#SHORNLIGHT. messmer the impaler. sideblog by sommer (30+, he/him, poc). 21+ mature content. i am what i call canon agnostic, meaning i accept multiple interpretations and theories of characterization and lore, and am willing to explore them within reason and decency. occasional old english is used to gesture at the character's style of speech, but it won't be constant nor consistent. this sideblog is attached to multiple main blogs; currently i'm most likely to follow back from @/spellheld
verses:
messmer is marika's son from before her arrival at the lands between and before her transcendence;
messmer is another one of marika and radagon's cursed children and brother to malenia and miquella.
(haven't personally met anyone who thinks he's godfrey's child, but i can roll with that too)
messmer fought the tarnished and was defeated but survived in a half serpent form;
ancient vampire lord.
current themes: imperial violence; self-hatred; sin-eating; mother
i. this is an independent rp sideblog for messmer the impaler from elden ring. mature content may be present, within reason, ethics, and mutual agreement (see iii).
𖥔 please use standard size font when writing with me, thank you!
𖥔 i am over the age of 30 and ask for my writing partners to be 21+.
iii. while there is an important place in literature and media to explore and critically engage with difficult subjects such as sexual assault, rape, incest, gender, sexual, and racial violence, i find rp to be a very limited and flawed avenue for it. i do not roleplay these subjects as character interactions or dynamics, and will not engage with blogs that do.
vi. i try to be intentional about who i follow, only when i can see the possibility of our characters interacting. if i follow you, i likely already have an idea in my mind. this does not mean that i am only interested in that initial idea. it could just serve as a springboard for plotting and we could end up with something entirely different.
vii. following isn't a permanent commitment. i softblock when i am at capacity for new interactions, ooc or ic. i also operate with the understanding that sometimes availability, styles, timing, etc aren't working out at the moment and it is, typically, not personal. there should be zero guilt for curating the dash for either of us.
writer. sommer. he/him. 30+. queer poc surviving the fall of the empire. it informs my writing and my approach to media. i make mistakes, change my minds, learn new things and revise my opinions; open to corrections and conversations. putting everyone onto fluxer to divest from discord.
i really like messmer's moveset. it's a really nice blend of fluidity and discipline. combo attacks flow into each other really well. there's something elegant about them. but it's also very structured, especially how he follows through and completes an action. when he does pause and return to first position though, it's again very elegant and... stately. he stands upright (as much as he could anyway with that spine) with footwork that feels light and purposeful. at the same time there's a weight to it all. like he's done this tens of thousands of time, and he's just so tired.
one of my favorite hcs i've come up for this blog is that, assuming melina is messmer's twin, messmer's flame burnt her body while they're both in the womb and that's why she's without a body
❛ i’d hardly desire to be a lord, ❜ he says, fingers flicking in frank dismissiveness. ❛ if i had to be yours. ❜ a palm over the hilt of a sword and the other crowded at the fingers with sunlight fire of his own. the room, once extinguished in darkness, now brims to life. a meagre radiance, set upon the crooked and slithering form that yet remains. he hardly recognises what has become of the impaler.
what stubbornness and hate. entirely worthy of imitation.
❛ tell me, you wretched troll, ❜ he starts, a strange and half-hearted curiosity for the things in the dark; who was once his foe remains so, bested by his blade, yet alive somehow. he thinks back to salza’s crooked words: this flame, how it begs to live. ❛ what does appeal to you? unending malice? a ceaseless devotion to spite? now that, i can agree with. ❜
"You are not worth the dirt on the streets of Leyndell—" his lips curl back, revealing the new fangs pushing through his gums with blood and venom. there is a hiss in his voice, like a cold draft or the air running through caverns deep. the ghostly howl of the dead.
he's tired. couldn't finish his words before becoming winded. figure slumps in the dark, as a long shadow undulates behind him. from his waist down, mixed with blood and ash is the scaled body of a large serpent. an angry crimson in contrast to the gloom of the room. it twists and turns, contorting into tortured coils.
"I do not justify myself to you..." his eye sockets are empty, a gaping hole burnt into the gaunt face. only the emerald eyes of the winded serpents stay locked onto the warrior before them the victor who has returned to the aftermath of a deathly match. "You know nothing of this land and its perversion... you will learn... and you shall know regret."
High above, the Erdtree bends to the wind; it's golden petals descending over the capital, blanketing the very spot Godwyn and his brother stand. It is a day of prayer for those beholden to the Golden Order. The city's denizens flow into their chapels and other worship spaces; every hour the bell from the Great Tower rings. Marika herself is occupied, faithfully attending the sermons that praise her. She will chide him, certainly, for abandoning his duties; he can nearly hear her saying his carelessness is unfit for someone to be king.
