SUNLIGHT.

Dark Souls Multi-Muse.

[soulsfromfire-blog]

“Here now, spare an ear? Might make it worth your while.”

[deehoff]

day 03 of Best Holiday

[soulsfromfire-blog]

this is all my fault. (and for gwyn)

Miscellaneous angst starters.

Gwyn’s silent. It’s the worst kind of silence –– a dreadful, heedless smoulder.

There’s no acknowledgement of Ornstein’s admission. No condemnation, yet no reprieve. It’s left to stagnate, festering thick with an incandescence just beneath the surface. A ribbon of remnant electricity lances off the blackened stump of a pillar, the ruin of which is sown over Gwyn’s throne room in molten, charcoal slate. Rugged craters pock the floor, once a serene and regal sprawl, now reduced to the corollary of battle. Residual arteries of static desecrate the graves of once-wondrous marble, almost as though, in this Light-born tempest of rage, none but his faithful Dragonslayer might ever hope to traverse the devastation.

“Blasted, cur beasts,” Gwyn utters at last, erupting from his royal seat, dappled in Sunlight cast through shattered, agape windows. “Those FOOLS –– those damn, wretched fools –– I’ll make ashes of that Oolacile, I tell thee, ASHES!, and render e’en Izalith a tundra beside it!” His fury and woe are volcanic as one, and coils of flame shiver alight along the mighty King’s arms, potent as the First itself, his body a titanic kiln of desolation, anguish and bile. “To the bloodiest Dark with thy discretions, I’ll take every soul in Mine order and incinerate that loathly abode from the light of existence! Stoke the fires, set beacons hither to the Giants’ Tomb, I want Lordran a-melt with righteous fear, aye, kindle them strong with Wraith-flesh!”

As far as Gwyn’s concerned, the abduction of Dusk and the waking turmoils of Oolacile are but machinations, deceitful devices to wrest him of a true and devout Knight. Strangling the life out of Oolacile and razing it to memory will snuff those wretches, those criminal conceits, and the Abyss all at once in a single, infernal swoop his passions compel him to execute.

“Get thy Spear,” he snarls, emotion seething at his jaw, keeping it taut, trembling, raw. “Rally every sword across the kingdom; Ciaran to the Rock I shall see Oolacile burn to obscurity!”

[soulsfromfire-blog]

darkmoondelusion‌:

Gwyndolin stares up as his father speaks, looking disheartened at the whole thing. It would just be simpler, easier if he was a shining example of the sun like the rest of the family, he finds himself thinking. It’s only him in this position, and it doesn’t make sense.

…but, the moon deity can’t ignore that he’s allured by the Duke’s Grand Archives, either. Ever since he’d heard how much information was stored there, Gwyndolin’s wanted to go there. And he might not be sure what kind of person Seath is, but maybe he could speak to him more earnestly and actually have an answer returned, rather than being shoved away.

At least Lord Gwyn seems calmer now. Apparently, he thinks it’s a good idea, and that’s good enough for Gwyndolin.

“If that is what thou wantest, I will go there… perhaps I can be more useful then…”

Gwyn retorts with little grander than a surly grunt, and a single jut of his crown-laden head. For all the pageantry of his kingship, the Lord of Sunlight is, ironically, all but. All those legends, all those wonders chiselled into stone monoliths surveying an Age he himself has brought about, and all those symphonies and tales from gleaming cloud to sunken basin –– all this for a God who can’t bring himself to level a glance upon his own progeny.

By now, the straggling retainers have splintered to their posts, and Gwyn is alone with the runt. Gwyndolin is no better than a bastard in his austere, commanding eyes: a son forsaking him as a moon-dwelling damsel, a figure too willowy to course his Lordly blood and steepled by limbs of serpents. Gwyn has honoured the horror his Queen laboured to bring into this world with his name, and by the grace of her pleas spared him from being cast into the First Flame, but Gwyn too has painstakingly learned how ‘love’ for his children is a tumultuous prism of emotions.

“Thou know’st why I wish this?” Of all the chambers in Anor Londo, his sober baritone echoes out across the hall beneath Gwynevere’s quarters. The great nave is tarnished by the sorrowful portrait of a family at its head –– a dead, fragmented family, of a King, a Princess, and a third, a decapitated statue rinsed from the cloth of history already. There is no fourth.

[soulsfromfire-blog]

you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you. (for seath! probs in a sarcastic tone)

Miscellaneous angst starters.

