𝐫 𝐮 𝐛 𝐞 𝐝 𝐨

𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐚𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞.

[ordervessel]

#𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋. independent and private radagon of fromsoft's elden ring. mutuals only. low activity. heavily headcanon based along with personal interpretation of source material. not spoiler free. established march 24, 2023. as written by taco ( 30+, they / them ). carrd.

Solemn duty weighs upon the one beholden; not unlike a gnawing curse from which there is no deliverance.

blog roll: @drachenblood, @helldevour

affiliates: hemithios. lionscrowncd.

[ordervessel]

@greatgospell: ❝ old stories are like old friends. you have to visit them from time to time. ❞

𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. 𝐇𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭 at the academy, such knowledge found not between the pages of the many tomes found within its ancient halls, but poured as wine and honey from the mouths of scholars – the sort just as wont to consume both with insatiable zeal. So sure were they in their dissertations given form through hastily scratched notes and barely formed thoughts, in this matter as they do in all things academic or not. ‘Tis the way of the studious, he’d learned, even his once wife given to such fits of passion that would transform her normally elegant hand to something of an indiscernible scrawl.

Each book told a tale and he himself no more than an eager student, so hungry to learn. So eager for what he’d once believed the world contained in an expansive library. He remembers this best, the moment when the might of a greater power descended clad in gold and black, come with a summons for a destiny he’d all but ignored.

And in those days that followed would he realize the truth of a story. For no more are they a study as they are a collection of memories. Thoughts had. Dreams faded. All turned to dust. No more tangible and real as the bonds that held man together. There is but one reality to this world, unchangeable save for but the whims of a cruel and unfeeling god, sight cast too far forward for the likes of something so fleeting as what is to be writ upon a page.

“What then with the passing of thy companions?” He wonders to one such as her would true death be a barrier. When much like what he knows and the land he would call his home, is this world one where the dead still give rise to voice. Their memory writ across her heart, whether she wills it or not. “When all that thou hast known is naught but a fleeting memory, what then of thy stories?”

[ordervessel]

@ramblingsofamoonwatcher: ❝ i am the monster they all say i am. ❞

𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬, 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 with no room for a muddled blur between. And above them all – the heavy hands of those who would ordain the place and role of each and every living being within this sordid world. Truth or lie, holy or corrupt, man or monster, such are the distinctions made. And Radagon himself, having taken his brush to this world, dipped in gold or elsewise. Gold is what flows within his veins, the very life’s blood that drips the heavens are his to weave. Incantations crafted to expunge this world of those who exist within the confines of the other side. For once so much of this world had been in opposition to the Golden Order, the flames of conflict scorching much of this land. Theirs is a god of conquest and bloodshed, sacrifice nigh a necessary sacrament to fill her cup. That he would answer that which would still remain as a stain upon the perfection of his Order with careful and merciless violence is but part of his nature.

For they are two parts as well, both golden and pure and divine, but he is the one meant to know and feel what it is to be mortal.

He looks to this woman in confession, hoping to discern her nature in turn. Truth or lie. Does she believe in the sincerity of her words? When he has known the vilest depths in which man may sink? When he has stood in witness of their sins and thus uttered inalterable judgement of their fates? His very word inviolate and their ends a resolution. Would he therefore need cast this one to the shadows beneath the holy capitol? Gaoled and held in chains, tormented by the evils that dwell in those labyrinths?

“That there exist monsters that walk within the skins of man is undeniable.” He has seen it himself, slit their throats and lashed their beings to purity. “But such judgement of who is monster and who is not is reserved to be rendered by only the sainted and most holy.” He stands above her, Lord of all that is golden and holy. “Speak now, then. Pour forth thy sins and atrocities. Thus allowing me in turn the final judgement of thy soul.”

