never meant to roam again

rp blog for Umbra the Darkwraith (he/him; they/them) ~ Dark Souls ~ Dark Souls 3 ~ Nightreign

[disaster-darkwraith]

💀 semi-selective rp blog for Umbra the Darkwraith 💀 Details about muse, verses, roleplay guidelines: here (carrd) 💀 original verse: Dark Souls 💀 additional verses: Dark Souls 2+3, Nightreign (plus crossover-friendly!) 💀 open for asks, memes and starters 💀 follows back from @izar-tarazed

A darkwraith of New Londo. A creature of darkness and stolen humanity. A magpie. A trickster. Once, when his city still thrived, Umbra loved a woman in crimson red robes. Then she called forth the waters that drowned everything. Umbra, however, was saved. He roams Lordran–maybe to find out how to drain the water and free his kin, and maybe to keep stealing the most beautiful trinkets.

Beyond any doubt, Umbra's greatest feat as a thief is to have stolen the heart of the very knight who once swore to destroy him.

[disaster-darkwraith]

He found the wolf ring in Darkroot Garden.

[disaster-darkwraith]

a magpie's journey — darkroot (#004)

Normally, Umbra would be excited to lose himself in the maze of stairwells and alleyways that is the Undead Burg; find hidden trinkets and vantage points and—

But no; he is just passing through. As confusing as the place is, his sense of direction serves him well. Past those stairs… down that tower… that’s the way to go.

I’ll come back for whatever treasure is still hidden here, Umbra thinks as he hurries down the stairs, then almost bumps into a massive figure down there, who immediately lifts an equally massive hammer of rock to slam it down on the intruder. One of Havel’s knights.

‟Oh, rotten flame,” Umbra curses under his breath as he dodges the blow, then makes for the door. ‟Never liked your lot. If that armor was gemstones, at least…”

The knight grunts, but Umbra is already gone, slipping out of the tower and Undead Burg, stumbling out into open air.

The place is not completely as he remembers it, but neither is it completely strange. He’ll have to be careful; there should be that dragon nearby. Better to take this path upward, then curve around. That’ll be the path towards Oolacile.

He tries not to think about the strange man at the Firelink Shrine. Oolacile fell centuries ago. Surely it can’t have been that long. Surely erecting a massive walled city only took a few weeks at most. Surely the Royal Woods just look strange because of the season. That must be it. Strange season.

Umbra makes his way up the ravine, down a path of moss and glowing flowers. It’s all a seasonal thing. He cuts down the walking trees lashing out at him. Strange season indeed.

And just when he thinks that he must be close, that he’s definitely on the right way…

The path is blocked.

Massive stone doors. A bright glowing… lock? Seal? Umbra steps closer, both shocked and in awe. He reaches out, resting his palm on the cold stone. Magic sizzles against his fingertips, even through the glove. He pushes against the doors, but they won’t budge.

It doesn’t make sense. Isn’t this the path to Oolacile? Why would they close it?

Ah, a voice whispers in the back of his head, you do know why.

"No," Umbra says firmly. He kicks the stone, then hisses in pain. He’s limping a little as he wanders away from the gate, fists clenched, the voice in his mind still whispering, until another sound drowns it out: the distant, rhythmic strikes of a blacksmith’s hammer.

<< previous | next (tbd). >>

[disaster-darkwraith]

Umbra is not a sorcerer; neither has he ever had the ambition to really be one. But he loves magic as a silly, useful little plaything. There is a small number of sorceries he knows and uses to stay safe, to hide, to distract. Aural Decoy is a favorite: He relishes in the sound of arcane laughter that distracts foes.

Once, he used that to sneak past them: when they were golden sentinels and silver knights and he was an intruder in a forbidden city.

Now, he uses the distraction more relentlessly. Not just to sneak past, but to land a hit. A backstab, if he can.

It's not the way a darkwraith should fight, but he doesn't care. He never has.

He needs to survive, for he has somewhere to be.

[disaster-darkwraith]

a magpie's journey — firelink shrine (#003)

With the crow gone, Umbra glances around—and freezes.

He recognizes this place, although it was not in ruins the last time he saw it. But he knows where it is. Close to home. His city, sealed and flooded and entirely too still, slumbers below.

Do I dare go there?

He grits his teeth, clenching his fists. What good is this armor if it can’t protect him from what hurts inside? The worst pain, Umbra knows, is never caused by a blade.

Someone is watching him, he realizes. He probably should have noticed sooner. A dark-haired man is sitting on stone and moss. If the sight of a darkwraith bothers him, he doesn’t show it.

