* WAR PRIEST.

my mercy prevails over my wrath,

[tyrran]

 are you praying again?    [ ... ]    how raw are your knees?

#tyrran. militant decency. independent original character, vannaspar kemetil niorun, with a current focus on sci - fi &. fantasy. a tale of faith and death, goodness as a practice &. what that means as a vessel for entities of war. extremely crossover focused &. friendly, 21+ only. as crafted by vanto, 31, he / they.

Visit Original Link

guide.  about.  verses.  headcanons.  prompts.  

read my rules. 2026 is the year i recover from all the bullshit i've had lobbed at me for two years now, so i'm stepping back socially. i stick to tumblr ims, i do not give out my discord. communicate with me, be honest with me as well as yourself. if i sound jaded, it's because i am but i'm trying my best. i use the queue often, and the replies i owe go there. if you're waiting for something, it's on the way.

coloring psd: a combination of my own work and heart desire by cali/sources. static effect: my own, based on the tutorial by oh/isms. audio: clash of convictions by nikolay filipovich.

[heartinhands]

@vannaspar is nice.

It's words and people like this that make Medraut acutely aware of their own failings. The projection of a persona that people buy into; a persona someone like Vann wears as easily as he wears his paladin pauldrons, as easily as he shoulders that shield to fend off blows in the dungeons they venture into. He makes a fine traveling companion. He's aware of the company he keeps and extra-aware of said company in the belly of the beast--always quick with a spell or a potion or to take a hit or two when Medraut's lance skirts just too far to the left to fell an enemy. And after, he's an even better sport, always ready with an easy smile and stories and a shoulder.

He's the sort of man that makes Medraut feel like a fraud. Even though all they're doing is sitting on two stools, peeling potatoes with their knives together, they can't help but feel jealous of the goodness that he wears like scars--a goodness that she's tried to beat into her body and her morals but seems to evade her at all costs. The silence is nice for a time; this is something Medraut also appreciates about Vann, how easily he settles into the comfort of a lull in the conversation. But eventually, a need for a distraction surfaced. "--How about a friendly competition?" Medraut chances, voice breaking the quietude like a fish skipping on the pond's surface, and they blink at Vann from underneath her too-long bangs (they really have to cut them soon, it's getting in the way of their field of vision), two white irises made luminous by the shape of her bright limbal rings. "Whoever cuts the most potatoes owes the other a gift of some sort. Something small, mind you--like...hmm. I have a whittled chocobo I could give you, if it's of interest?"

Vann's eyes raise from his own potato. That same soft smile. "If I have to lose, I'd rather lose fighting," he jokes back. Medraut's smile presses just a hair further into the corner of her mouth; the jealousy recedes momentarily, pleased they're able to appeal even to someone so kind as Vann. Like this means something. Like she will burn it into her, if she is able.

"I'm glad you're interested in my silly suggestion. But pray tell--what will you put on the line, Vann?" There's a bit of a darker motive here, one Medraut is afraid to admit to herself, but she's also curious what qualifies as a small, bet-friendly gift to someone as kind as him.

[tyrran]

his gaze returns to the half - peeled tuber in his hands and Vann resumes his task, as well as his effort to waste as little of the vegetable as possible. a friendly competition, they call it. he's willing to acquiesce and play along despite having no desire to truly compete, and so the paladin subtly picks up the pace somewhat. haste makes waste, however, and vann is hardly inclined to waste perfectly good ingredients to appeal to medraut. " i'm always interested in silly suggestions. whether i'll humour them ... " he teases, his smile morphing into a more one - sided smirk, " well, that's the true question, isn't it? "

he does this time though, and makes it abundantly clear. " i do appreciate wooden carvings; it's as far as i ever got in carpentry, so admittedly i don't have an eye for much else. " vann's hands have ever been suited for disciplines involving the softer things: the flesh, for one, as a burgeoning chirurgeon — and food, as that which nourishes it. wooden splinters haven't left their marks on his fingers so much as nicks from too - sharp knives, nor have they ever compared to the strain of a blade and shield upon bare palms, now hardened and slightly calloused. " though — mhmm ... i'm not sure what i'd wager on my skill and speed with popoto peeling. how about i cook for you later and tomorrow? and i'll up the ante: you carve me a little wooden bismarck. i think that's a fair trade. "

it has to be. it requires nothing strenuous from either of them, but it honors medraut's desire for something that will pick up the pace. and yet —

" but we can also just peel the vegetables and be done with it, medraut, " vann says softly, taking a chance with what he feels might be lingering under the surface. " you've set down the lance and picked up a kitchen knife. the lance will have its due again. take this moment of everyday peace for what it is. "

[tyrran]

beloveds what if this was a plotting call.