“Wary now, Captain. A touch of Lord Gwyn’s favour, and thine head doth pierce the skies.” As though laughter clogs in Seath’s throat, brooks of it seep out in the facetious lick of his tone. The albino lowers an immense claw over the leafs of knowledge speckled messily over a desk, arranged in such an intricate and unruly pattern to which only his waning eyes are privy. The shadow of his fingers dye the papers, streaked in the Paledrake’s stubborn will.

“A trifle more, and it shall away, high and afar akin to thy beloved dragons.” Irritation is sewn into vitriol and mockery, and together they produce Seath’s acrid song. It rises into a sinister warble, trilled upon a throat stricken by pride and nursed by this quarantine of learning. “And thy tongue, be chary for it not to split ‘pon satire’s edge; we wouldn’t wish for a Dragonslayer to pledge his fealties with forked oaths.” Crowing maliciously, the scholar lowers his talons, and fondles lovingly over the quilt of parchment pieces which adorn the table’s surface. 

“I bid thee make haste to Lord Gwyn’s side, lest he too suffer thine ironies.”

[soulsfromfire-blog]

" why are you mad at me? " { at seath }

Miscellaneous angst starters.

The Paledrake’s eyes, rheumy and hooded by a crystal-forged fringe, peer sightlessly upon the half-breed. Torn reams of knowledge stubbled by braille adorn the cavern floor, a constellation of answers for any query but of his heart. His breath sounds saturated, coming in deep, frilled rasps that are each lengthy and pregnant with bygone sapience –– once a paragon of intellect, Seath is a quasi-feral relic of himself, his brilliance fossilised by boundaries long since realised.

Despite his malice, and despite his madness, there is a sliver of recognition that he, as the so-coined Grandfather of Sorcery is able to discern as a soul not dissimilar from his own.

“Gone,” a rumble bloats in the dragon’s throat, wet and agonised. Then again, higher, a nail raked along the surface of a jewel in an excruciating white shriek. “Gone, were’st thou. All of thee, thy soul and flesh and all, flown, all forsaken… a life swallowed by heresies, no whisper until now. Wrath?” Seath coils serrated talons of rough and lily-touched hide into a fist above his sternum, where blood courses and revelation stings. “Wrath? Wrath, yes. No! No, I forbid wrath! Forbid it, yes. What flittering pyre-fly from yonder Ruins bringeth aught but an ecstasy! Yea, my blood, my blood, it drip- drippeth back, perchance, to humble itself for my studies?”

Wandering thoughts project into nigh-unintelligible drivel, but Seath utters each word in a voice that dares to fracture with euphoria –– cracking, infantile delight, salivated to disaster.

However, any signs of progress remain mere delirium. Just as swiftly as the ancient being has woven himself up with his prattle, Seath collides his fist with the glittering earth and sunders it with a rage that dizzies him, and suddenly, gushing forth from the depths of that once-pristine and dignified throat is a wild, rancorous roar, just as vehement as it is mournful. Resonating off each crystal, the horrendous din distorts the air around his gaping snout, becoming hallowed as the bells of Sen themselves.

“Treacherous!” Seath rants, “ why?! Treacherous! TREACHEROUS…!”

[soulsfromfire-blog]

unhollowedsouls‌:

The trek through Blighttown had been both perilous and arduous. The myriad, deformed monsters never relented in their pursuit of him and attempts on his life, and he was nearly out of purple moss despite the kindness of a stranger who had given him more. Nevertheless, Siegmeyer journeyed on, wading through the putrid swamp until the abominations were off him. He had to admit it, he was lost! But he’d find his way- find a stranger, perhaps! And find a stranger he did, there was one over there, a… well! A spider-woman of some sort.

Only, she was hurrying towards him! Siegmeyer gasped and called out, “Wait! I mean you no harm, fair lady!” He wasn’t one to raise his zweihander against a woman, be she half-spider or not, but if he had to, then he would…!

Fortunately for him, Siegmeyer’s voice cleaves through the morass, striking oddly with the Chaos Witch. The mount’s forelegs rear as if a stallion, then plunge back. She’s left looming over him, the temperature from the beast married upon her torso and her molten Furysword both intense and palpable. A lucid Undead this far beneath the surface is a curious occasion, and Quelaag’s violent haze dissipates in favour of what the knight may be attempting in his foolish trespass, and how she –– and her ailing sister –– may profit from this stalwart being.

