i have given thee courtesy enough

[lionscrowncd]

𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭. private & independent roleplay blog for godfrey / hoarah loux from elden ring. sporadic activity. this is a sideblog so i will not be following back━ dm for main blog. mun is 30+, she/her.

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬. i will be slow and very selective, so please don't pressure me for replies or interaction. my headcanons are my own. i prefer plotting and slightly longer threads but am fine with quick and on the fly one-liners as well. all memes / starter calls etc are for mutuals only.

𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬. ordervessel. hemithios

[ordervessel]

@lionscrowncd [  BATTLE  ]:     as they prepare to go on a dangerous mission, sender shares a final moment with the receiver, and tells them they love them, just as they head out to fight.

𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. ‘Twas not the name he was born with, but the name he has now. And it is his own. The singular definition of his self that he understands. When all else that is his is but on loan from her, when all else that he has some claim to is also shared with her, then must he find the borders between they two. He sees it at times, the singular thread that had been they that’d weaved through the ages ‘til that moment when they’d been split in twain and from that moment do these borders continue to widen. Yet not enough. Never enough when all that drips about him is ever tainted with the touch of Marika.

What can he be then but some growth excised from the greater body, left to fester on its own in the cold. The gold that he wears now are from her, the hammer that rests upon the table is as much his as it is hers. When he holds it, is the weight of it familiar, this weapon that is an extension of himself. The runes within come alight by his touch alone. With it will he exact divine judgement upon the battlefield, part god made mortal champion to a goddess now. This is all he is, he supposes, no more her weapon upon the snow.

There is movement from behind, Godfrey who shares his tent now finally stirred awake. Radagon bothers not to look, though well can he envision the glory of his companion’s body, having been welcome to it the night before. Cut from the divine and still Radagon aches in a way that is utterly mortal. Held tight against Godfrey, is it so easy to allow the borders of himself to unravel, lost to a brief moment beyond grace and gold and all things tied to fate and destiny. ‘Tis always fleeting, but with Godfrey can he believe it to be eternal.

A large hand comes to settle against the small of his back, so warm and comforting that Radagon finds himself easing back, allowing Godfrey to guide him back to the bed, where he’s pulled into the man’s embrace. He’s handled as though he weighs nothing at all, brought to straddle Godfrey’s lap and to feel the pleased rumble through his chest as Godfrey begins to work through his vast locks of crimson red. Fingers card through his unbound hair, the scarlet locks falling as a river of blood down his back. Radagon can ill comprehend why Godfrey seems to enjoy his hair so much when the color itself is blasphemy, but here is he now and Radagon is too content to do much in protest.

“Come what may,” Godfrey’s fingers still, stirring Radagon to pull away, able to at last behold the man who has held him together. Those hands upon his body, that has cradled his very heart and soul, and allowed him in turn to know the borders of his own self, he wants the touch to continue, to feel Godfrey pressed against him once more. There is a tenderness there, that twists Radagon’s own heart, the tightening knot within his chest. He holds his breath, wanting to look away yet unable to deprive himself of this affection. “Be it upon the field of battle or elsewhere, ever will thou have me at thy side. I am thine, Radagon. Ever and always. I have pledged myself to thee.”

[ruhlare]

[lionscrowncd]

❤️

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[ordervessel]

Holds up toothpaste.

[lionscrowncd]

No.

[ordervessel]

@lionscrowncd: [  FIRST  ]:    sender tells the receiver “i love you” for the first time.

𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 upon the horizon, bringing with it the promise of rain. A gentle sort against his skin for with Godfrey is his touch always a form of devotion. The quiet care showered towards a man who’d wavered for a time close to crumbling away even when flesh and body had been made whole once more. How strange it is to feel the breath of prayer against his skin when he was never meant to be the icon of faith, the vessel for godhood in which greater powers poured divinity into his being. Stranger still, when he knows Godfrey’s never been given to worship of any kind, mayhap a lingering trace of an old faith towards an ancient tree that no longer exists. But never so overt as it’d been with Radagon once upon a time, when the shine of the golden light was all that could fill his life with purpose.

Faith can be as easily shattered as a ring, ‘tis difficult to mouth words around prayer for a god that may as well have held the scourge that’d battered his flesh. But faith is a form of trust and by all rights should Radagon no longer trust when so many of his beliefs have been betrayed. It takes the slow and patient work of a resolute soul, of a man who presses reverent kisses against his skin, coaxing wordless breaths from him as large hands trace against his hip. His eyes flutter shut, seeing within his mind’s eye the stars of a distant creation that glimmer within reach, and between them the approaching truth that falls from the lips of the man who holds him close.

