***LOW ACTIVITY*** Private indie roleplay blog for Prince Lothric from Dark Souls III. Written by Tav. Original posts (roleplay replies, art, headcanons, etc.) should not be reblogged outside the rp community. Please read/skim the rules & about before interacting! Sideblog to @tavoriel
Hi I’m moving blogs soon (to a main blog, not a sideblog) & I’m gonna be more active! *throws a mini fic (part 1 of ??) at you like im throwing a french fry at a flock of seagulls* (pls don’t reblog!)
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“I truly do not know how they have done it,” Lothric is saying, using his fork to emphasize talking points. It hasn’t touched his plate in about twenty minutes. “Perhaps it is to do with time and space breaking down… perhaps they have not done it, so much as found it, exploring through the bonfires, as undead can. Perhaps it is not even our Firelink Shrine...perhaps there is a you and a me in that world! Do you suppose that loyal remainder of the soldiers could find that out? How does one meet oneself?” He barks a few clear peals of laughter, looking down at the tattered robe he’s had since childhood. “What does one wear!”
A smile finds its way to Lorian’s face, at that, but his attention is clearly elsewhere. He keeps watching the door, leaning against the side of the bed with his head turned to the side.
“I suppose it does not matter, really,” Lothric sighs, seeming to notice his plate for the first time. He uses the fork to poke something dried out that looks like meat. He pokes a few thin vegetables. A scrap of, generously, food, almost ends up on his bedsheets. He doesn’t end up eating anything. “It is no concern of mine how they have set up an altar of death. It is disquieting to think about, and I am not going there anyway.”
Lorian nods, still looking at the door.
“Do you know anything about him?” Lothric asks, bravely skewering something that might once have been asparagus.
Lorian shakes his head.
“He has linked the Fire, of course...” Lothric muses, inspecting the stringy green-brown object on the end of his fork. “Died, and come back to heed the bell. Do you need to eat? If you come back?”
Lorian turns to look look up in Lothric’s direction like how could I possibly know that, then goes back to his watchful attention. The plate next to him on the floor is clean, and has been for about an hour.
“I wonder what it is like to eat souls like a hollow,” Lothric grumbles, with a good-natured smile at his asparagus-like selection. “Well… it sounds a ghastly and violent business, to be sure. Most unpleasant. I suppose I am mainly wondering if souls taste good, or feel good, or whatever the equivalent might be.”
If Lorian finds the indirect complaint about the food immature, he doesn’t dwell on it. He sends across their soul connection that he’ll eat anything Lothric doesn’t want.
“We will not impress Ludleth with any of this,” Lothric says sadly, through a mouthful of plant fibers and regret. “If I could trade half the splendor of our castle for one single slice of cake...”
A building commotion outside the door catches both of their attention. Clanking armor, marching feet. Lothric shoves his fork and plate under the covers of his bed (Lorian does a double-take) and sits up straighter. A change comes over him, a metamorphosis from a talkative younger sibling to something like a king. Lorian, too, stops leaning against the bed and watches intently, with authority.
A knock on the door. Lorian can feel Lothric’s heart beat faster, at the disruption of their sanctuary, though they both know there’s no danger.
“Come in,” Lothric says in a clear, emotionless voice.
Six knights and soldiers, in varying stages of hollowing, enter the room. They’re purposeful, but they don’t move with quite the precision Oceiros would have required of them. Or the fear. Two of them are supporting a figure about their size with a bag over his head.
“Close the door, if you would,” Lothric orders politely. Lorian has given up telling him about how the military works. Nonetheless, two of the soldiers break from the group right away and close the door.
Once the yellow rectangle of evening sunlight disappears and the door settles closed, Lothric teleports himself and Lorian to the lowest level of their room, quite close to the group.
The commander has a report for Lorian. Lothric listens too, but he’s only half-listening. He catches something about a surprisingly easy mission with no casualties; that has to be good. But he has more important matters to address. He teleports closer to the two soldiers with the captive, and they carefully lower the captive to the ground as if on cue.
