we endure.

selective / private soulsborne oc.

[of-forossa]

After all, darling, I wouldn't sell the world, For all the gold or sterling. If it falls, I would hold on for all it's worth, The future's so bright it's burning.

private & selective soulsborne oc.

affiliated & singleship with @yellowfingcr.

penned by lee.

rules. || about. || verses. || concepts. ||

[of-forossa]

// i've some things to reply to, but in the mean time feel free to like this post if you'd like a brom in your inbox

[yellowfingcr]

@of-forossa replied to your post “I need to chew on Heysel like she's a stick i...”:

"No, no, they may be on to something here."

​"Huh?"

[of-forossa]

"You've never minded someone sinking their teeth in you before, my good prospector." Brom drawls warmly, clawed fingers straightening her collar before he leans closer. As if to inspect his work, rather than to all but press a soft smile against her cheek.

"Though perhaps the distinction lies in just whom does the gnawing, no?"

[of-forossa]

@yellowfingcr // x

Winter never truly settles here in the Farron mire.

Chilling, frigid winds will howl through the twisted branches of her trees, giving cause for the ghru to retreat into their hidden dwellings that for once has little to do with the Watchdogs' swords. But there is little else in the way of the cold times that makes itself known in the heart of this land. No frost creeps across the uneven ground to lend a crunch beneath his steps. No ice stills the poisoned waters to grant temporary passage to those either oathbound or unfortunate enough to travel through. No flakes of snow drift down from above to tempt the world into still and frozen silence.

Brom endures it all the same, in his usual way. Quietly, calmly. As much at ease with the possibility that nothing will change from moment to moment as he is with the likelihood that something will try to do their damnedest to slay him on the one day he isn't wearing his plate armor. There is still something ceremonial about his garments all the same. Yet the fleece from his armor now draped about his broad shoulders and the kohl dabbed with care about his tired eyes speaks to something more formal than fighting today. So too the manner in which his hair has been loosened from its braids, pouring down until it settles at his midback.

How strange, to feel so exposed in a manner that has nothing to do with fearing for himself, but for the outcome of the day. "A fool's notion," he murmurs only to the empty air as his sword's tip (faithful steel, never parted from him) just strokes the hardened earth. "You've only planned for this day for an age now, Brom. Steady yourself."

He huffs and shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning up. At the thought of her, of how no doubt she would grin and likewise laugh at the nerves of a man who has crossed swords with gods and kings over an arrangement as this. "Soon," he mutters quietly.

In the place where first they met so long ago, Brom waits and listens for those little signs he's long noted from Farron's ghost.

[of-forossa]

// apologies for the quiet on here, folks. between my moving into a new apartment, an uptick in overtime in general to cover expenses, and an overall weariness between it all, i've admittedly lacked the fortitude to be here. my hope is to change that here sometime in the next few weeks, but until then i hope you've all be faring well. not a day goes by where i don't think of being here, truthfully, and when a chance to do so again makes itself available to me... i'll be here

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

[starter for @of-forossa] The Forest of Fallen Giants was not, by its nature, a still place. Leaves whispered; branches fell and grew. Fungus traced beneath the surface of the soil, kept company by salamanders and insects. Undead soldiers still hacked at trees that would never yield to their dulled blades.

Yet in one clearing, it was still.

An old woman waited there at the foot of a tree, sitting cross-legged upon the ground. Her head was tilted up as if in expectation, and the black and white hood she wore spilled back over her shoulders. Salamanders decorated it also, their twisting bodies abstracted almost beyond recognition. Despite the warm day, she wore a heavy pelt as a cloak, its thick grey fur making her almost a forest beast herself. A staff laid across her knees, a black line drawn with an unsteady hand.

In that one pocket of the forest, the Forest held its breath.

[of-forossa]

A distant roar, the sound akin to great stones grinding against one in another in a tumultuous rockslide, is what finally loosens the held breath of the Forest. Thunderous footfalls stir and shake the earth, groans precede the snapping of trees as though they were mere brittle sticks, and the usual tedium there'd been to the timelessness of this place is undone in a showing of brutal, precise violence.

