#thy kind

[sweet-temperedsludge]

💥 Try to calm my muse during an overwhelming emotional moment (of-the-detested)

Silent gesture starters.

Sword all but forgotten in the snow-covered cobbles, the rat servant stood there, inhaling the icy air and not feeling its sting in their lungs whatsoever. Before them, the scorched figure of a knight of Irithyll writhed and groaned, cooking in their armor. Steam billowed forth from the half-alive remains, and the stench of burning hair and seared flesh wafting up in clouds of dense smoke. 

A gnarled hand twitched, reaching toward its fallen weapon, to which Mire took grave offense-- with a sharp grunt, they summoned another pillar of flame from the earth and burnt all the flesh out of the armor, blackening the area for several feet under their boots. This was the price for assaulting their master-- with fire, no less! Seeing the very thing they had used to bring peace and protection to all of ratkind turned against their King sickened them so deeply that they could hardly see straight. 

Paying no mind to the carnage, the Rat King bent double and licked his flame-bitten hide, the flesh underneath the burnt fur tender and pink. He watched the knight Ser Selen try to drop a hand delicately on his servant’s shoulder. They whirled on her, pyromancy licking up their arm to the elbow, but stopped, and stared for a moment. In silence, their shoulders slackened, and their attention turned back to the cadaver, as if prepared to set it ablaze once more, should it dare to move.  

[sweet-temperedsludge]

🗡 !

Weapon descriptions.

Unsheathing the flamberge, they laid it out across their hands with noticeable reverence for such an old sword. It was not a particularly pretty sight, clear indicators of mended chips and cracks from a countless number of years’ repairs marring its tarnished surface. But even so, it was impeccably forged. The blade undulated to and fro in a tapering wave perfect for carving deeply into foes. Straight swords simply slid off its sides, often proving useless if Mire was on the offensive. Paired with their pyromancy, it was brutal to imagine what could be accomplished with it. 

“I-- I have only very few memories wh- wherein this sword is not with me,” they confessed, looking down at it affectionately. “I- I daresay n- none of the original is still with me. A- All replaced over time.” Though they speak relatively few words, it’s clear that they would not have it any other way.

[sweet-temperedsludge]

🍳

Breakfast.

During the night, the Rat King and sent his servant off in the pursuit of something proper to eat. Indeed, much to his chagrin, it had taken them several hours to return with it, but the princes would have a decent meal or two, at the very least. Mire had come back with a few sorts of berries, mushrooms, dandelion greens, and even a few carrots. The berries were the most plentiful, as they could simply strip most of them from the bushes-- their wrapped hands betrayed their efforts, sporting new cuts from thorns and dirt under their fingernails. 

While they held a kettle between their hands, igniting a small fire under it to warm the water for tea, the Rat King busied himself with sorting berries out of the leaves, and tearing apart the mushrooms into smaller, more manageable pieces. “Good morrow, Your Highnesses,” he called out, hearing the rustle of Lorian’s armor, and the soft clinking of Lothric’s jewelry. “Come this way, posthaste. I’ve a gift for thee.” 

[sweet-temperedsludge]

🍳

Breakfast.

They had tried to be quiet, but knew eventually their milling about in the kitchen-- mere steps from where Creighton slept-- would rouse him from the couch. Luckily, they were nearly finished by this point, and could offer food to curb his presumed grouchiness. “I-- G- Good morning,” they offered, glancing backwards for a moment. On the table behind them were an only somewhat matching tea set, steeping, and a bowl of various fruits.

Not sure if he was fully paying attention they added, “Ah-- Look what I found!” Standing aside, Mire indicated the waffle iron they had just been babysitting. It was not pretty, or particularly new, but it seemed to work fine, for there were a stack of freshly made, crisp, fluffy waffles on a plate beside it. “No more pancakes.”

[sweet-temperedsludge]

“That’s not a toy, put it down!”

Sharp things starters.

Mire nearly dropped the sword all at once, but managed to stay their startled hands, delicately lowering it back into the table. Prince Lorian’s blade was enormous and beared a weight to match, yet they had been enchanted by his ability to summon fire to it. They’d moved from looking it over with hands folded behind their back, to picking it up and looking down the pommel without even realizing-- so taken they were with the fine craftsmanship. 

Turning away, they murmured a heavy apology, rubbing the back of their neck.

[sweet-temperedsludge]

D20: RK, outwit Shalquoir.

Rolling the dice. ( 20 holy shit-- )

He could at the very least appreciate that Sweet Shalquoir was a suitable conversational partner for him, matching him for intelligence and cleverness, as so few other creatures seemed to. 

Well. Almost. 

To watch her leave his domain with her fluffy tail all but dragging on the ground behind her in dejection brought him some modicum of pleasure. The Rat King examined his prize: a shining, silver ring with the likeness of her species decorating it. Surely, it would prove useful, but it had been watching her reluctantly give it to him that had granted it much value in his eyes.

[sweet-temperedsludge]

D20 - start a campfire

Rolling the dice.  ( 12 )

This was embarrassing. Winter was harsh on the burrows, some years, thus causing the need for small fires to be lit, and sconces to be maintained in some of the more populated corridors. Since they were the only rat presently about with thumbs, the duty fell to Mire. Yet, in spite of their proficiency with the flame itself, they were having trouble igniting the tinder that had been gathered for them, without the use of pyromancy. 

Their hands shook a little with the cold, one clutching the shard of flint, with the other fumbled with the steel, again. It slipped between their fingers a third time and they rose to their feet in a huff, extending their right hand over the mound of kindling and setting it ablaze with a blast of fire much more harshly than they’d meant to. Either way, it was lit now. 

[sweet-temperedsludge]

Will you tell me a story, Father?

Inquiries from children.

“Of course, my beloved.” His tail curved protectively about the weary kit, the two lying among other rats in a large nest of straw and other soft, discarded things. “Once, in another time, there was a rat who strode amid the stars, in the blackest depths betwixt them, with a pelt the same color, eyes of gleaming novae, and a tail which stretched about the deepest reaches of the cosmos...” 

The tale of the space-rat was entirely a fabrication, of course, but it was a folktale as old as time itself, one of which many different cultures, even those of humans, had some variation or another. Curious, how often mythos tended to overlap, he mused. 

It was a story about a giant rat who wandered the expanses between glittering stars and began to gently guide them into various constellations, always for the benefit of those around them-- either to ease their loneliness, offer comfort, provide shelter, or to aid in battle-- until finally they crafted themself a small, modest nest, inside of which they curl up and sleep for all time, surrounded by their friends. In his mind, it was a story about selflessness, and placing the needs of others above oneself.