Suddenly, Lothric sucks in his breath and puts a hand to his mouth. A lot of his face is hidden by his hood, but it’s still clear enough that the kinglike mantle he took up at the sound of the party approaching has been almost entirely replaced by empathy, and perhaps horror. He almost says something, then he doesn’t, then he does.
“Did you do this,” he says sharply, looking from soldier to nervous soldier. Lorian and the commander stop talking and give him their full attention.
“Sire?” the commander says.
“His legs,” Lothric says with dangerous patience glittering in his eyes.
The prisoner shifts uncomfortably, seeming to want to speak. Lothric holds eye contact with the commander.
“No sire, on my honor,” the commander says quickly, realization finding her aspect right away. “That wasn’t us. We found him like that.”
Lothric thinks she looks more relieved than guilty, which tells him he can believe her. On closer inspection, the wounds don’t look fresh, either. He nods, slowly. Lorian scrunches his brow and tries to get a better look. The prisoner keeps making little uncomfortable, alert movements. He’d perhaps like to speak.
“Did that crowd at Firelink...” Lothric almost whispers, his face a maze of confusion and repulsion. “So he couldn’t get away…”
The prisoner makes a noise in his throat, and one of the soldiers immediately gives him a light warning kick.
“Oh! Oh dear, my manners,” Lothric says quickly, looking down at the prisoner and the soldiers. “No, no, that will not do, please do not hurt him, he’s every right to say his piece… would you do me the kindness of removing that bag from his head?”
“Ludleth, I presume,” Lothric says, with worried compassion, as the pygmy’s unsettled scowl comes into view. Ludleth’s eyes go wide as soon as he realizes who he’s talking to. He gives the soldiers another look, with fresh eyes, taking in the Lothric red and gold of their tattered uniforms.
“The gag. Please,” Lothric tells the soldiers, with distaste.
“I did not expect to meet a runaway king this morning,” Ludleth says evenly, shifting his jaw uncomfortably as a soldier pulls the cloth away.
By now, everyone is looking at Lothric and Ludleth.
“How I have always understood it, I am either a king, or I have run away,” Lothric says, irritated reflexively but not invested. He moves through the emotion quickly, especially with so many bigger emotions competing. “Ludleth of Courland. It is an honor to meet you, at long last.” He turns to the nearest soldier and holds up his hands like they’re tied together. The soldier reaches to undo Ludleth’s bonds. “I apologize for the troubling manner in which you were brought to me.”
Ludleth almost says something. He studies Lothric’s face. There’s that hood in the way. But he actually does sound sorry.
“First there was the matter of keeping you safe, and then I desperately wanted to greet you in person, as your host, and I haven’t the courage to so much as leave my room,” Lothric laughs sadly, almost talking to himself. “These constant threats of death are quite the weight on my mind… but I am one to talk, here in a safe place, with my brother to look out for me.” He shakes his head, with a flop of his hood and a little clatter of jewelry. “I cannot imagine the fear that must have gripped you daily, caught like a trapped rat these many days on a ghastly throne of death.”
Ludleth’s jaw drops a little.
“I cannot ask for your forgiveness in not acting so soon as I heard that you were there,” Lothric continues sadly. “I do not like to involve myself in… anything, really, it simply is not safe… I have not been going out of my way much for anybody… we do not know each other… the stories that reached my brother and I were so vague and contradictory it was hard at times to tell if there was any truth to them at all…I am weary, to depths I can hardly describe… I could never have come personally… I could never have spared my brother… I could have organized these here soldiers more quickly, and I must accept full responsibility for my lateness…”
Ludleths’ confusion looks like actual pain. Is he crying?