Change's arrival to this place is heralded with the bearing of northern steel and ferocity, and the ground shakes with a final roar of desperation and then sudden silence. Quiet returns uneasily to the Forest, flighty and uneasy in the knowledge that as quickly as it came the chaos might erupt once more. Tension regathers and mounts again in the wake of battle, another breath held by the trees in anticipation...

It doesn't break again. Not meaningfully, beyond the arrival of a warrior near drenched in blood to the clearing. Armored plates shift and creak with the rise of his chest, the breaths stolen heavy and strained from underneath his steel helm as the man likewise settles himself against a tree - one that once crushed soldiers beneath its heavy hands. His stained sword is settled across his lap, his head leaned heavily against the tree's trunk, and yet still the words he wields to break the quiet are steady in spite of his exhaustion.

"Pray, mage, if you've heart and reason still, grant me a moment's respite before we raise hands against one another." His gaze finds hers across the way, resigned to some grim outcome already. "For the journey is long, and though death be a constant companion to me now, I do not crave his company more than I must allow."

[of-forossa]

// i'll be gone for the week with the holidays. i pray your own celebrations and time with your families is swell ^^

[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!

[of-forossa]

// also as a small note... by no fault of his own, moth brom is incredibly fluffy and soft. perhaps the most huggable version of him

[of-forossa-archived]

in memory.

For those who died for Hallownest, fearless before the jaws of the Blackwyrm.

Brom brushes a hand over the ashes clinging to the monument, reverent in a way those that came before him had certainly not considering its sorry state. Deep cracks have spiderwebbed all throughout the slab of black stone, the names engraved upon it long scoured into ineligibility by the elements, and of offerings to the supposedly once-honored bugs there were none. Had there been any before him that cared in the least about either the grave or those buried beneath, Brom couldn’t tell.

Here at the Kingdom’s Edge, where the deep caverns and winding tunnels of Hallownest have opened up to reveal the barren world beyond, the moth warrior is the only one to pay homage to another conflict relegated to history and then summarily forgotten. Resting his long nail across the base of the monument, Brom kneels down to retrieve a few tokens from his time in service to the Resting Grounds– several strips of clean cloth, a flask of water from the warm springs he’d passed by not so long ago, and a bundle of incense sticks. Confidant that they aren’t at risk, Brom rises with a flourish, spreading his tattered grey wings and giving them a mighty flap.

Ash gathered up into a flurry of blinding white, banished from where it had still clung to the slab, and with another few flaps were cast into wind, carried off and away to reveal even more of the monument. Satisfied, Brom begins in earnest, the rejuvenating waters of the hot springs soaked into the cloth strips and rubbed carefully against the aged stone. One after the other is rendered absolutely filthy, yet the sheen to the stone now spoke plenty for his efforts not going to waste, and by the time he has finished the monument looks a far sight better than it had.

Though the decay remains, the neglect long past being fixed by the care of a stranger in a strange place. Those who were meant to be honored here still remain nameless, forgotten and thus forsaken.

All but one.

“Grellen.” How strange his voice sounded now, so long he’s gone without a need for it. Rough almost, not unlike pebbles crunched underfoot.

Around him, the world seems to suddenly still. Ash hangs frozen in the air, the distant cheers of the arena’s attendees falls silent, and even the relentless force of the howling wind falls away. 

“Who speaks?” Their voice is high, frail, yet it echoes with a familiar power that has Brom’s antenna flicker in recognition. He takes the moment to retrieve his long nail before turning, wings falling back around him not unlike in appearance to a cloak, and turns to find himself face to face with a broad but short bug. Their thick shell has been deeply cracked and rent, a single eye blinks back up at him from beneath their helm, and the mighty great nail clutched in their pincers has been terribly scorched. “Does the moment near? Does the Blackwyrm approach once more?” They stand taller, tall as they can, but even in death Brom can see the fear in their eye. Determined but afraid, as any would be.

“Be at ease, good soldier.” Brom dips his furry head respectfully, his voice still rough but the tone of it calm. “The battle is over, and the day is won. Our king has laid the Blackwyrm low.”

