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The sound of the stein crashed against the table.

“It isn’t fair. After all the patience thou hast shown to their bickering games, they move to keep thee hidden... Dost thou remember when I called them jackals? T’was too kind.” She could not, of course, grow inebriated - but it was a facet of who she was, and what she must present to the people. The same people, she reminded herself, that would be denied a view of their patron of the Dark Sun, because it might ‘upset’ them... ... Her brow knit in embarrassment at the outburst, and she bowed her head low in apology. “Ah... Mine heart spoke out of tune with mine lips, dearest sister... Though I do stand by my words.” Even without that new mask he wore, his eyes were so somber - and saw so much. Gwynevere mulled her words carefully, like the mead from that province, blessed with its bounteous floodplains...

“I do not wish you to be uncomfortable, sister. But I beg thee - a quick appearance, without telling them. I... I know that if they just see you, for but a moment, they will respect you! And they shall love you as I do, as the sun loves the moon..!” Stammering from formal to informal speech, she drew back breath, and wondered when he had become so regal. Yes. They would accept him, they must - “Just one appearance, at your own debut. That is all I ask. You are not some treasure, to be - to be hidden away, and left uncherished..!” @ofthedarksun

#ofthedarksun #{V: Age of Fire}#{lingering sunlight}#// And here's this - perhaps he's... 16?#The equivalent of because ??? godly ages.#She's wrong about this one of course. 'But why - I thought they would... They must have been confused...'#And her faith shaken when the people who she so adores do not share their thanks to her dearest sister...#Well. Even the sun must hide its head - from time to time.#I feel there was a huge roaring debate about how he'd /grown/ and what to do of it.#A parade to be held at moonlight - but not /in/ Anor Londo - in some distant provincial 'capital'#So that it could be swept under the rug.#And she cannot bear that but - perhaps at this point he's grown resigned to it..?#You may do as you will. BT #[... Apologies for slamming this vessel against thine table. I grew... Agitated. Aha...]#[There was a king - or something? A petty king... Who acted as if his reign was greater than our own.]#[And it was necessary to show humility but - such impertinence!]#[I heard thy voice the entire time... And it was all I could do not to laugh.]#[... I did miss you. And I hope mine exhaustion has not - not burdened you further...]

@ofthedarksun

Silence was a rarity when it came to the young princess. Her hotblooded nature and occasional childish outburst had long since given her a less than favorable reputation; rarely did she see eye to eye with the courts, and, less often than she liked to admit, her own family.

The prospect of a long and dreadful sleep, however, would surely be enough to calm the shortest of tempers. The gravity of her task had yet to settle. If anything, Filianore felt as though she would soon be tossed away and left to rot.

But Gwyn wouldn’t allow that, surely.

Filianore trudged through moonlit halls, head hung low as if in defeat, paying little mind to her surroundings. The glow of white skirts drew her attention upwards. Her lips parted in surprise.

❝ Gwyndolin...? ❞

#☼ ┈ ᴠ. ᴀɢᴇ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅs ( ᵈᵃʳᵏ ˢᵒᵘˡˢ )#ofthedarksun #yeeeeeh #broody bonding time 8)#hope this is ok!!

The Dark Sun Gwyndolin, last God to watch over Anor Londo and someone he’d grown quite fond off through time. His giant crown, covering most of his face, golden and glistening in the moonlight. It appears to be resembling a sun even when Gwyndolin had a strong bond with the moon instead. It almost gave off an mysterious vibe, just the fact of not knowing what’s behind it. But in a way, it made Ornstein feel more comfortable by the fact that he was wearing his armour all the time.

Long silver hair, tied back along with a white veil, cover the back of his head. And unlike some of the other people he knows, it seems that Gwyndolin still takes proper care of himself. He wears a long white dress, kind of old fashioned, but it suits him perfectly. His clothes seem to be decorated with even more golden ornaments, most of them around his neck. He almost looks like some kind of walking piece of art himself. He wasn’t too surprised by it however, he was a God and people of high classes would often wear very expressive clothing.

His snakes are long a have a combination of colours ranging from greens to browns and silvers. They always did a great job at moving Gwyndolin around and Ornstein couldn’t help but wonder if each had a mind of their own.

Gwyndolin himself was someone Ornstein greatly looked up to. A person who he had seen grown from a young man into the leader he was this day. He would do anything to protect them from harm and make sure that if anything were to happen to him, the person would most certainly pay for it.

#asks #((I hope this is fine!))#((It's difficult to write two entirely different descriptions of two Gwyndolin's))#ofthedarksun

" at least thou does not bear a crown that might accidentally /pierce/ thine guests... "

"You're all about illusions, right? Why not just wear an illusory version that's harmless?"

#ofthedarksun

ofthedarksun said: //love this tbh.

wrap your sickly newborn in a cilice, that's how we do things in lothric

#ofthedarksun #:')

@ofthedarksun

— || ➶

Aloy was entirely out of place in the golden city of the sun-worshippers. Each time she returned it felt a little more familiar, a little more at ease amongst the wonder and grandeur, but there was always that sense crawling along that back of her neck that told her she did not belong there.

It didn’t matter. She didn’t belong anywhere. And here, now, she had a job to complete.

She was no contract killer, no bow for hire. She had no thirst for it, unlike Nil. Some Darkmoon Blades grew too attached to the hunt of humans for her liking, and he was a perfect example. He spoke of the light leaving their eyes, the song in his blood rising to match that of his bowstring as it rose to the challenge. It was… unsettling.

She was just here to put down scum and be done with it.

The ritual on the threshold always felt unnecessary, bust she went through the motions anyway. These people did like their ceremony. A whole string of dried ears was presented this time – a literal string, twine threaded through holes she’d punched in the cartilage and knotted off to keep each one in place, and when held up by one end it resembled nothing more than a macabre wind chime. Killers and rapers and other unrepentant likes, the lot of them.

“That’s the last of the list, but there’s something else you need to hear about.” A pluck at the corner of her leathers; bad habit.

“Something... strange is going on down in the Boreal Valley, and beyond. I don’t know if it’s spread to Irithyll itself, but...” She tucked back a braid from where it had fallen forward to tap against her face and crossed her arms with a huff, pacing back and forth in frustration. “The Outriders - those knights that are supposed to scout into further lands and defend the borders - something’s happening to them.”

#c; aloy #ofthedarksun #v; lordran #//HIIII have a darkmoon blade as a welcome-back-to-your-old-blog present

@ofthedarksun

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.”

#ofthedarksun #ic #verse: a delacey in heart and name #closed starter #(if you have any questions about Vai or their verses please let me know!)