“What have they done to you,” Lothric whispers, with pain-like confusion of his own. “Have you a caster’s gift? You must have some gift or other, if you are a Lord of Cinder…I could teach you a miracle which would allow you to teleport… p-please do not take this as pressure to convert to my faith, of course! Our archives are vast, I am certain we will be able to find a spell to your liking. Do you have a catalyst? Y-you may, of course, borrow any from the archives which take your fancy. Oh, but here I go, explaining your life to you… surely you have plenty of your own ideas of how best I might attend to –“
“Your Grace?” Ludleth says.
“P-please. Call me Lothric.”
Ludleth takes in Lothric’s tear-streaked, dirty face. He takes in the attentive soldiers, and… well, that must be Lorian. He’s bigger than Ludleth imagined, bigger than he has any right to be. If the stories are to be believed, he’s utterly ruthless on the battlefield. But even he’s much more quietly compassionate than looming.
“Have you truly sent these soldiers to rescue me?” Ludleth asks carefully, turning back to Lothric.
“Yes,” Lothric cries into his hands. “I am sorry we did not manage it sooner!”
And Ludleth watches Lorian, the demon killer, come around on his hands and knees and put a large, gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Their initial appearances were surprising to him despite having been thoroughly briefed beforehand. While he’d expected Lorian and Lothric to be tired, there was a visible weight that rested upon them. It would have been easy to make the assumption that they hadn’t slept in weeks, though his intel had told him that they were being well cared for. The position of a servant wasn’t to act with pity but to offer pure, objective usefulness. Still- he felt a sharp pang of sympathy upon his initial sight of them.
That sympathy soon turned to butterflies when he was directly addressed. That sort of thing essentially never happened, though he’d been warned that in this case it might due to cultural unfamiliarity. It was surprisingly difficult not to dip his head in return- though he did smile behind his mask.
The tour eventually ran it’s natural course and then it was just the group of them alone. When Lothric dismissed him he nibbled his lip and then took a breath. Some things still needed to be sussed out before he left. Normally speaking to a Noble was utterly unheard of but he had permission in this particular case as there were some very special circumstances.
“No need to worry about payment, sir. I’m compensated by the Government.” He couldn’t help but keep his volume tampered- afraid somehow of being chastised, “Is there an acceptable time for me to return in the morning so that I don’t disturb your rest?”
Lothric laughs quietly, a gesture more complicated than mirth. He’s signed too many papers to keep track of. He would have guessed that he was the one paying James. That’s how it would have worked back home. If someone else is paying James, he wonders how a service someone else is paying for ended up in his home. Which one isn’t truly his? The service? Or his home? Somehow he thinks it’s going to be a long time yet before he can confidently presume to own much of anything in any real sense. Or understand how any of this works.
More importantly, he ‘won.’ He expected to press up against a boundary, and it yielded instead. So where is the boundary? Can he still find it yet? Is it worth looking for when he’s this tired? He sighs.
“This planet is new, I do not know her yet, I have not felt how long the night will happen,” he muses, taking on a far off look. Night and day are different on other ‘planets’? It’s something to do with the ‘planet’ spinning around in space, and how long that takes... he’s grateful to not have died in his world’s apocalyptic end, but being forced to contend with ‘outer space’ has peppered his daily life with a series of unforgivable little existential crises. “I forget how time is measured here,” he continues sadly. “I trust your...” Judgment? What’s the word for it. “You cannot be wrong,” he concludes, with an airy and dismissive wave of his hand at his own ineloquence. “Come after a normal time for sleeping. If I need more time, it is no problem, I will tell you.”
The twins are actually still fast asleep when James returns, and may be for a few more hours. They stayed up very late talking. As Lothric predicted, they didn’t have much of a chance to dirty the house. A single crumpled napkin is in a wastepaper basket.
“Thank you.”, Ornstein says as Lothric hands him the shirt and proceeds to pull the bloodied one over his head, showing his body that is littered with scars, mostly burns from the dragon war for a brief moment before he puts the blue shirt on and tosses the soiled one to the ground.
He would need to wash it later. And hide it. He didn’t want anyone else to see just how much blood he had coughed up yet.