Words that flood his insides with such adoration that he’s certain there’ll be no space left of him for the divine, that within the next moment he’ll draw his breath as a mortal man at last. Words and truth that he’s known for so long that even in the prediction of the revelation that’s more inexorable than unforeseen. And still is he startled by it when he hears the affirmation of a too long endeavor. Radagon presses his forehead against Godfrey’s and pulls him close, tries to conform himself to a man who has restored his faith in at least this one truth. For he loves him as well when he’d thought himself incapable of such affection. Loves him, and knows what beats within his chest is not the power of a golden relic, but a heart that belongs solely to this man.

[ordervessel]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. Two lone men set before a crumbling castle left to rot within the elements with nary a soul to haunt its stone halls. Many a night has it been that had Radagon wonder of its previous residents, the men and women who might have made a home of their new stead. For while to he might it seem too overwhelming a task, but when held against the many larger castles that once spread across the land was it but a humble abode, like to have once been held by a minor lord of middling lineage. Now naught exists of its previous residents save for banners and tapestries too worn by time to have been of use.

For how daunting the task that lays afore them do they have time enough to spare. Time enough that there might come a day in which Radagon will behold the keep in its full glory once more. Upon the next hill does Radagon look back to the lone castle that’d housed him since his release. His home, mayhap. For what else might he consider it now having made a nest of sorts for himself while hatching plans of restoration with the man at his side. Ere they enter the village, he presses close to Godfrey as they’re swallowed by the throng souls come to the markets for similar reasons as they. A strange myriad of peoples he’d not seen since the time ere the collapse of his world. Sure proof of the resilience of humanity to have weathered such hardships, with the many fiends that abound.

“To restore a forge would be no easy task and we’ve enough of such on our hands that thou wouldst add another?” There is no bite to his gentle chiding for he recognizes Godfrey’s suggestion or what it is – an attempt to appease he, as the old warrior has done time and time again since settling amongst these lands. Knowing does little to stem a smile that’s grown over fond that he looks abruptly away ere it can be seen. “Our priority should be the restoration of the gardens ere the coming of the winter lest such efforts be for naught come the snows. I’d have fare grown fresh and by our hands lest thou wouldst subsist on dried meats and nuts once more.”

[lionscrowncd]

𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐝, 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, eager as he is to restore the castle he hath appropriated to himself to a home he can be proud of; one where one day he might see people live within its walls anew, or build their abodes along the outer edges of the keep. One day, he hopes to see it bustle with renewed life and vigor, housing not just withered stone and rotted wood, but plants, animals, other people as well. Mayhap one day too, then, would he reveal his identity and hope to be a leader anew; see at least part of the Golden Lineage restored if not in glory then in reputation.

But such days are yet a long time off and Radagon has the right of it saying they needs to temper their expectation and enthusiasm to start a singular task, rather than plan leagues of them and ne'er get aught done. " Hah, " His lips curve to a small smile 'neath his beard, head bowing in acceptance. " Then as per thine wise counsel shall it be. Doth thou know what fare and produce thou woulst like to grow, then? Vegeteables, roots? " Godfrey will admit he knows little of such menial tasks, though much as with the restoration of stone and wood, he feels eager to set himself to the task. Would that his past self could see him now, having lain down the battle axe for shear and saw and hammer; would he think himself a disappointment?

Mayhap. But Godfrey finds he minds little at this age. The wars are done for him. They can be fought by someone else. Around them, the wind picks up, but so does the noice of the market ahead. " Then let us find some raiment first and then set ourselves to the other task. "

[lionscrowncd]

Three words.

Well. 'Twas not quite what he had meant in saying three words and I am yours, but Godfrey supposes he can accept it nevertheless; especially with how earnest Radagon is looking 'pon him whilst responding.

Godfrey smiles. " Then I am yours. "

[leneemusing]

[lionscrowncd]

Hands him bread, but it's actually toast.

He looks down 'pon the spongy bread and thinks there must be something he is missing. Is he expected to toast it within the hearth himself? He would not put it past his beloved. " I━ thank thee, for the bread. Do you wish me to fetch some cheese as we prepare it further? "

[lionscrowncd]

Hands Godfrey baby Rhydon.