[tyrran]

beloveds what if this was a plotting call.

[edensbite]

eden's bite : where within its walls sin meets salvation, from the sweetened lips of unholy rites, where all your prayers may be heard, your burdens freed from their chains upon your soul —— original vampire muse, original lore, rooted in las vegas, in a realm where the dead walk among us, and nothing is as it seems. multi-fandom, multi-verse, crossovers beloved. 21+, sired by kiki.

[halfgigas]

Q. CLOSED STARTER, ASHFORD MEADOW. @tyrran.

"I THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE, SER VANN." ser vann's service of hoisting ser duncan, who says thanks to the fellow hedge knight with a voice breathless and faint from fierce battle, unto thunder, but quite the service it truly is, aye, for duncan could scarcely mount the warhorse in such a sorry state alone and a boy of nine, four and a half stone soaking wet, would be of no help, though try and try the squire, astride a snorting chestnut, would 'til he cracked like the egg he's named for. sighs the hedge knight does, eyes shut but for a mere moment as the ache in his side fades. "where will your travels take you next? if you've any idea." he eyes egg, then, whose bald head, newly shorn of white quills, shines in the sunlight as he nods. ser duncan shifts in the saddle. thunder huffs. "we're headed for dorne, if you've no other obligations." a beat. "and if — and if you'd like to join us, of course." behind dunk, egg sighs.

[tyrran]

gentle but firm is the helping hand extended to duncan: sturdy though he is, his half - broken body is on a slow mend after having its flesh rent and bled like a beast's at a dragon's mercy. (it's a small fortune, perhaps, that the dragon was but a man. no less fierce, however.) with knight and squire sat astride their horses, vann hoists himself onto his own mount; the grey courser whinnies briefly and huffs, calms when its rider pats its neck. about time, the animal seems to say — and vann smiles, both at his horse and the fellow hedge knight in his company. " i've none, actually. ideas of where to go or obligations, that is ... and that's a rare occurrence. " he ought to begin the arduous journey back to the north, but the road is vast and so is westeros and he has just watched history be made. there is time yet to return to the cold.

dark eyes fall upon the young egg for a moment, then return to duncan. " if the offer stands, i would be happy to join you both for a few days — but i fear i'm not made for dorne itself; the heat won't do a man like me any good. " the look in his eyes turns curious.

" what is a knight like you to find in dorne, i wonder. "

[lykirae]

lilac-blue eyes are staring, unblinking, much like a predator in the shadows.   his pupils are blown wide to an uncomfortably blackened degree on account of the darkness, the low firelight around the tourney grounds rendering visibility minimal at this hour.   he lingers like a ghost.   a pale phantom on the outskirts, much to the horror of the men that sight him.

the prince doesn't move to step past the larger man, standing with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword whilst the other hangs at his side with laidback ease.   no.   he continues to stare, to watch, as if taking the knight's measure with a slow drag from boot to helm.

“ there are whispers of your name amongst the men, ” there's no greeting, why would there be ?   aerion's father isn't here, and with it goes the princely formality.   here, he stares down the man before him like an animal sizing up another, deciding whether or not it wants to take a bite.

(   a step closer, and then another, slow and smooth.   closing the distance.  )

“ that you're quite the competition — ” (   a glance towards a nearby antler adorned tent   ) “ — chosen company aside. entering the lists, are you ? ” 

willing to compete against me, are you?

[tyrran]

vann's mind becomes a whirlwind of realizations, and as he looks up to meet the prince's eyes, for a brief but significant moment he's stunned into indecision. tourney - goers have spoken of him, hearsay that aerion has considered significant enough to pay attention to, and like the dragon that so represents his house descending upon its chosen prey, he has come to measure the truth in them. it takes no courtly education or keen intellect to discern that aerion is here to test him. to issue a silent challenge and simply wait for its rotten harvest, which itself could come in two forms: decisiveness or cowardice.

though his heart quickens unbidden, vann straightens his posture in an attempt to ease his outward disquiet. it will do him no favours here. " i may still, " he says. there is no right answer, so he will settle for the honest one. " frankly, i am still deciding who to challenge — if anyone. "

he would ask why aerion himself is asking. he would ask what the prince has heard said that piqued his interest so, but aerion targaryen does not owe him anything, least of all an answer. not only that, but they'd be useless questions.

the knight suppresses his instinct to speak again, for his time to do so has passed.