“I am sorry…”, he said as Lothric mentions that people have been worried about it. “One of my bad characteristics. I never tell people when I don’t feel well or am upset. I always think I have to face it alone. I have upset countless people with this… my Master, Gwyndolin, Artorias, Ciaran, Gough…” He counts them on his fingers as he speaks. “Smough…”, he says in a quiet and hurt voice as he raises the next finger and then puts his hand down. “And though I know that this isn’t the right thing to do, I can’t help but keep it to myself. It is embedded into my mind.”
He sighes deeply as Lothric asks what they should do now. “I will have to tell him… my master, Faraam, I mean….”, he had slipped into old habits again, “…eventually… and now that you already have seen… Can I just ask a favour?”
He raises his head to look Lothric into the eyes. “Can you please keep quiet about how much blood it had been…”
Lothric isn’t about to stare at Ornstein’s scars (he’s self-aware of his own propensity for nosiness, and he looks away quickly), but he does notice them. Lorian has a lot of scars, too. He makes an effort to spare Lothric the visual, but they both know they’re there,and why they’re there, though some are from his days in the army.
He wonders what Ornstein was protecting, and what it really meant to him underneath the veneer of duties and laws.
Surely it takes a certain kind of person to keep coming back for more after getting even one scar like that. Lothric has just a handful of scars. The experience horrified him, and he thanks his gods nightly that he’s been allowed to stay at this castle where his odds of being attacked further are slim.
He frowns thoughtfully at Ornstein’s request.
“You name it as a flaw that you keep such things secret," he grumbles. “What am I to make of a request to enable your flaw? Rest assured, I will not tell the others things shared in confidence about your personal life, against your express wishes, because that is a cruel thing to do. But from what you have told me, you want to tell them. Or, at least, you think that you should. How can I help you tell them?”
His expression grows more thoughtful, and less of a frown.
“Not much is known about my gods,” he muses, “but they have proven willing to heal myself and my brother. Goodness knows my soul can provide as much power as we could want, for a miracle. I could ask the Angels to assist you, if you would like.”
Once the golden armor clad puppet of the Way of White, Paladin Leeroy now walks the world a Paladin Errant, a Knight of the Darkmoon and protector of the lowly.
Indie RP blog for Paladin Leeroy from Dark Souls I, open to all interactions and friendly to all, perhaps you too shall find his might by your side.
The other’s words contain another edge of sarcasm, perhaps similar to the first, perhaps a touch more playful and yet possessing of something sharp nonetheless. Far sharper than what Raguna would typically feel comfortable wielding. In most cases the King had Eira as his own verbal blade, a weapon he now lacked in a private conversation. His pause could be a sign of weakness however masked by the furtive consideration of measuring the land’s magic. If anything was clear here, it was that Raguna could learn a few things from Lothric. Both in word and magic, as his interest in the flame once it sprouted was genuine.
“Yes, dormant. The manner in which we can try and restore it depends on how it was called or taken away. Seeing as you have a talent for magic as well, you likely know that even sources of magic have a variety to them. Sorcerers. Wizards. Magical items. Magical structures. When it comes to the land it can be all manners of things. A shrine could have been destroyed. Or an animal slain.” He’s unsure what it would be with this country, they likely did not have the same dragons that have created a cycle of life and death that spread Rune over the kingdom of Norad. There’s also the possibility the magic was stolen away, but such accusations needed a bit more evidence before they were shared aloud. If that were the case after all, it could take a great deal more effort to save this land.
He doesn’t want to dampen Lothric’s hopes. Not without proof.
“Your presence would be appreciated. If it please you as well, I think we should prepare our parties to set out at the next morning. Setting up base of operations today and preparing safe manner of crossing the river shouldn’t be rushed.” How frustrating that the rune truly was dormant, otherwise a natural one of earth and root would be of only some difficulty for Raguna. A chance for him to show Lothric what he was capable of as well. Alas, that would have to wait. As it stands he only has the Rune and power in his body. Like a lantern with only some oil.