Ah, he supposes 'tis his turn to change the soiled undergarments anew, for there hangs a distinctive smell about his son. Mayhap once Radagon's back is turned, he can find some plugs for his nose ere he sets to it.

[ordervessel]

𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨, held tight against the sureness and solid form of the man behind him in witness of their victories. A long march and a longer battle still, but to stand here is a final mark to the end of too long a war. When all had risen to opposition to their vision. Upstarts, traitors, one and all. Those who’d learned too late of the folly of their resistance. The past and the present bleed and blur together. Radagon squeezes his eyes shut, blinking to clear the threads of a history that is his by right and still it sits strange within his chest to claim at all. He is different. His name is different. He is Marika, is he not? And yet she’d peered down at him upon the first breath he'd drawn and he remembers too the thoughts that’d set the course to his creation.

The forge burns now, pouring smoke into the firmament. Choking the clouds with ash and ember. Within would dwell the power of a god – the end of their Order should the flame be allowed to be left to burn uncontested. Whether he takes to the battlefield now or not it matters little for the war is nigh won. What remains is but a slaughter, their enemy put to the sword, the giants snuffed out as quickly as the fires within their forge. He’s no true place amongst these warriors, existing as naught but an imposition. Just as he is now to the Elden Lord sworn to another. To her rather than him.

“Naught may stand against me and hope to prevail. Why then wouldst I be fearful?” He might wield his hammer, its power is there within easy reach should he wish to bring it to bear against their foe. No giant nor paltry soldier could hope to withstand his might, even the fractured power of what is infinite is but a force beyond the ken of that which is mortal. He turns abruptly from the forge, no longer interested in sharing a view that has been seen before – shared between one who is meant to be his better and her Elden Lord. His movements are slow, the snow sinking deep beneath him and the ice proving a more treacherous enemy than any soldier upon the battlefield. He slips and grasps the trunk of a dead sentinel tree, stripped of its pines. It shudders beneath his grasp, sending a shower of snow about them. ‘Tis then that he wants only to be away. Away from Godfrey, from this battlefield and war that would be a prelude to his existence henceforth, away from a fate ordained by others whilst he is to be no more than a piece moved across a map. He gathers the light, the sparks of gold that dance about him as fireflies and vanishes.

[lionscrowncd]

" 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, " Unknown of Radagon's inner turmoil, Godfrey can still see the flickers of it paint across his features whenever he catches a glimps of his eyes, the slant of his mouth. He wonders exactly what purpose Marika had given him, what she has told him of his being, his existence. His Lady wife hath not been all that forthcoming, used to giving orders and Godfrey used to following them. Even so, he supposes there is little that should daunt a warrior like Radagon whom, even newly formed and looking at the world with fresh eyes, has more power to his name than Godfrey could ever hope to have.

Still, he is conflicted. Godfrey needs not know him well to see it, Radagon yet wholly unable to keep it from his face. He watches as the redhead turns away from the forge as if tired of it already, shoulders curled far too wearily for a being at its zenith and watches still as Radagon makes to return, his hand twitching at his side as if to reach out when he sees him stumble anew.

'Tis only when he sees the glimmer of teleportation around him that Godfrey feels a first flash of alarm. As a mere mortal, naught more than a warrior, a barbarian, he has not the propensity for such magicks that even the most talented of mages need years to perfect. That Radagon could call 'pon it like so, without even showing a hint of strain is not something he had accounted for.

Quicker then one would imagine for his size, he moves, closing the distance as if hoping to stop the other from vanishing before he actually could. His fingers curl around Radagon's wrist and━

The magick takes them both.

[ordervessel]

@lionscrowncd: ❛   we have no scar to show for happiness. we learn so little from peace.  ❜

𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 and mayhap their lack of such since the dawning of the Golden Order. For who is more fearful of their own demise than one that is meant to be eternal. Radagon still tastes the edge of Marika’s fear that cuts against his tongue as tangible and horrid as bile. Her fear should be his by extension though it is the nature of what they have become, the imperfect separation and union that has rendered both into diverging perspectives of such matters. Strange, how he can regard an end with only indifference when ever it’d been the weight that’d hung heavy from Marika, a noose and an anchor both. But ‘tis in death or its absence that an eternal being might find definition and he supposes therein lay their differences.

There are no scars ‘pon his body, no mortal instrument capable of piercing through his flesh. Though he’d walked this world for a time as a ruin of fractures no trace of his once damaged state remains. He is whole and he is perfect. Flesh and bone mended once more to drift in the nebulous borders of immortality.

