thelonesomegyrm
Gyrm Fortress
An RP blog for a wandering dwarf with an alcohol problem and a desire for souls - or is it a souls problem and a desire for alcohol? He just can't remember.
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“Gavlan always thought Gavlan more of, urrh... Anarcho-Capitalist.”
After a pause, the Gyrm lifted his mug and took another, long drink - whatever vestige of unexpected clarity those words had come from broke up like biscuits in milk.
“Urh... With Gavlan, you wheel?”
Today’s Republican Character Of The Day Is:
Lonesome Gavlan (Dark Souls 2)
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It - he - seemed to be a dwarf, except that he was easily over six feet tell and about as wide. Somehow he simultaneously looked like a mighty, heavily armored warrior and a harmless ball of beard and fluff, and his wide-stepped, stumbling walk as he approached a few steps did little to dispel the disparity.
Spotting the raised shield - which, given the rather imposing spike on the end, really wasn’t far removed from a weapon - he raised his own hands, holding the mug up at the same time. “Gavlan only have mug! Gavlan friend, yes? Not foe!” After a moment’s hesitation the dwarf tilted the mug back, downing a gulp of the stuff.. Siegmeyer would briefly be assaulted by a truly dreadful scent before the cloth coverlet was replaced. Whatever was in there, it smelled like a whole beer distillery...
The dwarf let out a burp, one hand wiping his ‘mouth’ - the helmet not having been lifted at all, seemingly drinking through his beard. “Hurrh. Gavlan only mer- merk... Gavlan sell things. Gavlan wheel, Gavlan deal.” He punctuated that word with a slap to the mug, which made a splashing sound.
Something rotund and bumbling passed Siegmeyer by - before undergoing an abrupt about face and turning straight towards him. What a curious creature it was - stout but huge, clad in thick, shoddily crafted armor of iron plates hanging on cloth, with a pair of massive axes slung across its back - and a cloth-covered mug hanging on its belt. Its head was hidden beneath a bell-shaped helmet, but an enormous red beard protruded from beneath. "... Uhhhr...? Gavlan wonder, does Gavlan know you?"
What on earth was he looking at.
Siegmeyer took a defensive stance, not yet readying his sword, but rather, holding his shield out in case the beast lunged–
-and now it talks. This was unsettling.
“What…?”
#RP#radoniondad#((Decided to wake this blog up again))#((Felt in the mood for goofy dorf shenanigans))
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Looking upon such a scene, some would feel pity - pity that such an obviously splendid warrior has fallen so low. Some would feel fear, for who could stop the drunken rage of a man so powerful? Others, perhaps, would feel curiosity - what might lay one so low that they end up like that?
Gavlan feels none of these things.
Gavlan sees only the potential of a deal.
The knight would be interrupted by the overly casual clearing of a throat, as the Gyrm placed a fist over his mouth - his own, that is. The g- How had he gotten up there? There was no ladder, how could he possibly...?
Galvan interrupted those lingering, inconvenient questions by thrusting out his hand abruptly, beaming beneath his beard and helmet - not that the Lord could see that, naturally. "Hello!" he said, as cheerful as his smile. "Gavlan remember you! You, uhh, Gavlan friend!"
After a moment, he gave the bottle a casual look over. "Gavlan, uhr... Not help but notice, friend have not much drink left. Gavlan wonder... Perhaps Gavlan help?" The Gyrm folded his hands in front of himself innocently, full of bumbling curiosity that concealed a core of... Well, bumbling curiosity, but with a bit of a plan hidden somewhere.
The hulking mass of black steel that smells like fermented grapes and loneliness? Yeah, it’s him. Perched on the edge of a ruined temple roof like an enormous cormorant, the Old Dragonslayer lifts the bottle to his lips.
The Cathedral’s reserves are running dry.
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((You've met Saint Nick and Kris Kringle and the Russian Ded Moroz...
Mikulas and Kerstmann and old Julenissen...
But do you recall...
... The least famous Santa of all?
Gavlan, the drunken Santa-
Had a very bell-shaped hat!
And if you ever saw him
You would even say he's fat!
All of the other rat-folk
used to laugh and call him names
They never let poor Gavlan...
Join in any Pharros games!
Then one foggy Ratmas eve,
the Rat King came to say...
'Gavlan with your axe at heel,
Won't you come and wheel a deal?'
Then how all the other rats loved him,
as they shouted out with glee, SQUEAK!
Gavlan the drunken Santa -
You'll go drink in history!
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Gavlan stared at his keg. His empty keg. Or, rather, the empty metal stand, half eaten away by rust and acid, that had once held his keg. How could this happen? Why would this happen? Who would do such a thing as rob a poor fellow of his liquor?
Gavlan has been miserable lately. He has complained of thirst recently...
The gyrm sat down next to his stash of odds and ends with a sad thump, holding his empty mugs in his hands and staring at it. A small sniffle emanated from his helmet, and Gavlan bowed his head in mourning.
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"Gavlan wheel far," the gyrm said, looking back at the sky. He seemed to fidget a bit, looking at the vast emptiness above - it disturbed him a tad, not having the familiar closeness of caverns or a roof over his head. "Very far! Gavlan want soul, many, many soul! Gavlan wheel and deal to get soul, many deal. Many soul! But not enough." He let out a sigh and took another contemplative sip of his biohazard-in-a-mug. "What you want? Uhh, come here for?"