“It is a shame that my gift cannot be of immediate service,” Lothric muses. The flame in his hand died out as Raguna was talking. “Yes, I will come. And we need not hunt for a safe way to cross the river. My miracle will see us to the other side quite safely."
When Lothric wakes up the next morning, far too early and stiff with pain, he knows that he’s going to have to continuously justify this decision to a lot of people who feel that he’s taking too big of a risk. That’s a lot to fight for, alone, when so much of him wants to stay in bed anyway. That background fear that he’ll be assassinated hasn’t gone away, either. He makes a face and searches for the wanderlust and conviction that was so strong yesterday. Something, anything, to convince himself that the uphill battle of the next hour or so will be worth the reward of seeing that tempting forest firsthand. He could send Raguna a message that he’s not feeling up to going, after all. He’d hardly have to run it by anyone. But as he glares at the roof of his sleeping carriage, he knows he’s not going to do that.
His usual weight of exhaustion is noticeably heavier when he and the gray pony and his personal guard approach Raguna and his personal guard. The scraggly grass is wet with dew, and there’s a thick mist over the river. The new day is gray and heavy, like it had to coax itself out of bed, too. Greeting Lorian, Lothric might have grumbled about being awake, unfortunately, and followed that with a string of complaints. To Raguna, he smiles and says good morning.
The forest is everything Lothric could have hoped for. A living, breathing relic of the kingdom they’re trying to recreate. He’s overwhelmed quickly by the sense of just how precious this little parcel of land is. He tries to stay aloof and detached, but somehow his eyes keep finding Raguna. What is an Earthmate’s power? Is this little patch of trees okay? Will their mission be successful? What’s he doing, what is he finding out?
It hits her like a slap– he’s keeping it somewhat hidden, under the hood and behind his hand, but she sees it, hears it, feels it, her mind scrambling to find something offensive or saddening that she might have said so that apologies can be offered and amends be done. For a moment she considers taking his hand between hers, delicately. She refrains from doing so.
I have simply never heard of anybody showing some kindness to a worm.
“Oh dear. I, uh, put like that it sounds, it sounds–”
A beat. Her voice comes out unsteady, and she tries to swallow the knot in her throat once, twice; it only delays the inevitable of a handful of seconds.
“– m-much nobler that it is, it’s just. It’s just. What’s right. Not even that. I’ve got so much time and attention to give and, if you have something in abundance, what’s the point in not sharing it, it would, it would be-”
The last words come out in a choked croak. Something inside her just gives out under the pressure of an echoed feeling that she can’t understand, recoiling painfully in her ribcage. And then here she is too, crying as well, unsure of why, and of what precisely is happening; yet Heysel weeps for and with him, exactly as gently, through pressed lips.
“I suppose they wouldn’t be too wrong in branding her or me as such,” the Finger sniffles after a moment, attempting a weak laugh. She’s shaking, only a little. “Mother Rosaria is… sure different, from most gods. From the classic ideals of what a god should stand for or do, but in general. I don’t. I don’t think most gods love us, Lothric. And I think most, human or divine, will choose power over others whenever possible. Even at the cost of others-”
Tears overcome her again.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Lothric.”
What is she sorry for? Why is she even crying? She doesn’t know his pain, or his anger, or anything he went through — worse than that, she deliberately hurts others without so much as batting a lash, every day. He’s seen with just how much glee she fights. With what gall does she weep for any pain this man she barely knows has suffered, when she’s the first to inflict it onto others without guilt? She’s not so unhinged yet to not find something odd in all of this.
A tangle of thoughts she doesn’t have neither clarity or energy to try to unravel. With effort, she stills her sobbing, and blinks the blurriness in her eyes away. Her throat hurts.
“I don’t. Think blessing me is appropriate, but thank you. I, ah. Sorry for that. Ahem. So!” She clasps her hands with forced cheer. “I, yes. It makes sense. I’d assume nobody would want to keep their same look for long, when your work is illegal. One gets quickly over the five rebirths limit, like that.”