Thus he turns to trace fingers along the solid form of the man who shares his bed now, glorious even when in repose, Radagon rests atop him and ‘tis in contemplation of Godfrey’s mortality that is his weight. Poems sing of scars as testament of survival, but he sees only the mark of death. His champion and warden, his shield battered upon the battlefield in protection of his charge. He presses a hand upon the fresh scars, still pink against the bronze of Godfrey’s skin. Would that he could do as the stories tell, kiss each and every wound away ‘til naught mars the body of his beloved.

His is the power that can destroy and create, his golden light that can mend flesh and pull life from the beyond. And all that burns within his body yet is he helpless against the unseen scars beneath the surface of his beloved. Grief is a scar, one that runs deep and ugly. There are no such similar lines he might trace upon Godfrey to learn his sorrow save for what he might glimpse in those golden eyes. ‘Tis those wounds, more than aught else, that he would mend. A god is he, and pitiful one is he.

“Mayhap not a scar that can be touched save by the brush of it upon our hearts,” he holds a hand over his lord’s mended wounds, pale and pink beneath his palm. And by mere whim alone does the golden light of creation pour from his touch, mending naught that has not already been healed. And yet, no power can repair what is seen and what has scarred within. “But there are scars, for as many that can be counted by our most mournful memories.” Beloved, let me heal you. Let me bear your burdens and your sorrows ‘til there remains but the bliss and ignorance of joy. Moments pass, the light fades. He sits back, knowing he has done little to soothe old aches. Mayhap the memories he bears of a time long ago, between moments of grief and pain are the wounds that refuse to heal, but even here feeling at last a calm he has not known in an age, Radagon would hold fast to these as well for however much they may hurt come the passage of time and the fall of a vast and unknowable future.

[ordervessel]

Picks up Joshua with no effort at all and throws him like a football at Godfrey.

[tsckcyomi-archived]

He's been waiting all day for this. He's trusting the Elden Lord to catch him no problem!

[lionscrowncd]

Easily catches the young Lord Joshua and, doing a 360 degree turn, just as easily lobs him back at Radagon one-handed.

[ordervessel]

𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 he’d envisioned for himself – born amidst a battlefield of blood and flame, now retired to a crumbling ruin whilst taking part in talk of gardens and hard labor. Yet he minds it not. The weight of the crown may not have been as heavy a burden as some may claim, but he’d never thought himself to have become Elden Lord either. ‘Tis but another odd turn of this far too long life of his. New seeds to plant whilst once verdants shoots have become naught but rot and mulch amidst the earth. He’d not expected family and children for himself either though he’d indulged for a moment in selfish joy. Should it not be he who must needs be cut away to give way to new growth?

A sharp gust of wind whips at them both though mayhap Radagon has made a point of standing with Godfrey between he and the elements. If he must suffer the company of this man then will he very well make use of his colossal form in some capacity. With a toss of his braid over his shoulder, he turns from the view and begins to make his way down the hill for these fabled markets. This is to be his life then, this simple day to day in which he searches for some measure of diversion between the rising and the setting of the sun.

“If I’d a forge, would I craft thee these tools.” Or restore the ones Godfrey had found. ‘Tis a strange preoccupation for a man who’d been consort to two queens and a ruling emissary himself – the voracious hunger for knowledge paired with a love for creation, whether it be with a thread and needle or it be at the forge. “Mayhap a new weapon for thee as well, when thine axe look nigh ready to shatter upon its next swing.” Though Godfrey had eschewed taking his favored weapon with him now when there’d be little need. His size alone would deter any and all would be assailants whilst any beast would be easily subdued without need of a weapon. They continue their venture, joining upon the main road that would take them to the nearby village.

[lionscrowncd]

𝐈𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐑𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥. Whether it be sowing, the forging of tools, the creation and imaginative use of magic, his skills with the blade, it makes Godfrey wish he too knew more than the meagre skill he could offer: his strength, his ability to wield an axe, his ability to plan and visualize. Together, it turns out, they make a good team and the plans to renovate the castle he had thought would take several ages has been proceeding apace; far faster than he could have imagined.

" Then mayhap we should focus on cleaning out and repairing the castle's existing forge. 'T has not seen a proper blacksmith in an age and would give thee opportunity to hone thine craft anew. " In the same line, Godfrey would continue his work 'pon the gardens and the castle's outer walls, re-strenghtening their fortifications, repairing their defenses, filling the holes years of war and strife have wrought 'pon it. One part at a time, mind, for there are still many parts beleaguered with monsters and fiends and Radagon has the right in saying that his axe is in dire need of some repairs.