A bumbling shape slowly ambled towards the ladder-man, the thing's heavy helmet tilting in curiosity as it approached. It seemed fascinated with the man's beard, sporting an enormous red beard of its own - which it stroked thoughtfully. "Gavlan see beard," it- or he - muttered to himself. Then he nodded his head - as one beard to another, equals in impressiveness. "Gavlan approve."
Gilligan stared bewildered for a moment, then stroked his own beard. He had heard tales of the Gyrm as a child, and it seemed reasonable that one would stumble up to him here in Drangleic, of all places. He nodded in reply.
"Aye. Likewise, from one beard to another."
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The creature sat down on another barrel across from Gilligan, producing an enormous, cloth-covered tankard from somewhere on its rotund self. The cloth was untied, and a smell that, at some point, approached rotting grain was released into the air - seemingly unphased the gyrm took a heavy drink, letting out a tremendous belch as he lowered the mug again.
After some hesitation, he proffered it to the man across from him. "I Gavlan. Who you?"
A bumbling shape slowly ambled towards the ladder-man, the thing's heavy helmet tilting in curiosity as it approached. It seemed fascinated with the man's beard, sporting an enormous red beard of its own - which it stroked thoughtfully. "Gavlan see beard," it- or he - muttered to himself. Then he nodded his head - as one beard to another, equals in impressiveness. "Gavlan approve."
Gilligan stared bewildered for a moment, then stroked his own beard. He had heard tales of the Gyrm as a child, and it seemed reasonable that one would stumble up to him here in Drangleic, of all places. He nodded in reply.
"Aye. Likewise, from one beard to another."
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DARK SOULS 2 DOODLES
Gavlan
—
Make sure to follow and watch me draw LIVE on TWITCH! See you online!
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►*Game show host voice* Gavlaan! Will you seal. The. Deal?!
►Command my- hold up, Gavlaan? What is that, some kind of nightmarish hybrid of Gavlan and Navlaan? Not really threatening, is he? I doubt a drunk hexer could hit much.
... Unless it's a ship name.
"Uhhh... Gavlan not understand. Can Gavlan have converted to value in souls?"
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►Get drunk with this singing frog.
► Command my muse!
It had been a long day, and a hard one - Gavlan was exhausted, slumped over the bartop of his new favorite watering hole. He had only a single thing to show from a long day of hard, unpleasant bargaining - a box.
It was an odd box, crafted of finest red-black wood, seemingly grown into its shape and sealed with an iron lock - somehow un-rusted from its long-hidden secreting away within the shrine of Amana, if the seller spoke truth. He'd tried his hand at opening it, and had yet to succeed.
Something drove him to try again, his fist closing over the lock and tugging at it sharply. To his surprise it came away in his hand with a click, leaving the box now unsealed. Setting it aside for now, the gyrm carefully lifted the lid, peering inside with wide, curious eyes...
"Ribbit."
It was a tiny frog... Probably. Was it a frog? Gavlan wasn't entirely sure, but his general perspective on frogs was small thing that goes croak. Curious, he cupped it in his hands and lifted it out, setting the creature down on the bar counter, where it stood for a quiet moment.
Two small hands poked out from its... From its mouth?! Gavlan wondered in horror if he was watched cannibalism in reverse, but the creature pulled its own mouth open from within... Revealing that its skull-like face had a top hat on it, and in one hand was a tiny cane.
It hopped up on its back legs, and Gavlan sat, dumbfounded, as it began to sing.
"Hello my baby hello mah honey, hello mah ragtime gaaaaal~...!"
No one would ever believe this one.
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Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey.
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((Galvan, despite being a danger prone functioning alcoholic, is actually good with kids.))
Cute Headcanons
In fact, it had gotten him into quite a bit of trouble on some occasions - many a time had the other gyrm found him playing pat-a-cake or hide-and-seek with the children of human villages they passed, while on whatever missions the underground folk needed to survive. The worst, though, was when he joined in rolling down hills - then they had to make sure they didn’t get blamed for any collateral damage he might cause on the way down…
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Post the CUTEST Headcanons you can think for my muse. If they're adorable enough, I'll make them canon!
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The gyrm tilted his helmet as he watched the drink poured in. It didn't look especially strange... It didn't bubble, or hiss like a teapot, or attempt to strangle him in his sleep. Would it live up to the hype?
"Gavlan thank," he said, the round man bobbing politely before taking a long swig of the drink.
The Greatarcher delicately pours some of his own brew into Gavlan’s mug. The dwarf’s bodily noises don’t bother him in the slightest. They could be worse. They could come from a giant.
"Thou art curious. Please. Partake. Thistle mead is a treat all should enjoy at least once in a lifetime."
For better or worse, he thinks, imagining the hungover knight who has so far refused to leave his bed.
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Gough would be treated to the sight of Gavlan unhesitantly tipping back his mug, a dreadful series of gulps and glugs rising from his throat as he sucked it down with gusto. The gyrm lowered his mug and let loose a belch, patting his armored belly. "Gavlan done. What show Gavlan?"
Gough, in return, stares down at him. That has got to be the hairiest human he has ever seen. It’s rather impressive, actually.
"Finish thy drink, and I shalt show thee."
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"Gavlan curious. What thistle mead?"
From whence had the Gyrm come? It was rather hard to say - but moving surprisingly silently for one of his garb and... Sphericality, he had come up beside the giant and was now staring up at him, half-empty mug in hand.
"Keep thy voice down. Sir Ornstein thought he could withstand the effects of the giants’ native thistle mead.
He could not.”
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