[ordervessel]

@curenone: “ you’re looking a little … broken up there. ”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫. ‘𝐓𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 when the dust settles, when the last breath of mortal challenger and eternal creature both fall away, swallowed by the abiding dark of the Erdtree’s heart. And at long last, is he alone. Truly alone. He crawls to awareness within his own body as one might on hands and knees through tunnels of glass and rusted nails. And he fits uneasily within this vessel, feeling nigh too small for himself, feeling the loss of an intrinsic part of himself and wondering how he’s not bled from what’s been torn away.

‘Tis worse than before, when he’d woken to this world as half a man, carrying the memory of when he’d excised his very self from his body. He knows not where she has gone, but ‘tis not half of a whole that remains now, but a third of one being. Now ‘tis he, on his knees, slumped forward, hair falling about him as he stares at the hands in his lap, wondering if they were his after all. They obey not his command save but a twitch. All of him is agony and ruin, battered to pieces by the cruel hand of the divine. Hammered to fit the shape of a vessel and to be naught else but that. The bitter recompense for a lifetime of obedience. What matters loyalty when this is his fate.

He closes his eyes, the gold filaments of power that still drips from his chest but proof of godhood. All but defeated, he is a vessel still. One that is slow to mend as the pieces of himself have scattered and skittered away. Where one god must die and another mortal joins it, must he himself remain. As always. There is to be no reprieve after all.

The silence does not last. Nor does the solitude. There is strength that remains yet within his body when his hand closes around his hammer once more and he swings it about, smashing it through the chest of the stranger. A snarl that twists his lips as he at last stands, one hand clutched fast around his weapon whilst the other still hands useless by his side. Still a shadow form of what it once was, but slowly does it become solid. A vessel in which the pieces must fit together once more, in which the cracks must be sealed.

The stranger is not of the Tarnished’s ilk though he be lacking in the grace as gold as well, there is something… other about him. A malignant darkness that writhes about his center as worms within a corpse. Radagon pries free his hammer, watching as blackness pour from the cavity. Not mortal, he decides as the wound closes, but not quite a god either. “Thou hast trespassed upon sacred ground.” Thou the god to which such ground was meant to house is gone, what matters now if such a foul creature would taint it with his presence. Here, that’d been his prison for an age, where divine punishment had been his reward for his loyalty, where the sins of another would be his to bear as well. He scoffs, lowering his hammer, righteous anger having fled him and with it what spark of strength. He settles once more to his knees. “Leave me.”

[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]

𝐍𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 there are but fundamental truths that cannot be gainsaid. Odd, how it is, when what burns within her now is that which can dictate the will of the stars. And still must even a god bow to such laws. Yet even as part of a greater divine, is Radagon able to reach and bend the world about him. Thus does time and space warp about his grasp, his will exerted upon a stream in which the current flows about the intrusion. ‘Tis as simple as a thought and to press against the foundations of reality and is he gone from the snows of the mountaintop. The cold and the ice that have plagued him since his inception but a memory as he feels once more the warmth of sunlight upon his shoulders and back.

And the touch of something far more solid and tangible. Bathed in the light of the Erdtree and cradled by its massive roots, is the solitude he’d wished for stolen by the presence of the Elden Lord who’s become a stowaway to his journey. “Why hath thou intruded upon my sojourn?” He glowers and wrenches himself free. The answer is obvious. Marika’s husband has made himself Radagon’s ward in turn, true to earlier spoken sentiments, yet he’d not thought the man so foolish to have risked himself by latching on so tight, the sensation not unlike clinging to a comet hurtling through the vastness of the void.

Around them are the fallen leaves of the Erdtree, still pristine as the day they’d unfurled upon the very holy branches that looms above them. Below and in the distance does he espy the beginnings of a settlement already growing beyond the confines of its walls. A great city might dwell here soon, so many of the Golden Order’s worshippers having come here in pilgrimage, wishing to be near both goddess and holy relic. And several leagues away from the sight of battle that has need of its general and champion. “Thy Queen and wife will be most irate by thine absence.” He should know, having been one and the same as her ‘till now. “I should make thee march the entire breadth and length between here and the mountaintop in retribution of thy transgression.” Though it’d be naught but a threat, he’s no intent of risking the surety of the war for naught but spite.

