’d been hearing. Craning his neck back and forth, he scanned the path ahead and behind him for any sign of a stalker, sharp eyes narrowed in their search.

But there was nothing waiting for him; nothing save a few holes similar to a few he had already seen in passing earlier. Kneeling next to one, he peered in, finding only a few weathered scratches in the uneven stone and a bit of old coarse fur for his troubles.

With an annoyed shake of the head, Sam returned to his half-bent height and pressed on, the light slowly giving way to the darkness from before as the flame butterflies calmed down. Whatever they were, they didn’t seem too keen on revealing itself to him… at least not yet.

This stink was an unfamiliar stink, and it was for this reason that the rats gave this invader a wide berth. The human had yet to pose any particular threat beyond his mere presence, which had thus far stayed curved talons and yellowed incisors, but it was this wretched smell, trapped inside the confines of the narrow burrow corridors that unsettled the subterranean denizens most of all. 

It was damp and mineral, but not like that of the underground spring water which ran farther below, an acrid tang clinging to their hides and tongues when the rats breathed it in, like just getting a whiff of a poison-laced piece of food. Those without their beady eyes locked on the stranger almost manically picked at one another’s fur, trying to be rid of the salty stench to the best of their abilities. 

The captain of the vanguard received word from his underlings as they scouted, and this unusual, upsetting news was brought then to the Rat King, posthaste. His decree was swift and unwavering: none of his kindred were to engage with the presumed human until he and his servant had deemed the situation managed. Sending the maned captain away, the small monarch climbed onto the loam-covered stone and sought out his charge. 

Already, they were apprised of the commotion, the undead bent low at the waist to offer soothing whispers and cast a warm, glowing pyromancy light in the space afore their own nest. The dozen or so rats gathered there grew silent, though their taut postures betrayed their unease. In the midst of them, the servant knelt, already clad in their scavenged armor, at the presence of their king, sword balanced heavily upon one shoulder. 

“Arise,” the Rat king spake, his authoritative tone hushed for the easily echoing walls, not bearing such pleasantries in the face of uncompleted tasks. “There is work to be done.” 

In silence, save for the soft whine of steel-on-steel, his servant nodded and rose, falling in line behind their master as he led the way. 

The vanguard captain had offered an approximate trajectory, given that the trespasser had arrived from a slightly southerly direction, and the Rat King plotted their route with this in account, hoping to find the invader by moving backwards along his presumed path. Much to the chagrin of his appointed protector, the King of Rats led the pair with his servant in tow; they dimmed their flame to a dull ember hidden in their fist, but their pace still resounded a chorus of chain link and metal with every step, much opposed to the small monarch’s all but non-existent padding. 

Marching with the utmost confidence in the darkness, it wasn’t long before the moist, slightly sticky scent assailed the Rat King, his nose twitching with distaste of it. A foreign, upright shape came into view, though no details were yet discernible, and he planted himself in the middle of the tunnel, sitting back on his haunches. “Halt, human,” he commanded, raising his voice enough that it echoed through the nearest caverns. “What bringest thou into mine domain?”

@fishermcn​ 

retiretomysilence‌:

Assist him? Ah, in another life, for one to ever dare offer him assistance… “You should care for my well-being so?” he inquired, eyes bright with surprise. “One you have only just met, and in such a state?” How curious; he felt very much like those rats sniffing about, interested in every minute thing. “You are a strange one indeed…”

They felt their face burn terribly hot in spite of the frigid weather, and were suddenly filled with gratitude for their helm and the cover it provided them. Mire did not want to assume the body-less fellow was less fortunate than they and their charges; indeed, he appeared quite well-adjusted and fine off as he was. Still, they were uncertain if it was their lot in life as a servant, or if pity welled up in their chest for is predicament. Mire told themself it was simply repayment of his genteel kindness for abiding their intrusion, but still the question gnawed itself into a knot in their midriff. “A- Ah...” 

Companions sitting quite patiently now that their protector was the only one conversing, all of the rats brought their forepaws to their chests and looked up at the undead expectantly, which just worsened their embarrassment. 

Swallowing, they took a deep breath of the cold air. “Y- Yes, sir,” they affirmed, though it was unclear if they were referring to his acknowledgement of their consideration, or their strangeness. “I-- W- We could offer shelter. Warmth. A-- A dry bed...” 

brumetowerassassin‌:

“Doors of Pharros? I see what you’re thinking.” His smirk might as well been drawn right on the face of his helmet as he followed, sloshing through the water. It didn’t bother him as much; he’d lived in Eleum Loyce for a large portion of his life after all, and treading through snow that often would go up to his knees means getting used to it with his numerous invasions there.

“I remember the stories, the legends, of what dangers there stands in the doors of Pharros. Mastodons, and all that.” Maldron glances around him, though he hadn’t lowered his guard, even if the smugness was still there in his voice with every step they went.

Just because he was more likely to run away than to fight, doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to… there was a reason he earned the name he carried today. Heh, those who run away live longer after all.

The winding arches and troughs of the Doors was a much more defensible position of course, though having the great, beastly knights and the Gyrm at their disposal certainly had not hampered their decision to show Maldron there. In the pit of their stomach, they did regret it, however, worrying that the assassin might have decided that, in the event of another situation such as this, he could simply waltz inside and be protected by the rat kingdom, willy nilly. Mire’s master would not stand for such a thing, of course, but they would have preferred not to have him fret over it in the first place. 

A yawning cavern opened before the pair, Mire’s pyromancy only illuminating a few feet around them, the rest of the landscape lost to the perpetual, underground darkness. Remaining on this scaffold kept the two close to an earthen wall, oozing with endless slime and refuse seeping down from above, which even the rat servant endeavored not to scrape with their pauldron. Below, the scratching of nails and the moans of hollows echoed back and forth across the remainder of the cave, lost amid the endless night. 

“Th- The mastodon knights brokered peace with-- with my master,” Mire informed Maldron as they walked, trying to muffle their footsteps but not quite managing it. Each pace was accompanied by the scratch of steel-on-steel and the slight, slogging sound of their damp boots. “A- After-- After the kingdom fell, I- I am told. They will hear us c- coming.” 

[ Itinerary for the night: ]  [ i. Consume sustenance. ]  [ ii. Make a dent in these drafts piling up. ] 

(ima make prints if people are into this) thing.bigcartel.com

this is a blog that will not judge you based on your ability to be grammatically correct / fluent in the english language. meaning, if you’re having difficulty replying to a thread because of language barriers — i will be 100% empathetic. meaning, i won’t reblog posts critically bashing roleplayers based on their writing style, because i don’t know the struggles that each person goes through in regards to writing. meaning, i won’t nitpick little grammatical errors in your reply.

please don’t ever feel inferior because english is your second language or you have a disability that keeps you from formulating “the perfect sentence.” the fact that you’re trying is enough, and you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. 

please sir thats my emotional support body on a murderous rampage 

One of my favourite ds2 characters, yes.