‟Well,” he mutters, not standing, neither drawing a blade, ‟what have we here? You must be a new arrival.”

Umbra cocks his head, eyeing the man. Humans are so embarrassingly easy to read. This one is close to hollowing; Umbra can tell by the way his humanity feels, even from this small distance. Too shale already. It feels like a small, dusty room that hasn’t been ventilated in a while. One of whispers and soft whimpers in the dark.

Disgusting. He might still need to feed on it, later.

‟I’m merely passing through,” he says. ‟I’m on my way to Oolacile.”

This has the man blink in confusion, then scoff. ‟Ah, so you’re even more foolish than the other ones.” A bitter laugh, then a shrug. Oolacile fell centuries ago. Don’t you know the stories?”

Umbra hisses at him, but the man is unfazed. Even so, Umbra keeps his hand on the hilt of his knife when he turns away, glancing up towards the looming walls.

Huh. Weren’t they just starting to build a settlement there…?

No matter. He’ll have to find his way through there; Oolacile is in that direction.

<< previous | next (tbd) >>

[disaster-darkwraith]

a magpie's journey — firelink shrine (#003)

With the crow gone, Umbra glances around—and freezes.

He recognizes this place, although it was not in ruins the last time he saw it. But he knows where it is. Close to home. His city, sealed and flooded and entirely too still, slumbers below.

Do I dare go there?

He grits his teeth, clenching his fists. What good is this armor if it can’t protect him from what hurts inside? The worst pain, Umbra knows, is never caused by a blade.

Someone is watching him, he realizes. He probably should have noticed sooner. A dark-haired man is sitting on stone and moss. If the sight of a darkwraith bothers him, he doesn’t show it.

‟Well,” he mutters, not standing, neither drawing a blade, ‟what have we here? You must be a new arrival.”

Umbra cocks his head, eyeing the man. Humans are so embarrassingly easy to read. This one is close to hollowing; Umbra can tell by the way his humanity feels, even from this small distance. Too shale already. It feels like a small, dusty room that hasn’t been ventilated in a while. One of whispers and soft whimpers in the dark.

Disgusting. He might still need to feed on it, later.

‟I’m merely passing through,” he says. ‟I’m on my way to Oolacile.”

This has the man blink in confusion, then scoff. ‟Ah, so you’re even more foolish than the other ones.” A bitter laugh, then a shrug. Oolacile fell centuries ago. Don’t you know the stories?”

Umbra hisses at him, but the man is unfazed. Even so, Umbra keeps his hand on the hilt of his knife when he turns away, glancing up towards the looming walls.

Huh. Weren’t they just starting to build a settlement there…?

No matter. He’ll have to find his way through there; Oolacile is in that direction.

<< previous | next >>

[disaster-darkwraith]

a magpie's journey — the crow (#002)

She comes for him. Not all is wrong.

Umbra stands, his knife sheathed, and looks up at the crow. It is her. He’d recognize her anywhere. And from the way she cocks her head at him, she recognizes him as well.

She was the first friend he made when he started to stray beyond New Londo; the only one he has ever shared his shinies with.

And once she had started to trust him, she was the one who carried him up into Anor Londo, and later back home.

He grits his teeth as he remembers the city—both cities. But he banishes all the bitterness.

‟Hello, old friend.”

A caw.

‟Nice of you to get me out of here,” Umbra says, gesturing towards the Asylum. ‟Say… you wouldn’t be able to get me to Oolacile?”

She tilts her head to the other side. The sunlight catches on her feathers, and they shimmer like gems.

When she grabs him in her claws, he is not surprised; she has always done it this way. He actually cheers as she lifts him off the ground, and they fly.

Oolacile, Umbra thinks, the world a blur deep beneath. All will be fine now. He can fix this.

But as she dives down, wind tugging at his hood as if to ruffle it, Umbra’s heart sinks. ‟No, I said—”

She lets go. He doesn’t fall very far, and there is no pain to it; his boots hit soft earthen ground, grass between stones, a bonfire mocking him.

This isn’t Oolacile.

<< previous | next >>

[disaster-darkwraith]

** more storytelling coming soon, but as you can see, things are going great for Umbra so far.

(Yes, that's Andre back there. Yes, he's absolutely pissed. Yes, lifedrain might have been involved.)

[disaster-darkwraith]

a magpie's journey (#001)

It is not an uncommon thing for a thief to get locked up, not even if he’s a darkwraith.

But Umbra—Abyssal magpie, so fond of all things shiny—knows that this is all wrong, regardless. This is not the place he should be, nor is it the time.

He sits on the floor of his cell, the stone’s coldness reaching out for him.