“Then name thy purpose, interloper, and be swift.” Callous, impatient, she has rid herself of the virtues of above-folk, where time and tarry are indulgences she cannot afford. The arachnid half leers upon Siegmeyer with bulbous eyes jaundiced by Chaos flame, a legion of quivering sights each hungrier than the next; one false answer, one hesitation, and he’ll join the singed debris floating across the Blighttown slough. Quelaag’s glare is whetted by anticipation: it’s a potent, choleric measure of heat, raw and vicious without end. “Speak, now.”

[rothelp]

miscellaneous angst starters.

when were you going to tell me?

you can’t keep doing this to yourself.

that’s…a lot of blood.

can you walk?

please don’t lie to me.

you were supposed to leave.

i’m not going anywhere without you.

shh, it’s okay. it was just a dream.

there was nothing more you could have done.

it wasn’t your fault.

this is all my fault.

you aren’t acting like yourself.

i’m never going to let [her/him/them] hurt you again.

you’re hurting me.

don’t ever do that again.

go to hell.

please don’t cry.

you have to stay awake.

i wish i could take the pain away.

you could have died.

hey – stay with me.

it’ll be over soon.

did you ever love me?

i’m sorry. i can’t do this anymore.

things won’t always hurt this bad.

you passed out.

how much have you had?

i’m okay. it’s all fine.

it’s not okay! you’re not fine!

let me get you something for the pain.

it’s nothing. it’s just a bruise.

it’s clearly not nothing.

have you been to the doctor?

i didn’t mean the things i said.

i thought we meant something.

people who are okay don’t act like this.

you don’t have to go through this by yourself.

i don’t want you to be alone.

please don’t regret me.

i heard you crying.

you need to get some rest.

when was the last time you ate something?

i’m worried about you.

did you have another nightmare?

[name], there’s nobody there.

i want to be happy but i don’t think i deserve it.

please talk to me.

why are you mad at me?

alcohol isn’t going to solve your problems.

don’t leave me.

did you do this to yourself?

it’s breaking my heart to see you like this.

tell me what’s wrong.

tell me how to make it better.

why don’t you care?

get the hell away from me.

please don’t do this.

i can’t believe that you lied to me.

just…stay for the night.

you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you.

you can’t die. i won’t let you.

just hang on, okay?

hold my hand if you need to.

i’m sorry.

why do you have a gun?

don’t panic.

just breathe.

you’re bleeding.

i’m trying to stop the bleeding.

you’ve been crying, i can tell.

you should have told me sooner.

i wanted to tell you in person.

a phone call would’ve been nice.

i hate you.

i love you.

[soulsfromfire-blog]

londoria‌:

@soulsfromfire – ;

This place–in truth, her mother’s creator’s dominion was not one she’d ever wished to venture. But, even with her appointment a Filianore’s handmaiden, she’d been coldly informed that morning of a change in staff and subsequently exiled from the princess’ tower where the maid remained. If her absence was mourned, Yuria couldn’t say. The Duke’s Archives seemed a most hidden place, deep in the belly of Anor Londo and buried where the sun’s light couldn’t even begin to creep. She supposed it was fitting to return to the place of Shira’s making, bastard she was of the Pygmies who were scorned, who crawled from the depths of the earth. 

Channelers and other scholars gossiped scandalously as she approached, vowing to ignore them despite catching snippets of ‘Shira,’ and ‘Midir’ as though those names stung as much as one from the profaned Ringed City could. Her heels clicked upon marble, cavernous as the the gossiping dwindled to near whispers, nearly starting when she saw the sight of the Paledrake himself, looming powerfully and bright in this gloomy place. 

Yet, it was the sight of a king she recognized nearby that started her, taken aback.

“M’lord, I beg thy pardon, yet–forsooth, whatever is the King Oceiros doing here?”

If only Seath’s own were still alive to witness how the beneficiaries of this land now regale him as ‘powerful’ and ‘bright’, rather than spurned, hideous and frail. Such is the delicious irony of those who perch atop their ‘everlasting’ laurels, he supposes, crowing with still-vengeful, black humour within his mind even to this day. Still, as epochs pass and the Fire withers, so too does the stature of his guests –– Dragons, Gods, Giants, and now he entertains ludicrous Kings and scions of Man, both embosomed within the colossal swathe of the albino dragon’s shadow. 