[receival]

baldur’s gate 3 starters.

the following is a collection of sentence starters from larian’s baldur’s gate 3. part 2.

look at me - i’m not a monster.

stay back. i don’t want to hurt you, but i will.

no. you’re not one of them at all.

i was ready to run you through. my mistake, friend.

that’s far enough. what’s your business down here?

you revealed our location? that tongue gets any looser, (name), and i’ll cut it out.

reckon i might miss this place.

this place is more dangerous than i thought.

well, don’t you cut a fine figure.

sometimes i’m jealous of that girl. ugh - to feel so invincible again.

in your expert opinion, what’s the best way to kill a devil?

i’m certain there are answers out there. we’ll find them together.

there’s no story. none that you’re entitled to hear, anyway.

you can tolerate a great deal of suffering, so long as it has meaning.

until then, all i can do is endure.

please try to understand that it’s not something i can just talk about freely.

perhaps there’s potential in you.

honestly, your faith is your own concern. i won’t judge, one way or the other.

i think i did well by joining you.

you already know my biggest secrets. what more can you ask?

that wall’s an illusion! hiding what, i wonder …

sun, moon, and stars will still be there, waiting for us.

this place is pretty spectacular, isn’t it?

no book or painting could ever do its strange beauty justice.

a perfect ring of mushrooms … nature, or magic?

hmm. i thought that might’ve done something.

another illusion. is anything real down here?

i’m more concerned with this ‘twit’ who set a spectator on you.

a rival - a mere footnote to my legend. you should be more concerned with who i am.

the fools must have turned back. or, better yet, died in the search.

i need no more rivals. try to take this as a compliment, yes?

this presence … this magic is not divine, but fey.

little? i am a god! and i’m gonna rip you - tear you - wear you for a hat -

don’t do anything hasty, now.

i’ll just kill you and claim it for myself.

i’m the lord of murder - i’ll show you why.

if you’re expecting me to drop to my knees before you, forget it.

a wizard’s tower is his sanctum, a private place for research and respite. but as this wizard’s not home … i say we take a peek.

a strange place for a button. especially one that doesn’t work.

what good would it do for me to be troubled? we can’t save them all.

you’ll have to speak slowly. i find it quite difficult to concentrate with my condition gnawing at my insides like a teething displacer kitten.

the whole village is falling to pieces …

hey, maybe we can scare up a few dusty bottles of wine somewhere.

i like your way of thinking. split any takings we find?

what creatures live in water this dark?

i’m a rabid dirty dog. and i bite.

i could’ve killed you before you even noticed me, but i didn’t. stand down.

i can be discreet. no need for bloodshed.

share? you really are in the wrong place.

a bleeding heart, are you? reckon i’ll just roast and eat it.

what in the hells did you do to that corpse?

you do plenty for me, more than you realize. but this cannot be remedied.

are you alright? is there anything i can do to help you?

enough. bickering won’t save your friend.

run away, then.

(name) - i was so worried! did they hurt you?

who cares? we’re together now, thank gods!

i’m grateful, don’t mistake me, but … why help us?

freeze it, cock-stench. we aren’t done just yet.

pay up, and you get to skink away. resist, and i gut you.

drop it. i don’t owe you anything.

your incompetence has been my ruin.

stop! no more innocents will die today, (name).

you care for the weak. most curious.

you so much as touch me, and i’ll tear you from limb to limb.

ah - another treacherous soul walks among us.

i ain’t going down easy.

you been a shit since i laid eyes on you, (name).

strike him down. prove your faith.

your silence speaks to your heresy.

look, you have no idea what you’re dealing with …

it’s the whole damn reason we’re here, and i’m not leaving without it.

the mission comes first.

and i thought i’d heard it all. that’s some cambion-level deception.

i go where there’s shit to stir. and there’s no shortage of options.

i can’t remember much, truth be told.

centuries of torment will do that to you.

you’ve been naughty. and you know what happens when you’re naughty.

just who in the nine hells are you?

well, well. aren’t you a luscious thing?

been a long time since someone stuck their neck out for me like that.

you have a manner of irresistible desperation about you. i like it.

you know, i’ve been thinking. and i think there’s something i should tell you. nothing big or terrible, just … a small little detail about me that hasn’t come up naturally.

i want to join you - to fight by your side.

i’m sorry for barging in like this, but i had to come find you.

i won’t let you down. i promise.

we all have our burdens, one way or the other.

i’m trying to say that you’ve earned my trust in a way very few ever have … i want that to mean something.

freedom - i’d forgotten how it felt. thank you.

