God of the Darkmoon, Gwyndolin Instagram

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@ofthedarksun
God of the Darkmoon, Gwyndolin Instagram
new tablet finally, getting back into digital art, the author’s intentions don’t matter and Gwyndolin is trans
this is not a dark souls blog, but this is a gwyndolin protection blog,
@berenikecalvin:
He is quick to stand, his armor and equipment rattling softly with his movement. His breath comes out as fog in the cold winter day. “Oh, um… Fantastic!” Calvin said before giving another firm nod. “Thank you, My Lady, for this opportunity of mercy.”
He looks around for a moment, an awkward silence filling the room.
“… Do I just… Slide them through the fog, or…”
( 陰の太陽 ) — fantastic, the knight says and the dark sun, in turn, sighs. humans are hardly the most eloquent of creatures, of course; this is nothing particularly new. the deity has come to understand this long ago, that it is often the thought behind their actions that brings the core of humanity to light where words fail.
though he cannot be seen, the dark sun nods just the same. then, in a voice as cool and calm as ever, he answers. he has long considered this process to be obvious, but humans are dense, he knows.
“ you may leave them, that others who follow will seen thine work. is that not your wish? to have glory brought to thee along with mine blessing... ? ”
Inktober Day 30. Dark Sun Gwyndolin #inktober #inktober2016 #darksouls #darksouls3 #bloodborne #ink #markers #copicmarkers #tattoos #tattoo #gwyndolin
Dark Sun Gwyndolin (Dark Souls I). Done with white Ink, black Ink, gold pen on black paper. [2017]
New Patreon reward sketch by @veitstanz, capturing a napping Gwyndolin just before an Aldrich-themed tragedy strikes…
My brain aggressively shuts down it’s creative parts, but consider Gwyndolin, but their sneks have colorful hand-knitted snek sweaters, so they won’t get cold in Frosty Londo. Cozy noodles, happy noodles.
Tag @general-grey and @abyss-wolf, i guess
Trade.
My CHILD who DESERVED BETTER
Chosen Undead: Gwyndolin, what are your preferred pronouns?
Gwyndolin: Just don’t talk about me.
edelweissmage:
Vailintin sifts the soil between their fingers, disappointed and frustrated with how weak it feels. It’s almost like dust. Anything that grows here will not last long.
It’s just Vai’s luck their job is to return the lush greenery to this dead city. The massive garden they sit in is a testament to Anor Londo’s former glory, now dead and shriveling. Everything is ashen and dead. Birds do not sing. Squirrels do not scamper in the underbrush. There isn’t even the buzz of a mosquito to annoy them. It isn’t just quiet, it’s silent. An occasional whistling breeze provides the only sound.
Thankfully, Vai’s magic still works, even in such a barren place. They need only to touch a rose to return the vibrant red to its petals. They breathe the brilliant yellow back into a cluster of tulips.
But it doesn’t last very long. Any flower Vailintin bestows their magic upon requires their constant attention. The buckets of hearty Irish soil they brought with them can’t sustain these weak blooms alone.
Slowly, Vailintin stands and dusts down their clothes. “The soil is clean, in the sense that it lacks any pollutants. But, it is also clean in the sense that it is sterile.” They sigh, turning to face the one who called them here–the last god of Anor Londo, or so Vailintin has been told.
“My magic is not very strong. And this earth is long dead. I don’t know how much I can accomplish. Any progress will take a long time.”
Vailintin knows they are the last in a long line of attempts. The elves are immortal and their powers are greater, but they are loathe to leave their isolated, scattered havens. Elemental powers such as theirs are rare; most mages develop psychic or healing abilities.
“…But I will try my best.”
( 陰の太陽 ) --- the dark sun’s mouth sits expressionless on his face, a pencil-thin line, utterly neutral. he is half-faced away from his new gardener in an attempt to hide himself from the sun, muted by clouds but still too bright for his taste. they are--- for the moment--- the only two figures within anor londo’s walls. and thus, its silence is palpable.
this will be no easy task, he knows. the land, of course, is dead and has been for countless years, untended. for an age or more, only illusions kept the city alive. and when the dark sun’s power had waned, it had been overrun with filth that would take some time to be fully purged. perhaps it is strange to his companions--- dear yorshka and the lady velka--- that his focus would first settle outside. he has spent so little time there over the ages. but, it is his sister he thinks of in doing this, in bring this stranger into his company. it is a foolish hope, but one he quietly carries, regardless.
if he can return her gardens, perhaps she will return---
“ thou may ask mineself for any need; i will aid thee as i can. ”
perhaps, his aid means little now. he is weak still, but better every day.
“ time is of no concern. take of it what thou wilt to see this place returned. ”
gwyndolins
:)
It had been a very long time since he had been at the carpet before the fog wall, but he bore a gift! "Apologises for my absence, Your Highness. I hope this will make up for it." As he places not one, but TWO Souvenirs in front of him.
( 陰の太陽 ) — the dark sun did not recognize the figure before him. of course, that was hardly surprising. humans so often looked the same in his eyes. it was why, in part, he never hurried to meet them, greet them, at his doorway and look them over before he spoke. he had no need to get so close. he could sense them, smell them. each one in that aspect was decidedly unique. and of course, when each found their voice, he could feel them in their tone. the ages of quiet had made sounds precious. he remembered them all.
this voice— yes— he recognized. though the fog remained, moved slowly like liquid glass over the grand, empty doorframe, the dark sun approached the bowed figure and, faintly, smiled. he had not forgotten. after all this time, he was still true. he would be rewarded.
“ you may rise, knight. ”, he spoke, his voice echoing throughout the narrow hall. “ thou hath not come to mine door empty-handed. ”
“ i thank thee. ”
// i know i’ve talked about this before, but it’s likely been ages---
gwyndolin’s favorite hobby is painting. he doesn’t do it terribly often ( being a princess is, well, rather time-consuming--- ) but when he does, the effort has his full focus and he does not take kindly to being torn from it. most often, he’ll warm up with landscapes ( like this ) with his primary goal being perfecting portraits ( like this ) of his favorite subjects, his elder sister, gwynevere, and lady velka.
it is likely no surprise that he is extremely perfectionistic about his work, warm-up or otherwise. outside of his sister on very, very rare occasions, no one ever sees anything but a fully-finished piece. in fact, he does not even allow his servants to dispose of used or soiled canvases. he will see that they’re removed himself... or, he’ll keep them, stuffed away somewhere... eternally out of sight.
one of the rooms attached to his main suite is dedicated entirely to this craft. and the door, naturally, remains perpetually locked. he has--- on more than one occasion--- been requested by his father to display his primary talent in the form of a gift for a particularly esteemed guest or an important event. and of course, each of these requests has been met with quiet yet great disdain. these pieces, compared to his personal body of work, are certainly lower in quality though only those closest to him would ever notice.
he is most comfortable painting his sister and will gladly accept her requests--- done in his own time, of course. however, his most painted subject is velka; he has yet, though--- by default--- to find his work of her acceptable.
// it’s almost winter solstice which is--- naturally--- gwyndolin’s favorite time of the year.