“I’d invited you to see Rosaria, but I don’t know if seeing followers of your religion in… that state would be alright. Unless the spiritual journey you’d mentioned earlier included that step, aside from fighting off people in a horrible, horrible swamp in the middle of nowhere.”
Lorian fidgets in his sitting position.
He tucks his long hair behind his ears.
He shifts his jaw, fidgets again, frowns deeply.
He crosses his arms.and looks down, focusing on the gentle squeeze of pressure.
Lothric cries often enough. Why is it so damn hard for Lorian to stay unaffected this time? It’s something to do with Heysel, he’s sure of it. The difference between not crying, and being the only one not crying. The second somehow feels less permissible.
A brief, weary glance confirms that they’re not getting an imminent visit from someone like Anri. Lorian sighs and lets Lothric’s experience in. Kindness to worms. A whole damn world of misery, and someone said fuck it, I will show kindness to worms. That’s worth at least a few hitches of breath. When you put it that way. He wouldn’t choose to dig up emotions like this, but joining in feels more like what he wants than holding back, all things considered.
Does Lorian, like Lothric, have any personal stake in kindness to worms? Lothric is so moved because of how wretched and forsaken he feels. Lorian doesn’t think that he, himself, feels wretched or forsaken to anywhere near that same extent. He’s lonely and isolated, sure, but he was pretty intentional about protecting Lothric. He’s here by choice. If there was nothing personal to connect, he wouldn’t be moved at all. But he doesn’t have words for what feelings and memories might make kindness-to-worms meaningful enough for him to empathize with the other two, who are moved to tears. He doesn’t introspect much. Whatever is responding, whatever is moved by kindness-to-worms, it’s something he hides from himself. Likely, it will die with the world, forever unknown.
“I want to see them!” Lothric says suddenly, in the swamp, smiling through tears. He shakes his head. “The phenomena of power-seeking and cosmic insignificance, I am well familiar with,” he says, with a smile that’s more complicated, with notes of annoyance. “I want my wasted years back. Well! I will not combat your assessment that you have not done anything particularly divine. Indeed, if you could determine to show kindness to worms without following a religious doctrine which made any attempt to do any good for anyone, perhaps I need not worry over those Old Gods’ postulate that man without religion is sinful, or that kindness and such are holy. Perhaps it is the other way round. Perhaps it is man which must, through the wisdom of an innate and unalterable kindness, keep a close eye on religion, that it might not become an organism of evil. Or perhaps both man and religion might become corrupted, and they fare best keeping an eye on each other. But I am going to give one of us a headache if I pursue this track too long...and that is no way to repay a kind gesture! I am ready to leave at any time. Is it far?”
Yet another hello to say I’m not dead but also not replying to threads atm! Thank you for your patience! I’ve enjoyed our threads and I’m looking forward to finding time to get back to them!
As Lothric flinches back when he sees the blood, Ornstein gets the impression that maybe he thought something different… like an assassin having come or something. Even though Ornstein’s weapons are far away and very much unbloody, he wouldn’t have been able to kill someone with his bear hands, at least not in a way that it made such a mess.
“…I am… not hurt at least…”, Ornstein says weakly and then walks over to his bed to sit down, giving Lothric a moment to see that there was nobody but the two of them in the room. “This is still my blood.”, Ornstein gestures down to his shirt. “But it isn’t there because I was attacked or something…”
Ornstein carefully has to think how to word the explanation. He has the assumption that his body slowly started dying because the flame was going out. Ornstein is fine with this. He had lived for far too long already, his life prolonged by the soul shard of Gwyn that had fused with his own.
Though he can’t say that in front of the very person who had forsaken the flame. He knew Lothric would feel guilty about it, even though it wasn’t his fault. Ornstein’s time simply had come. He had probably a few more weeks, months when he was lucky. He had to tell them anyway one day.