Joke’s on you, he thinks as he twirls between his hands on of the only trinkets they have let him keep: The Abyss is always colder.

The trinket is a souvenir. It was a gift once: a fine paper knife with a faux gem in it. Umbra remembers as it catches the light.

I’m not supposed to be here, he thinks, then gets to his feet. The iron bars of the cell door are rusty. Nothing but quiet wailing drifts in from outside. I’m not supposed to be here.

He knows exactly where he needs to go.

Rust flies from the lock as he gets to work. There’s a lot a skilled thief can do with a paper knife, and he’s the most skilled of them all.

The lock clicks open; Umbra huffs in contentment as he steps out of the cell, ready to make his way out of here.

I must not forget, he thinks, then whispers it to the dark corridor and the cold stones and the damp air: ‟Oolacile. I must get to Oolacile.”

>> next

[its-just-a-meme]

LORE DROP!

Send Lore Drop! And I will talk about lore or a head canon regarding my muse.

Feel free to specify with a question or details if you would like to hear about something specific!

[dirtyfromsoftconfessions]

[disaster-darkwraith]

Oh? Is that so?

[lifeorbeth]

Send me character(s) and a letter and I’ll write you a minific!

[fictorium]

A.  Fire/flames B.  Sharing a drink. C.  A moment’s respite. D.  Waking up. E.  Signing a document. F.  Foreign location G. A fistfight. H. Greatest fear. I.  Broken glass. J. Making a speech/toast. K. On the edge of consciousness. L. A stolen kiss. M. When it rains/snows/storms. N. The color green. O. The stars or space. P. While driving or in/around a car. Q. One missed call. R. By the water S. Music [send a lyric] T. An obscure AU. [specify] U. Coming home. V. An abandoned/empty place. W. Waiting impatiently for something. X. A flash of anger. Y. Tears. Z. An ending.

(inspired by this)

[unanchxred-blog]

Send one for party banter from:

♡ — my muse and yours ♢ — my muse and another character ( asker’s choice )  ♤ — my muse in a specific location ( asker’s choice ) ♧ — my muse about a specific event ( asker’s choice )

[machinecreature]

[chicxibalba]

My secret Santa piece for @izar-tarazed featuring Artorias and her OC, Umbra!

[disaster-darkwraith]

"Magic? Oh!" The skeletal grin seems to deepen, something flickering in the darkness of those eye sockets. "Just a little bit. Harmless, useful trickery, if you will."

Reaching for a small white brench on his belt, his hand makes a swift gesture—more practical than elegant, the type of spell that can be quickly cast in a moment of need.

The darkwraith's form blurs and fades as an illusion forms around him: an impressive pile of books, blending in rather well with the rest of the room. "I can also conceal the sound of my steps, or create a distracting sound somewhere nearby," the pile of books says.

[blasphering]

"Very useful indeed." he praises, nodding in affirmation to the spell even though he knows that one as well. Unfortunately...

"if only the walls of flames did not surround us, it would have been most useful against enemies if we had the time to use such a spell."

but utterly useless when speed is a issue, not to mention the timing of everything.

"Though I suppose if one does not want to be found, you have the perfect spell ready."

[disaster-darkwraith]

Umbra nods, then drops the illusion. ‟That is what I use it for. Or rather used it, before I got here. I would often make my way into places where my survival depended on not being noticed. But in battle, other skills are clearly needed.” He tilts his head, looking at the Scholar.

‟You know magic as well, I assume? Is it the topic of your studies?” He still hasn’t quite figured that out. It seems that the Scholar is collecting nearly everything, as evidenced by all those notes and trinkets piled up in his corner of the chapel. But if there’s one thing Umbra knows, it’s that most people will pursue one thing in particular.

[blasphering]

There was indeed a nicer teapot, one all nice and toasty and certainly not hiding somewhere. He is certain 50% that its somewhere under someone stuff, alas its useless to call on people stealing when the situation right now is too odd for anyone to care about material wealth.

"Indulge my curiosity, would you know any magic perhaps?"

a good opener.

[disaster-darkwraith]

"Magic? Oh!" The skeletal grin seems to deepen, something flickering in the darkness of those eye sockets. "Just a little bit. Harmless, useful trickery, if you will."

Reaching for a small white brench on his belt, his hand makes a swift gesture—more practical than elegant, the type of spell that can be quickly cast in a moment of need.

The darkwraith's form blurs and fades as an illusion forms around him: an impressive pile of books, blending in rather well with the rest of the room. "I can also conceal the sound of my steps, or create a distracting sound somewhere nearby," the pile of books says.