[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.”

[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. "

[ordervessel]

𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐑𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐭 whether it be as husband to Rennala or husband to Marika, ne’er was a king consort expected to fetch produce for the kitchens. Though still does he remember the times he did, to but sate his curiosity and behold with his own eyes of the beating heart of his kingdoms’ commerce. For on such a smaller scale the market here ‘tis no different in a way. Merchants and farmers having gathered in the vast square, their stalls set about with baskets full of goods. And for the hour is the place already crowded, enough so that he circles his arms around Godfrey as he looks on with interest. An age spent in isolation now to have so many near is a crash of a wave upon his chest, the suffocating and overwhelming both.

There are eyes upon him, a natural consequence of the strangeness of he and his companion. If not for their formidable size and the figures they cut through the crowd, has he always drawn attention for the flame brightness of his hair. The crimson locks having grown long enough that he at last is able to style them to a comfortable braid. They pass by one stall with trinkets and ornaments for a person’s hair, too ornate now for what they do, but in a time long pass would Radagon have worn such adornments. Jewels and gold for his hair and about his body, torques and bracelets engraved with the tenets of the Golden Order. His gaze lingers overlong, but he’s swept away by the steady pace that Godfrey cuts through the crowds.

“‘Twould depend on thy tastes, would it not?” Neither are they two able hands within what passes for their kitchen and as one who’s never cared overmuch for his meals, has he focused his studies upon other areas of interest instead. Yet here he is now, having searched for such tomes that might aid in this task when the responsibility has fallen to his shoulders as well. If he is to stay at Godfrey’s side must he make himself useful in some capacity. “Potatoes,” he decides, having marked Godfrey’s fondness for them. “But carrots, tomatoes, onions and mayhap some pumpkins as well.” Mayhap ‘tis too much at once when they’ve little knowledge in gardening, but they’ve time enough to learn and he’d have variety for his companion’s sake. One such stall seems to have what they need, gardening tools and seeds organized upon a makeshift table, all of which that Godfrey had said they’d needed. Radagon tugs Godfrey over, still holding to the man as they’re welcomed by the merchant.

[ordervessel]

@caediis: ❝ the blood of my enemies i will shed gladly. the blood of innocents is another matter. ❞

𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. Denied the world will he make for himself one cradled within the earth. A slumbering dynasty engraved with the slow trickle of blood that runs from the profane. Life made into an aberration. He sees it wheresoever his gaze turns, in twisted creations and the horrors with talons still dripping with fresh blood and viscera. This is his creation. Where churns the deep red pits of that which was once vital to life, now but a step away upon a shore washed crimson. ‘Tis there might Mohg have his baptisms, where his supplicants lay drenched in these gruesome currents.

To bear witness to such a creation, Radagon can ill conceive where might Mohg draw the line between innocent and corrupt. Would believers of the holy tenets be suitably cast to the depths, their throats slit open and their own life’s blood decanted from their beings? Would then he be made to join the penitents, for a certainty has Radagon much to repent, his sins uncountable, his salvation beyond reach.

“Thus will thou contrive to be the arbiter of mankind.” Radagon peers to that which lay beyond what has ostensibly been his prison since having been spirited away to Mohg’s kingdom. So high above the world that Mohg has crafted might he ignore it all and instead peer to the false heavens, pretending elsewise if not for the iron scent that suffuses every breath taken. ‘Twould be so easy to believe that his child bears naught but good intentions, that he means only the best for this world. But the touch of his false god is as tainted and poisonous as waters befouled by the bloated dead.

A pity, when Radagon would relinquish the crown, relinquish the Elden Ring and cede the fate of the next age to the one at his side. “Look to how the world has fallen, a crumbling ruin wrought by miserable hands. Where once the Golden Order was a paradise visited unto this world, still ‘twas not enough. Dost thou believe thee capable of righting my failures? Of fashioning this dynasty into a worthy successor?”