Grellen seems at a loss for a moment, then two, and the moth warrior makes a point of not staring when they at last sag in relief, seemingly overcome with emotion. “At last, at last! I thought the day lost when the great beast fell upon us. I felt the weight of her jaws clamp down around my shell and her fell breath scorch my nail, but I knew we would hold the line! We would not break or yield!” They wipe their eye with a pincer, their voice thick with joy as they laugh. “What I wouldn’t give to see Runeel’s face when he finds out I dealt the Blackwyrm a mighty blow myself…”

“What keeps you, then?” Brom sheathes his long nail, clearly not needing it here. Not this time, not with Grellen already fading into essence before his eyes. Passing on would be no issue it seemed. “Your comrades are waiting for you. I know they are eager to hear of your courage.”

“Aye, that I’ll do! I’ll tell them, don’t you fret my friend! They’ll all know the tale of Grellen the Wyrm’s Wound!” And with a loud laugh the soldier fades entirely, disappearing into symbols of the dream and a flurry of essence that soon passes by without a trace.

“Aye,” Brom agrees to himself. “I’ll make sure they remember.” He sits then before the monument, and with a brittle snap the incense sticks disappear into sweet smelling dust. Around him the world once more moves, ash falling and wind howling, yet the comforting air remains for a long while yet.

[of-forossa]

// some silksong thoughts below + moth brom, big spoilers ahead

can't shake the feeling that pharloom and the haunting overall are the result of grandmother silk's attempts at being not only in control but aware of everything that occurs within the kingdom. the possession of bugs via silk to be used as tools and weapons, but also as potential eyes to see the world from where the grandmother still lies dreaming in her cocoon... it speaks to me of a desire for control that isn't just that of a god? but that of someone who has lost greatly, like potentially when the weavers collectively fled for other kingdoms and lands?

also, the haunting of pharloom having another meaning in the bugs of pharloom being pantomimed by the silk and going about their "average" lives. the souls are gone, many of the people are gone, and yet the halls are still walked as if someone's afraid of being alone.

[of-forossa]

// silksong... real...

[of-forossa]

.

[of-forossa]

Quickening, the art of channeling arcane to not only hasten the wielder but become momentarily intangible, was a technique founded by Gehrman and perfected by his pupil in Maria to great effect against the beasts of Yharnam. Their speed and swiftness allowed them to avoid direct confrontation with their unnatural strength, and with proper timing even escape from perhaps certain death as they slipped free from grasping claws and rancid jaws alike.

With firsthand accounts of Quickening few and far between with the passing of years and many of the original Workshop hunters having perished or disappeared, the art has been all but forgotten in the current day. Documentation from the first days of the Healing Church and theories from the scholarly minded among them serves as the basis of current understanding for it.

Quite far from a scholar and with very limited understanding of the arcane given his growing beasthood, Brom has managed with great effort to recreate the technique. Rather than slipping neatly through the real as a proper practioner would, the application of arcane is done with something closer to brute force, and this form of Quickening as a result is exhaustive to say the least.

[mewnbuns]

i just LOVE the idea of well respected, intimidating men behind closed doors with their lover. yes that man who is a rather scary, important part of an organisation and who’s name alone is capable of striking fear into his enemies DOES need a goodnight kiss from his lover every night … he may even beg for a second

[of-forossa]

Cunning and ambitious, the vampire Ingjard has proven time and again how truly monstrous one can become when time and means are of no concern. Already old in the time of Ysgramor, Ingjard has spent the millenia pursuing one debased indulgence after another, leaving ruin and despair in her laughing wake.

Many have raised steel and knocked arrows to put an end to her, but with a mastery of illusion magic the attempts are often doomed before they can even begin. She delights in the domination of the mind, whether that be turning friends upon one another in bloody fury or shattering their minds with unspeakable horrors. Those unfortunate few that can withstand her spellcraft are confronted with the reality of meeting an ancient vampire in battle-- a Daughter of Coldharbour no less, and one who greeted Molag Bal with open arms at the appointed time.

Favored by the Lord of Domination, near peerless as a illusionist, there is precious little out of Ingjard's reach. Yet as a petty and possessive creature, resistance to her will and desire foments the worst cruelty, and few can elicit such outrage more than her thrall Brom. Believing that as his sire her every whim and want should be his to gladly fulfill by nature alone, Ingjard is ever watching for some flaw or weakness in the man that she may finally crush him into something painfully servile.

[rune-folk]

Sverd i fjell, Stavanger, Norway

July 2024