“The truth is…”, he said and while it wasn’t the full truth, it was at least a half truth, “…even before I came to Arch Dragon Peak and found you and your brother, I have been sick. Fevers, exhaustion, coughing fits and… sometimes coughing up blood.”
He crosses his arms in front of him as if he wants to hug himself and stares down at the ground. “I am sorry that I haven’t said anything about it. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me…”
Lothric, already seated, shrinks a little closer to the ground and hides the lower half of his face under his fingers, tense with embarrassment and so much else. He nods, trying to meet Ornstein’s eyes and getting mixed results. It’s one thing to bring up an awkward story about family and relationships and what things mean. He can’t think of a way to even admit to what he was worried about, and falsely, without inflicting an accusation Ornstein doesn’t deserve. The thing about his mother’s affection and kindness living alongside her cold resolve is immediately real from his perspective, but he can’t think of the words he might fit it into, that might convey it without also conveying an attack on Ornstein’s character. You can’t just tell people that you can’t trust them as much as they deserve.
As Ornstein continues talking, Lothric’s worry from the rudeness of his own reaction loses its importance. Ornstein has been ill? Another glance at the shirt tells Lothric that that’s really quite a lot of blood. He looks from Ornstein from the shirt to other things in the room his eyes don’t focus on for long, as if trying to find a reason why all of this could be helped somehow. He knows a lot about weakness. It occurs to him suddenly that he’s been viewing the way Ornstein looks to Faraam for protection all wrong. Of course someone coughing up that much blood needs protection. Goodness. His mouth opens and closes.
“I will get you another shirt,” is all he says, finally. He’s not self-aware of it, but he’s copying what he thinks Lorian would do. He teleports purposefully onto a chair that’s a little too small for him and says so with a creak. Then he moves the whole situation to Ornstein’s dresser. A white shirt would dramatize any further blood. A black shirt would be too somber. His questing hand soon closes around a trusty blue, then he and the shirt and a few drifting feathers are next to Ornstein on the bed. He hands Ornstein the shirt with authority. He professes to not want authority over anybody, and the thought disturbs him on an intellectual level, but he’s not built to always put that into practice.
“Someone is worried about you,” he says, matter-of-factly, with deeper emotion under the surface. “You have failed in preventing that, I am afraid.” For all he says he’s worried, he’s not interested in treating the issue like a spectacle. He’s seen a lot of grief. He might react differently to other types of threats, but something like this can simply be what it is. “What now?” he continues, with a voice hard like ice, and warm like ice isn’t.
Ornstein was standing in his room, his chest still heaving. He was used to having coughing attacks, but this had been a violent one. He could taste the blood in his mouth, blood that sadly hadn’t stayed there but he had managed to cough it up all over the shirt he was wearing.
Discontented he stared at the mess while he tried to force his body to stop shivering from the exhaustion. He had kept his poor health a secret from the others so far, he especially didn’t want his master to worry for him, now that they finally had found each other.
For Ornstein it was clear that he had to hide the blood soaked shirt until he had a chance to wash it later, there was no way he could explain how he had get so bloody in his own room. Just as he raised his arms to undress himself he heard a noise and turned around to his door to see Lothric standing there.
This… this was bad. There was no way Ornstein could explain what happened. He half wished he had a knife ready with him, so that he could pretend he had merely cut himself but alas, any sharp weapons were out of his reach.
“I guess you want an explanation…”, Ornstein mumbled, gaze on the ground, very much avoiding any eye contact.
After giving the matter some thought, Lothric has decided to formally tell Ornstein that he sincerely approves of him as like-family.