if you have a moment, i’d like your opinion on something.

the problem is this: a preponderance of evidence that i am a terrible adventurer.

i can’t risk re-capture. i barely escaped last time.

it was a mistake. and not one we’ll repeat.

i don’t know. he was kind of fun.

we can’t just invite danger in to our hearth like that. we must be more careful.

most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me.

an old hunter’s trick - if you can’t mask your scent, spoil it.

i prefer a weapon to stench, thanks.

you’re a monster hunter? not what i imagined.

whatever you’re hunting, your stench alone will kill it.

a quick wit is rare indeed.

know how to ask, and they’ll share that knowledge. if you’re fool enough to pay their price.

speak plainly. what is she?

i think you’re mistaken - this place looks innocent enough.

truth is like a blade, my friend. we can arm ourselves with it - or just as easily find it pressed against our throat.

i would not put you in danger.

your coyness is getting boring. tell me.

you take insult where none is intended, my friend.

how thoroughly invigorating it is to stand by one’s friend in the face of danger.

you best have one hells of an apology for me.

you must have mistaken me for someone else.

that wriggler swimming in your brain juice is a bit of an inconvenience, isn’t it?

that’s none of your concern.

don’t change the subject.

keep that hole under your nose shut.

let’s not involve ourselves in this place any longer than is necessary.

you want to play the hero so badly? fine. let’s make this interesting.

gods, it’s hot in here.

i’ve had better days. and worse ones.

i am, after all, the villain of the tale.

you truly are a soul that steels my own.

you are as thick as they come.

even i am tired of the sound of my own voice.

i stand at a precipice, but if you do not give up hope, neither shall i.

all of this … it must feel like a betrayal.

you bastard! you ruined it, you ruined everything!

slow down - what did i do?

this is an interesting way of thanking me.

i don’t need this. good luck getting out of here on your own.

i know i should head home, but … i can’t bring myself to leave.

(are you alright?) / not even a little bit. but i will be.

she favored me like a child favors a captive pet.

i promise i will not betray your trust.

i cannot thank you enough.

you will face (name)’s judgement.

i wish you could have visited at a better time.

you had no right to intervene.

you’re not one of us.

copper for your thoughts?

always a delight to speak to you.

did i play games like this in my youth? was i sweet once?

what are you doing? i’m busy here!

nothing beats the taste of stolen beer.

come on, now. they’re just having a bit of fun.

let’s do what we have to do, then get out of here.

smell’s like burnt flesh.

hold out your arm so i can mark your flesh.

i’m here to spill your guts across the floor.

pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn’t you agree?

i often feel i like raw pain too much. it scares me.

as long as the story ends in death, it’s all the same to me.

forgive me, but - that look in your eyes. something terrible has happened to you.

what i see in your eyes, in your soul, is only natural.

we’ve all suffered in these dark times. it is little wonder you hear scars of pain and anguish.

touch me and you’ll lose your hand.

the pain you suffer will cleanse you - do not fight it.

you look tired. should i take over?

welcome the pain. let it become part of you.

that looks like it’s going to bruise.

not that i’m suggesting we stop for a drink, of course.

i wouldn’t want to place all my faith in blind luck.

sympathies won’t help me to survive.

your life, much like your words, is meaningless. end the latter to save the former.

looks like the booze got the better of them. they’re practically unconscious.

they’re dying for me. all of them.

why don’t you take a closer look? i’ll observe from back here.

please don’t open the creepy book!

toddlers are easier to please than you lot.

you know, i never pictured myself as a hero.

all i want is a little fun. is that so much to ask?

having performance issues, (name)?

never have i met such troglodytes.

i was hoping you wouldn’t notice i was gone.

i suggest we admire it from afar.

it would be too much to hope that’s nothing to do with us, wouldn’t it?

i go my own way - alone.

i’ll feed your innards to the ants before i do that.

[venushorned]

( ⋆۶ৎ ̊ ) CHORUS: Woman, your heart is brave. You can endure much. ( ⋆۶ৎ ̊ ) GOSSAMER: None but the unhappy people ever hear such praise, do they?

❝ I once heard of a lady fair, with petal-pink skin and the moon in her hair, and should you want for her company, you'd empty your pockets to pay for her fee! The grace of her dancing is sweeter than sin, her gaze known to topple the strongest of men, her voice when she sings is as clear as a gem, and once you have known her, you'll seek her again. ❞

— An original Forgotten Realms character with verses in BG3 and ASOIAF. Written by @ophaleia. Info.