[korvyna]

The witch's thoughts are interrupted by a voice that calls out to her, craning her head into the direction of whence it came. In the distance there is but a figure, by far greater in stature than she; Morrigan can only assume he is one of the gods ── one which is spoken of faintly in her endeavours as as such, she does not know much of him. Between them, there was but a decent distance, of which Morrigan noted the striking red hair, wisps of lush crimson that moved subtly with the gentle caress of the heated wind. She was but curious of his presence, and casted her gaze downwards as her companion came to a halt. It seemed spooked and would not move any further as of currently. Morrigan soothingly stroked the stallion's mane, and proceeded to step upon the dunes. Her shoes were captivated by the warmth of the sand, a feeling of relief upon her toes. His question is what strikes her, and she merely responds with a slight bow of her head. She is unsure if the disappearance of Kieran is his doing, and remains wary. ❝ I am but a travelling sorcerer in search of what was taken away from me. My kin is not the type to wander foolishly upon these lands, thus I have a reason to suspect he may have been taken away. The last I heard of him, a wandering vagrant saw his presence in this direction. Your Lordship, I mean not as a threat upon Leyndell ; have thou seen a wandering boy? ❞

[ordervessel]

𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝, for what is there left of Leyndell to threaten? None remain save but he. None, but the fallen bodies of those taken by the ruin that has befell this city. ‘Tis as he’d warned from the very start, what had filled his dreams – the fire that would swallow the world if allowed to burn without cease. Above them still rages the flame, the great husk of the Erdtree weakening enough for parts to have fallen free. Great branches having crashed as thunder about them, sending reverberations through what is left of the city.

“If it be as thou claimest then ‘tis like your child has perished. If not to the flame then to any number of hazards that have taken root within this city.” He’s not wandered through the streets beneath the ash, yet no longer is Leyndell a hospital clime for the weak or the infirm, much less a child. That this woman stands at all, seemingly unaffected by what has befallen the city is a wonder unto itself. Though it stands to reason that if the mother proves resilient then mayhap her child is as equally hardy.  

To lose a child and to cling to barest hope of their continued survival, is that not the strength and failing of a parent. Such weakness had he harbored within himself once – mayhap still does, for he finds too oft do his thoughts turn to the far flung lands, to children lost to him. Still wondering if they still draw breath in this era. ‘Tis for they alone that he would think to step from these ruins in search of but a scrap of proof to their whereabouts. “Yet… there is still hope.” He thinks of the twins, of the three children he’d left behind, and then to the ones cast to the depths. “Less than hope, for if thy child has fled to the underground, ‘tis like what dwells beneath has claimed his life as well.”

[sarastuss-a]

POWERFUL AETHER FLOWS, SURROUNDS! : it is something out of this world. 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊, not even from her past that taunts, her past as azem, as the traveler. brows furrow, he is under a merciless study. 𝙰 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃? she can not say. BUT THE POWERFUL ENERGY THAT RADIATES FROM HIM, that, no - one could deny. ... it is his answer that widens her eyes, takes her by surprise. 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍, 𝐎' 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎. ━━━━ ❝ my story? ❞ words repeated by sweet voice. oh, where to start? ( you have lived long, lost, &. only to wake up to fight again, to protect. ) silence surrounds for a moment, her dilemma made obvious by the pondering look that 𝙳𝙴𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 her features. of her shoulders, gaze escaping his. ❝ it is, ... quite a long story. ❞ 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, spoken with hint of uncertainty. MIND DIPS INTO BOTH, WARM, &. HURTFUL MEMORIES. ━━━━ but she dares to rise her gaze to face his once more, 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒. ❝ i want to help. ... i keep going on for those who are lost, and for those that can yet be saved. ❞ for she wouldn't let this, nor any other realm fall. not again. ❝ but, you have yet to tell me who you are. ❞

[ordervessel]

𝐓𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 this world’s supposed doom with his own eyes, has he come to understand the catastrophe that’d been averted. Though the songs and stories are too fantastical for a man who has prides himself a scholar first and foremost than aught else. ‘Tis for this reason his steps have carried him to the nation of the learned, where knowledge is the currency held in tight fists. Here might he find a home, had these been not a people so adverse to the presence of outsiders. There’s a quiet amusement when faced with this warranted caution, finding it all too similar to a place he’d once planted his sanctuary and allowed roots to flourish. No matter the world, ‘twould seem all academics are cut from the same cloth.