Lothric wasn’t expecting Faraam to be a blood relative. And after he found out, he wasn’t sure if that required a new interpretation of Ornstein and Faraam as a couple. He hardly supposes it’s his business to be critical of who his relatives date, not at all; it would take a truly terrible relationship for him to even think of commenting on it negatively. But the thought of Ornstein shyly hanging around a castle full of Gwyns and Lothric-Gwyns seemed...lonely. Lothric’s willingness to be honest about his own past also served to emphasize the difference in social rank between a pair of princes from a neighboring kingdom, even in exile, and a knight. Faraam’s station is even more decorated than the twins’ Ornstein is a legendary warrior, but he’s the only one of the four with no royal birthright to speak of. That must be hard.
If Lothric had anything negative to say, it would be that their dynamic is a bit unequal, with Ornstein deferring to Faraam... but he can see that they keep working on that! And he knows it’s hard for these knights, with their pesky loyalty, to do anything but defer. Look at Lorian! Firstborn son of a king, and calmly assigning himself the lowest rung of a pecking order that neither Lothric nor Faraam even want.
If formality is what gets through to these knight types, clearly the thing to do is give Ornstein a formal reasons to relax. If Lothric confirms that he will see anyone who dates his family members as also like-family, perhaps that will help. It’s certainly true! Ornstein is the one who helped Lorian when he was starving. All of the legendary accomplishments in the world couldn’t impress Lothric more. Ornstein is wise and kind, a perfect addition to a sense of family that used to be just Lorian, and now extends to Faraam.
"Oh goodness, my apologies!” Lothric yelps, when he realizes he’s walked in on Ornstein undressing. He quickly looks away. When Ornstein brings up the matter of an explanation, he looks again. Now he sees the blood. His eyes widen, and he flinches back instinctively. Is Ornstein okay? Or, if he’s okay enough to have a calm conversation about the blood...did he kill somebody? Is he dangerous? It’s a question that immediately threatens their months of bonding and getting to know each other, though it’s much too soon to decide one way or another. Lothric is afraid of being murdered like he’s afraid of little else. He has every reason to believe that the world is chaotic and uncertain and unsafe. His own mother stroked his hair as she fully intended to support the ceremony of his death. Was he foolish to trust? Years of poor experiences taught him to never trust; what did he think he was doing?
“A-are you quite alright?” he croaks, not really hiding sudden shallow breathing and worry. He doesn’t know the full story. Ornstein isn’t close enough to hurt him yet. He thinks he owes Ornstein a chance to explain himself before letting his own worries completely decide the story; even as he’s caught up in fear, he recognizes that the worst outcome isn’t necessarily even likely. If Ornstein comes too much closer, though, he’s gone.
I disagree big time with the theory that Lothric’s choice to not link the Fire was essentially Sulyvahn’s choice, planted in an empty head. I have no problem with the idea that Sulyvahn was Lothric’s tutor when Lothric was a kid and helped educate Lothric, when Ocieros’s court was only ever going to give him propaganda about linking the Fire. But Lothric doesn’t have to be anybody’s puppet to have an intrinsic motivation to not want people to kill him. Anyone in his situation would have a lot to think about. The person who throws a rope to someone in a pit isn’t the mastermind behind their choice to get out. I can’t mind-read everybody’s motivations for what they headcanon, but personally, the idea of hunting for other characters’ intentions behind a disabled, traumatized, gender-nonconforming character’s choices is pretty irredeemable as something I could ever headcanon, no matter how innocent the logic might be that gets the story there.
Sulyvahn is also part of the whole ORDEAL with the writers deciding that Gwyndolin, the closest thing to a canon trans character, needs to be brutally murdered in the story & that the player should spend a whole boss fight looking at their dead body. I dunno, I can’t really think about Sulyvahn without also thinking about a whole bunch of bullshit, and I know that it’s not universally appreciated in the fandom that the bullshit is even bad, so taking the time to really ponder this character from my authentic perspective is not going to result in anything I can reliably share with other people! He sure is a character in Dark Souls 3! The lore about him turning people into beasts is good horror, and I can appreciate his potential as the kind of villain who really makes other characters feel intimidated for good reason. But some things would have to be different about the way the writers frame atrocities against minorities before he could be compelling to me in a fun way.