He'd not taken it with him on this sojourn, not wishing to cut too intimidating a figure when simply perusing for wares. A long stretch from how he used to be, to be sure.

Ahead, the bustle of the markets and its surrounding village already calls them forth, the sounds of stalls being set up, wares being laid out, merchants calling to entice the village folk to come look 'pon their offers. It breathes of life, a simple kind of joy he at times misses within the dark walls of the castle, with nigh only Radagon for company. Not that he would say so, of course. " Shall we look for garments first or wisheth thee to look for more tools for thine craft? "

[lionscrowncd]

Sets a plate of brownies before him.

Though at first glance the sweet treat looks quite appetizing, the moment Godfrey picks up one of the brownies 'tis immediately apparent that it does not have the appropriate softness for the usually spongy cake. In fact, the moment he sets his teeth to it, he knows for certain that something must have gone amiss, as it is hard as a rock.

He still bites off the corner, crunching loudly. Crunching some more. At last he looks up at Radagon, swallowing against the dryness left behind 'pon his tongue. He smiles, a little pained. " Thank you. "

[ordervessel]

𝐓𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐛 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 would be an undertaking spanning several seasons if not more. To pour time and energy to what’s not like to be worn when Godfrey would have little opportunity is the question. Already do they have much on their plate. Still he holds to the edges of his cloak, fabric fisted within his grasp in some half-hearted attempt to keep the hem from dragging across mud and earth. ‘Twould be a diversion, would it not? Provide his hands and mind work in the quiet hours of the night when left to his own devices.

A gentle breeze uncharacteristic to the region ruffles his cloak and locks of hair he’s chosen to leave free of his braid, though regrets the decision now as strands irritate his skin. ‘Twill be an age and more ere he grows accustomed to the strange weather of these climes, but ‘tis too good a day not to venture forth rather than to have it spent within. “‘Tis a suitable compromise,” he acquiesces, he doubts what they’re like to find at the markets would be of the standard he expects of garments. Though they want not for coin, so too are they no longer in the position of frivolous spending. They make do with what they come by and trade what they have on such outings as these. Godfrey being a man of humbler tastes has made their austere lifestyle easy enough. ‘Tis Radagon who is the one who has struggled in this though imprisonment has pared away much of his excessiveness.

“Dost thou tire of mine habit of taking from thy wardrobe?” He tugs the cloak tighter about himself as they crest a hill, pausing briefly to admire the view. ‘Tis pleasant country, he’ll admit. Far different from either Liurnia or Leyndell, and of a beauty that tugs at his heart. He stills and leans against Godfrey, enjoying the warmth of the man as he stares to the oceans in the distance, still swathed in a heavy fog. “I want for garments of mine own and yet… ‘tis a needless expense if I’ve little use for such either.” Fabric to tailor his own clothes would be a start, though he’d need little when still favoring the styles of Leyndell. “Is there aught thou wouldst have of the markets?”

[lionscrowncd]

𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, the goal of their excursion suitably set; though he holds no illusion that they will spend their time only perusing for the items they strictly need. Leastways not where Radagon is concerned; he knows the man still seeks for other things to give him some measure of purpose and busy hands. Mayhap Godfrey would ask him to help with some garden work and they could look for some more seeds and plants. Spend some time in the outdoors rather than holed up in a castle that is still more ruin than aught else. Godfrey too must admit that though he does not miss the constant need for conquest and battle, he does miss how much he used to see of the Lands Between━ and Stormveil, though little changed, still holds many good memories indeed.

The question pulls him from his musing, bushy brows raised slightly. " I do not mind sharing with thee what is mine, though━, " He pauses, thinks of how best to word what's in his mind, in his heart without pushing Radagon into melancholy or strop. " I believe 'twould not be a needless expense for thee to acquire some garb of thine own. If only to give thee something of thine own to wear, something that belongs only to you, rather than being handed down by someone else. " He is not blind fool to Radagon's many somber moods, his questions about who he is now, what he is meant to do here, why he was made to linger.

Mayhap being able to choose things to have for his own that do not have Godfrey's influence would not go amiss. " Aside from the garments, I was thinking of tools, seeds, resources for the castle and the gardens. Many of the tools I have found are well past their age of use. "