Though ‘tis in Old Sharlayan that he’d learned best of the Warrior of Light, for ‘tis there that their records of the great hero’s exploits meticulously kept. Yet for a stranger from far away lands has his access to such knowledge been limited, barred from such a prize has Radagon strove to learn more for himself. In this are the stories no exaggeration, this woman lives true to her appellation. A warrior able to vanquish her foe with ease.

“A most noble sentiment.” Though Radagon takes care to mask his true feeling on the matter. For if even a fraction of the stories speak true then has this woman seen and suffered much. In all his long years has he seen men and women as her, been one such person himself – come into this world bearing a banner of hero, so naïve with a belief that the righteous and the just must prevail. Only to learn much to their sorrow of the realities of the world and thus do the naive become the cynical. “And mine apologies for what affront I may have incurred in this breach of etiquette, my name is Radagon and I am… a simple traveler. A scholar. A man hoping to learn the truth of this world and of the woman behind the legend.” It surprises him in turn, to realize how he enjoys the shedding of all titles and the burdens that come with it. ‘Tis… pleasing to be once more a nothing and no one.

[ordervessel]

@arathina: ❝ i must be strong. if i despair, my grief will consume me. ❞

‘𝐓𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐚𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 and not one split between two wills, when he’d realized that what rests in the unseen shadows of the capitol is a blade. An edge that would cut easily into the unwitting. He’s no wounds to bear for his own missteps, but he knows of its existence all the same. The weight of a crown is a strange shield in some ways, but even he ill needs such protection when divinity still flows through his veins. The self-same blood he has blessed cursed his children with, only one marred by the red of his hair and thus suffers most for being her father’s child. In temperament and in appearance. Both children of his heart, his one light within this wretched city, who have become heirs to his burden and with it his own enemies.

The knives turn at times to the twins. Radagon toils harder still for a greater shield than what a throne fails to provide, for a happy people would mean safer childhood. He works through the night and finds himself yearning for simple days when the only yoke he need bear was that of a mere champion, when an enemy is the one he meets upon the battlefield. Now he fights for his children with failing diplomacy and an iron hand.

Godwyn once spoke of children sequestered away within the country. When he places a hand atop young Miquella’s crown of flaxen gold he thinks of his child amidst fields of wheat. Would that he had such luxuries. Would that he could take both children and settle within the azure lakes of Liurnia. His burden is their burden, and such are shackles that’d clasped tight about their wrists ere they’d been born to this world.

His precious and precocious son already feels the rattle of such chains, who remains at the same height now as he’d been years ago whilst he watches his sister age and suffer through the years. What use is the power of a crown when his children must feel its weight all the same. When Miquella must utter words of strength and grief. He halts in his tracks, hand falling away from his son, the same knot of grief that has tied about his heart since the moment he’d known he would be a father once more tightening once more.

‘Twould be so easy to waver and to have such temptation steal away within him now when his child feels the necessity of strength. What manner of father is he when his own son is forced to such a position, in what way has he failed? He sighs, looking away. “Grief for thy sister and what ails her?” For he can ill conceive of what else would cast such a pall for his son. Radagon has wept as well on his daughter’s worse days, when none but the gods themselves can see his weakness. “Thou’rt still too young to think of strength, my sapling. With much of thy life ahead of you. Even thy sister wouldst not have thee preoccupy thyself as such. Let me shoulder this grief, for I am thy father and I would have thee and thy sister free and full of joy.”

[the-unkindled-queen]

Love how Radagon just bitch slaps your magic away. The animation makes me laugh every time. He's like "Nope".