“Pardons thee given,” Seath croons, and gestures towards his regal company. Spiring, tapered talons pale as milk and gnarled as Gwyn’s bolts unfurl over Lothric’s King, a budding patron of the soulful arts whom the Duke tragically tolerates sooner than eagerly embraces. “For in these halls we a chronicle make, O’ Yuria; wouldst thou not concur? Th’art touched by Lordly soul, to be of Dark and Twisted Light both, and oh, the spoor of little Shira, traips’d to the crib!” His babble incessant, a tongue with the whimsy of mercury yet the ethereal chime of diamond, a myth of this era marred by lunacy. The apparent, deranged glee of a father who revels upon the remnant mites of his babe’s soul shrivels, and Seath’s maw curdles with displeasure.

“Of course, more beset am I than that fiendish Painter with creatures spurned. His Majesty of Lothric, far and far away, hath distinguished mine Archives with a droll conundrum indeed...”

Seath retreats a claw to grope along his visible cast of ivory-cut ribs, and as he reflects back upon the quandary by which he has been disturbed, he idly strokes upon the pristine bone.

“Transposition of Souls, to be precise, revivification of matter bereft of flesh... know’st thou of this wicked art? To appreciate fusion and fission of the Soul, ‘tis a most egregious quest!”

[soulsfromfire-blog]

darkmoondelusion‌:

Gwyndolin’s immediate first thought is that this is one creepy dragon.

Seath doesn’t resemble any sort of dragon(’s corpse) that he’s seen before. He knew he was often called the Scaleless, but now he can see that. Yep. Definitely no scales. Yet, his wings are magnificent, like a beautiful crystal rainbow, and the young god finds himself entranced. But he must stay on task, and assure they can come to an agreement.

Gwyndolin then gets down on his knees before the Paledrake, showing his respect.

“Lord Seath, I know not what my father hath told thee of me. But I am confident in my magical abilities. I want to know more. I want to be able to further my creation of lunar magic. I want to be useful! Please, teach me.”

"Duke,” the Dragon is swift to amend, his compulsions neurotic. Sequesters of leather-bound volumes, walls encrusted by accursed crystal knowledge, and madness have since perverted his social dues, but Seath has never before been so acute of his rank. “Thy Father bequeat’d unto me –– and so nobly, too –– a fraction of His own Lord’s Soul. ‘Tis true I gorge in it vainly, with pride, but alas, I am no Lord true.” A low, reverberating, guttural murmur awakens within Seath’s throat, more of a strangled purr. “Do, rise: I should dread the wrath of thy Father were He to learn of thy prostration before a mere Duke, such as I. ‘Sir’, it shall be; sir, or naught!”

Gesturing for his guest to do so with a rangy, ivory talon, the Paledrake slithers around, lustrous tails blooming from his abdomen like a pale array of petals. He is conscious of his monumental scale in contrast to Gwyndolin, and with consideration floats one appendage over the ill-begot Royalty’s head –– the sheer immensity of it, however, conjuring a stout wind in its trail.

“Regardless, Your Highness,” Seath ventures on with a long-tongued hiss to his pronunciation, chiming a small bronze bell laced in crystal skin. “If seekest thou the formulae of the Moon, then to them I shall deliver thee, where upon the Stars we ought peer, dappl’d in Moonlit grace...”

With the correct tune, the resonance of the bell strikes discord among the Archive walls. They ripple and soften as if celestial mirage, dissipating into mystic cloisters which provide passage into the Duke’s great, peerless observatory. An illimitable trove of intelligence, a Cathedral of insights and academia, beginning from the depths of the earth, soaring high, high above even Seath himself into the golden heavens. Though earlier disgruntled by another’s company, the Paledrake finds more indulgence in his craft, and that devours other unsavoury elements.

“It pains me to wonder, Your Highness, wherefore Lord Gwyn so anxiously removed thee from His beloved Anor Londo. Moonlit Sorceries, do pardon, err away from His precious Sunlight.”

[soulsfromfire-blog]

unhollowedsouls‌:

Eventually, a few snake-men, another fall (one he nearly died from, but thank heavens he didn’t. Just because he would return did not make death any less painful), past the titanite demons once more, and a few more sips of estus later, and Solaire is at the end, standing before a set of dilapidated Silver Knights- and before Trusty Patches, who is more or less on his haunches. Solaire removes helmet and stares with a frown a mother might give a child when disappointed in him. For, it was true, he’d trusted him! He had!