Godwyn keeps his brother's gaze, then his eyes fall to writhing masses under his cape. ❝ Messmer. ❞ The boyish glee he held in his voice moments before it's replaced with something sterner. A glimpse of his future ❝ Do not treat them so poorly. Not around me. They've been in my life as long as you have, and I do not fear them. They won't hurt me. ❞ Godwyn beams, holding his hand out to coax the serpents from their hiding place. ❝ You should treat them, and yourself, with more kindness. I won't stand for it when you become my knight. Duties can be amended. If I… If I have to talk to mother in your stead, I will; I'll do anything! I don't want you… to leave. ❞ Again. He doesn't speak the word but it weighs profoundly on him. A life led without his dearest brother is a life he no longer wants.
he ignores Godwyn's petition for the winged serpents, who retreat back under his cape docilely. though one of them keeps its head out and its eyes attentive on Godwyn. he could not fault the serpents for being enchanted by his exalted brother, bearer of golden light, and the crowned heir of the golden lineage. Messmer's chest pangs with something like longing when the Prince's offer rings in his ear. to stand by his brother's side... swear his loyalty evermore to the empyrean and their cause—the hope he's buried deep but couldn't extinguish even in the shadows.
"You shan't question Mother's order... she assigns our stations so we could best serve the Erdtree's light. These are the lot in our lives and we must accept it." he could attribute the throbbing pain in his chest to the perpetual wound of the serpent's burrow, but even Messmer couldn't deny inwardly that he is trying to convince himself more than his brother. "The shadow realm is ever perverse and defiant, full of conniving folk. It needs a strong hand to keep it contained. I couldn't not abandon it..." he swallows. the wall of his throat feels dry and sticky like blood. "...even for you."
oh moon child, restless sleeper, tell me what it's like to dream? you float along the margins of reality, picking up the pieces of fallen memories to sculpt into your own realm. you are searching, but your tongue is quiet, quiet, quiet. open your mouth and sing my dear, silence only does you good for so long. and here you planted roots in the darkness, where not even the moon can reach your leaves. there is such a thing as being too practical, for you sail your ship on perpetually calm waters, and never have you spotted land. your mind has wings, uncage them! allow yourself to dream, you are not too far gone. there is no such thing! trust in yourself dear.
tagged by: @daylighter
tagging: take it! there are no fire knights around
" lord messmer .. " elle eyes the familiar companions. the snakes ever watchful in defense of their host. " it has been some time. "
the man sits slanted but still as a statue in his seat of marble, only the undulating snakes prove a sign of life. the sound of approach stirs him. messmer lifts his golden eye from under the shadow of the helm, setting upon the visitor @anmehil.
"Elf." it has become a title of sort, a moniker to identify and set apart the stranger in his land. the general shifts in his throne with the sound of metal armor knocking against each other as he sits up, leaning forward as though to get a better look at the other. "Strange that you should return now. I was told of disturbance in the realm." he sits back again, only the winged serpents advance, stretching out towards ellarian and tasting the air around him. "—Speak. Have you report for me."
a pitiful sight, even one such as thiollier must admit. in former times, before the journey, he might've considered death the greater mercy. ❛ i . . . ❜ hesitation. out of fear, perhaps. or caution. he knows not the scope of what is before him. ❛ i am in service of her grace, saint trina. ❜ an odd statement, after so long under miquella's charm. devoted to a cause not his own, now turned against a truth he so feverishly held onto.
"trina?" he tastes the name, rolling it o his tongue, between its fork to the base of the muscle. "I know not one by that name..." he slithers forward. out of the shadow the twisted torso connects to a serpentine base, crimson like his flames and rough with half shed skin hanging off open wounds. as he moves, the balance shifts and he drops down to catch himself on his hands, long limbs like sticks, dragging the crooked frame forward before coming to a stop. "what service dost thou provide? —for what purpose hast thou standeth before me?"
the fire is silent. with no kindle and no fuel, it springs from his hand unstruck. a heat wave radiates outward, lighting the half burnt candles as it passes them, igniting a ring of fire. at its end, a crooked figure warped and bent in fabric, metal, and time. it shifts on pale limbs, as winged serpents rear alert.
"I do not protest, complain, petition... for THOU ART NOT MY LORD. I do not appeal to thee. ... you know nothing of my contempt..." @daylighter
things i really like about messmer's cutscene that i incorporate in my writing:
his snakes can extend REALLY far. like across the room
they make squishy fleshy sound when they retract/extend, presumably from sliding in and out of the open sores in his torso
the way his armor rattles when he stands and moves sounds like shackles
he just sits in the dark all day by himself apparently, even though he can and does control the flames lighting up the gazillion random candles set around the room without candle holders-
his depression cave appears to be a throne room (with the chair facing outward) where he could receive and survey his knights and maybe guests. but it's so tucked away behind narrow staircase, like he doesn't really want to receive people. probably only accessible to and guarded by his most trusted knights.
hands hover at chest height, palms facing outward. ❛ you must believe me . . . i've come not to harm. ❜ they do not dare move closer, not without an agreement between the two.
the serpents writhe, slither and coil like the turning sea. in the darkness is a shape. pale like marble, bloodied like an open wound. forked tongue tasted the air, for the eyes are but two wells of abyss. "... tarnished... Miquella... —...what...? who dost thou serve?"