[ordervessel]

@fenrs: ❝ there are wolves in these woods, and worse things. ❞

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝, the sun bright across his bare shoulders and the scent of crushed grass and fresh sap an overwhelming perfume about the air. Here, was where he’d stood, watching with little feeling as the axe men took the great trees, felling dozens by the hour. Nigh an army of them with their dulled weapons still somehow gleaming against the sun when their great blades were held high ere they were brought down against the ancient trunks. To disturb such wood was to invoke the ire of the spirits and did such ethereal beings dwell within, their wrath made known the more they'd carved away of the arboreal body.

Worse things, Fenris had the right of it at least. Wolves are as nothing to one who has reared many, having felt the powerful bite of such beasts. Centuries ago had he vanquished the worst denizens of the forest, banished them to whatever lay beyond this mortal world. But when the forest itself is but a living creature, new life may germinate. The scars of eld have all but been reclaimed, the borders between man and nature shifting to the dominance of the latter. He espies not a single fallen trunk nor the discarded axes of his servants.

“Art thou easily worried of such things?” The look he slides towards Fenris is scrutinizing though he finds little of the fear that Radagon might expect of a lesser being. More wolf and spirit is this one, like scenting out like in this moment. He wonders if Fenris is aware of the many gazes that they have drawn by their transgression of having ventured too near. “What dwells within abhors my presence, for good reason, I suppose. ‘Twas by my command that I’d had its being despoiled.”

He shrugs and steps towards the wood, feeling whatever it is within recoiling at his temerity. “Yet to venture around would add time I’d not waste. If thou’rt afeared, then worry not. I will protect thee.”

[ordervessel]

still love the fact that godfrey/radagon and marika/rennala are canon.

[korvyna]

@ordervessel

The sun dawned upon the horizon, it's glimmering golden orb spreading warmth upon the dunes of Leyndell. A bright, scarlet tree stood erect in the distance, covering the dusty, ashen skies with its crimson hue.

Morrigan held the vibrant purple cloth close to her nose and mouth as to not inhale the sand, treading upon the silken grounds with the aid of her hooved companion. Amber eyes scanned the surroundings as she inched closer towards the gold and sandstone structure. Word of mouth was that Kieran had been last spotted venturing upon his own towards the Capital - as to why the witch could not fathom but most of all it had her worried about the rather demure boy. She chided herself lazily for being a bad mother, but she came around it and trusted she had taught the boy well enough to survive on his own. Upon reaching an opening, she began to tread forward; she kept to herself, only ever pausing to admire the architecture and often calling out but with not a response in return.

[ordervessel]

𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞. A piece of the heavens planted to the earth, shaped and crafted in shining perfection. Now stands naught but a crumbling ruin. More a grave buried beneath the still falling ash of the Erdtree set aflame. ‘Tis not the nurturing light of gold that shines from its branches, but the hungering flame that eats and consumes all, leaving only desolation in its wake. The Erdtree burns and the last remnants of a golden age with it.

Radagon watches from the very center of the city as the days pass, as the nights wane and more of Leyndell is consumed. He is a prisoner freed, only to have crawled from the dark into a mire of despair. Would that the Tarnished had ended him within his gaol instead. Thus does he remain, thinking to bury himself as well with what is left of his city. What need does this world have for a fallen Elden Lord? A fallen god? Ash and ember fall about him in desolate mockery of snow, darkening his world to swathes of grey and shadow.

In the distance is there a shadow. He thinks it but a phantom from his own mind. But as the hours pass, the shadow remains, struggling through the debris. He rises at last, days of cold ash falling from his body, restored and whole once more. To what end, he knows not when his strength has still eluded him. But he walks with more ease than the interloper through the barren world. “Halt,” his voice is a rasp, the sound of it as stone cracking apart. “What business has thou in a city of ghosts?”

[tsckcyomi-archived]

Watches him quietly for a few seconds. " ━ I can show you how to use it, if you need help…?"

[ordervessel]

Quiet amusement suffuses a moment of levity, but he retains his composure nevertheless, speaking with naught but the most serious expression. "Thine aid in this matter would be most welcome."

[ordervessel]

Holds up toothpaste.