“Bit of a stumble indeed,” he responds with a nod, not entirely able to bring himself to sound disgruntled, though all the same, he does not sound gruntled, either. All the same, he can’t bring himself to ask in a rage as he had before why he’d been kicked down. He hadn’t answered the first time, for one thing, and for another, perhaps the man really had gotten a change of heart. People change all the time. And perhaps it’s taken him longer to get up than it felt; time, after all, has become awfully convoluted, as he once told the Chosen Undead during their fated meeting. How are they now? Have they met this fellow? He wonders. But now is not the time for that. He stays standing at a safe distance, holding his helmet in both hands, ready to return it to his head should he need it.

“Had a change of heart, have you?” there’s an edge of hope to his voice, “Why not cooperate? It’s all that we Undead can do in times like these.”

There we are, see? All tickety-boo.

Bloody oaf. Hollow before he knows it, he’ll be.

“I ‘ave, sir; I have,” Patches dips his head ruefully. He’s a lifetime (or a few) of deceits, and he knows when not to labour the point. His aquiline features rise back in sunny cheer, as though having reminisced over a misdemeanour with an old friend and little more. Hoisting himself to his feet, the back-end of his winged spear propped into the cobbles, he groans, long, guttural and far too dramatic, the relief of another’s compassion more simply a foothold for Patches to continue his crafty exploitations later down the line. When finally he’s eye-to-eye with the poor fellow, the charlatan’s lips are crinkled into a glaring sword-wound of a smile.

“What a brilliant idea that is, honest! M’pardons for all that grisly business, but ‘ey, you’re over the bridge now, aren’t you?” One worry does cross his mind, however. The shriek of thunder, a lance of light, hot and crackling. Why, it takes Faith to conjure up those. Clerics have Faith. The covetous bastards of the White have a great many things they do, all those fixed organisations with their chapels and parishes, but where’s the charity, eh? Where’s the community spirit they all preach of? Sods. Now it’s Patches’ turn for distrust, and a wary eye cuts across Solaire like a swashbuckling rapier. “Listen, those are some, uh... choice Miracles you got there, mate.”

Just before he decides on an olive branch, he’ll be wise to clear the air –– and any misgivings he has about this headstrong prat. Spirit of an ox, he’s got, unlike the rest of those Hollowed-out jokes whose corpses he’s pilfered from before. This isn’t going to be a standard robbery.

“Wouldn’t ‘appen to be a... cleric, or some such, would you? Only askin’, like!”

[badasserywomen]

Almost finished seeeaaath for commish

[soulsfromfire-blog]

So, the ‘Lord of Sunlight’ deigns to shepherd off his twisted offspring. Though Seath may understand the God’s intent, thus bastardising the shame of his kin upon another, it is a burden the Duke winces to receive. Well-pored anthologies of knowledge lay strewn about them in exhaustion, all manner of scripture, illustrations, histories and verse insulate Seath’s mind from petty child-keeping, and he is both bemused and outraged by the gesture. 

Gwyndolin’s arrival here soils the age-old accord between its father and the Paledrake, and if he is impertinent enough to tread upon his lofty retreat, his secrecies, then what further spurns are these treacherous God-kin capable of? He shudders to imagine. 

“It has been a great many years since last I suffered a visitant in my abode,” Seath invites in, his voice eerie, almost melodic, far and away, lost within the fractures of sanity. His vocal cords are a foreign instrument, the notes of each word a whim, an odd carol discordant as the strums of a mad, glass xylophone. “Of course, I bid thee great welcome, Your Majesty. Yes, whispers have I heard, of thy penchant for Moonlight... whispers, indeed, foretelling of this Kinship of ours.”

His crystal-caparisoned form meanders through the Archives, a farce of pleasantries belying the the acrid loathing of company. It is all he may do to preserve his Dukedom, for it is all he desires and longs over, and it is the luckless crutch upon which he must rely.

@darkmoondelusion

[soulsfromfire-blog]

The spider-mount toes upon Blighttown’s squalor –– a festering tumour of Chaos, it gurgles, a steamy, bile-like drivel excreted from its tongue over the shore. Its limb is infernal enough to simmer the cesspool, the fetor of mould, decay and sewage coalesced into a mire so foul it churns the stomach. Noxious steam tapers from Quelaag’s imprint, the slurry thick and spuming with a Demonic heat as a witch’s broth. Rarely does she emerge from her Domain, but circumstances leave her with little recourse. The abomination stalks across the swamp, its charcoaled flesh spangled with a cluster of eyes glistening in the murk.

The Witch lunges ahead, her freed legs streaking defilement in her wake. A smouldering tide erupts upon impact, rancid upsurges of waste brooking out in every direction, as she skewers a wretch upon her Furysword. The blade ignites in a bewitching sheath of Chaos-fire, and the Hollow’s tortured shriek pierces the rancid depths of Blighttown. Its cry is abhorrent, a true and primal agony, as its body writhes, alight in flames so vivid they cast a haunting beacon across the quagmire. However, incinerated whole, it yields no Humanity, instead crumbling away into desolate, black embers. 

Quelaag searches with keen eyes coloured by hellish brimstone, insatiable, for any dregs she can muster. No brave wanderers dare venture into her Domain, not even to hearken the toll of the Fortress’s bell. Her sister –– her brave, forlorn sister –– is in the throes of death, with not a sacrifice to prevail her life, and the urgency is tangible in the tense, unruly shifts of the Chaos Witch’s body. It isn’t apparent that she’s a puppet, strung by rich and painful emotions, not in the depraved manner of her hunt, but she’s a creature with one last modicum of attachment to this world. She refuses to lose that waning light, that one stray torch among the gloaming. Spying the faint, metallic gleam of Catarina armour, she scurries towards it in haste.

@unhollowedsouls

[soulsfromfire-blog]

“Bloomin’ solemn it is, ‘round here. Tell you what, high time I picked up me knapsack and appropriated myself a few lush vendibles. Plenty on offer still though, before Lord Almighty blows out the Fire and we all say nighty-night –– nye, heh heh heh heh...!”

[soulsfromfire-blog]

londoria‌:

“Tish, surely thou hast experience’d little zeal in thy voice echoing an empty room,” Yuria replied with a mild smile, mind ever turning. Perhaps to his singular benefit, the Lord Kaathe had no use for pardoners. For what was every meeting with new faces but a chance, an opportunity? A foothold to climb higher, or some brief stream to leapfrog across? It seemed a time long since last she’d simply spoken to another in such fanciful whimsy as one does sitting beside a babbling brook, watching the late spring wildflowers grow. “Thou’rt a shameless flatterer. Goading pristine maidens to speak in shameless cadence.” What an odd game they continued to play, but how delightful it might be!

“Thy goddess, the esteem’d Velka, dost thou know’st her place yet among those of Londor? ‘Tis true. Forsooth, t’was by her dark hand that influence arose and smote what lightlessness its reaches crawled therein.” It would be unthinkable, wouldn’t it? That a goddess herself, once so vainly opposed by those of Anor Londo, might herself conscript herself among sure enemies?

“Ah, ‘tis but a trifle. From hither doth thy person hail? Truly, thy armor speaks more than simply pardoner.” 

So, let her frivolous questing begin!

To remain afloat within Oswald’s vacillating tides of inquisition is praiseworthy, indeed. Though, it is not altogether alarming, for there is villainy here, as artful and coy as the rumoured Painted Realms. Too long has he idled in service unto the Goddess, and too long have fancies of crude interferences tantalised and seduced him. Rather than defer to this maddening angst, however, the Absolver hoots out a laugh, his humour rife with the shrill fervour of a hyena, a tinnitus of soiled delight emblazoned with ill-omen. The odd, outlandish nerve of Carim resurges anew.

“And thy tongue more than simply maiden,” he parries in waggish spirits. “Yet hither we be, a soul mould’d from Hollow’s clay; another of Carim, and entwin’d a-pair in whimsical reverie.” Is it a portent of their brushes to come, this capricious nonsense they partake of? Frankly, with no endgame, it only entices him ever-keener to the wayward blusters of their surreptitious winds. Thus Oswald’s arm curls, and he presents unto this ‘fair darling’ a courtly bow. It ought stir up a kinship of kinds, the gesture a paled shadow of Sable regality. “My thanks to thee, sincerest. Seldom doth the fleeting wayfarer feign intrigue ‘pon mine habit –– rarer so, mine history. This heart is prick’d by yon rosy cajolery, truly; alas, how earnestly its blood doth run! Heh, heh...”

Into its welcoming, unravelled mould, his stance soon returns.

“Well, how now? If not absolution of thy mischiefs, then perchance, thou wish’st to declare a dastardly slight ‘gainst thy crepuscular Church, touched so by Our dear, equitable Goddess?”

Queries for queries, an endless carousel of entertainments. What joy!

[chof-art]

The Four Knights of Gwyn.

Collab with @khartemis (drawing) and me (coloring).

my instagram l  khartemis’ instagram