[tyrran]

forever and ever charmed and delighted by the fact i can write vann in settings / situations that are gritty and force him to do things he wouldn't normally do and watch him cling to his ideals, morals and overall kindness like hell yeah king, no man however good or righteous is ever free from the evils of justification. give us some insight into how you can go to sleep at night when you're forced to box your very clear - cut conscience within a morally grey landscape, let us see how far you're willing to push your limits before having to say no inevitably compromises your relationships with the world and people.

[lyonelb]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀of the old gods' making is he, confesses the hedge knight of the north, and thus owes no fealty of the heart unto the dragonkind. and likewise of the old gods' children, albeit not those of frost and glacier but of storm-wind and sea-surge is lord lyonel baratheon, for 'tis of those elders that the baratheon line was begotten, and for the gods are many and a broad and ample hall is lord lyonel's heart, and unto the new gods he is bound by birth and unto the old ones by blood, for the warrior makes him mighty and hones his blade and the father hallows his ships, but 'tis the gods of the storm that did beget the storm kings, and a storm king reborn shall he yet become. thereto, succoured by one yet kneeling to the old gods.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and you'd still have me as a knight? how far down the gullet of a wolf might a man dare thrust his hand, ere the jaws snap and sever it from the wrist? and so, gemmed fingers curl idle and benign about the knight's throat, warm and supple beneath the grasp, the gnarled scar settled against the heart of his palm, pulse tender as a hare's. smiling a smile sated is the lord. " i'd have you as far more than a knight. " bereft of wit these warriors be, thick of flesh and thick of skull alike, for once in times past had lyonel encountered a hedge knight of kindred sort and invited the man to share his bed with no plain declaration, but by word and deed and in the perusing familiarity of touch. failed to unravel the lord's beckoning, the knight did, nor is it fathomed by this one.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" think you i am dissuaded by your faith? " he looks at him then, at the eyes the dark grain of rain-damp bark, lifts a brow. " kneel to whom you will, knight. man or god. " upward glides the hand, from the pulse of the hedge knight's throat unto the hard angle of his bristled jaw, there to grasp it and tug him nearer as one might a recalcitrant foxhound, and smiling are the eyes of honeyed amber and the wine-kissed mouth alike. " you'll kill for me, will you not? call upon whichever god favours you in the slaughter, then. "

[tyrran]

the golden lion on a field of crimson has not yet tested him so, for in its enduring caution and cold interest it hasn't threatened to bleed him; the man's flesh is still unspoiled, unharmed, and so it will remain as per lord and knight's contract writ in coin. but there are beasts in the world that are not so reserved and instead take what they claim as theirs, no matter the path they must trample and blaze to obtain their prize. the storm lord is one of these: this black - and - gold stag, innate might emboldened further by the wines he so indulges in, has at last scuffed the knight's bark — and he feels impaled and hoisted up on the stag's antlers as proof of conquest. vann's pulse quickens beneath lyonel's palm.

he should be thankful it moves away soon after. he doesn't. how could he now that he's rooted to the spot by sheer will and strength alike, his jaw in lyonel's steadfast hold? vann dreads truly thinking about the distance, or lack thereof, that their current positions afford them — but the night is busy paying attention to others. in this small corner of storm's end, they are uninterrupted, unseen.

you'll find no good among them. if you're ever to choose, let it be he who proves the lesser burden on your conscience.

well that's certainly a bungled lesson, but ser gael did always say he had a rebellious streak in him. myriad challenges has lyonel issued forth by now, most of which vann has met with temperance, but the gravity of this one is worsened by how liberally lyonel touches him, commands him through his one physical weakness. knights like him, though, are made of sterner stuff. " that i shall, my lord. " (kill for lyonel. commend his own name to the old gods and the new when he bids blood or words flow in the name of baratheon.) vann closes a gloved hand around lyonel's wrist and gives it a subtle but pointed squeeze: he ought to let go. the oath has been sworn in all but name. " doubt me not when i say you will still find me here come the morrow. "

[tyrran]

revenant (rev · e · nant). n. from the french revenir, "to return". one who returns, from either a long absence or from the dead.

vannaspar kemetil niorun, war cleric and conduit of the divine. independent original character. a tale of faith and death, goodness as a practice &. what that means as a vessel for entities of war.

[tyrran]

good timezone, i want to make a little page for all the people i'm mains + affils with, so if you'd like to be in it, now's your chance to tell me.

[tyrran]

the pounding of horse hooves and the splintering of lances may have long subsided, the common crowd dispersed now to either rest or engage in further revelry, but there's much vann is thinking about still. whether he himself will once again suffer the attention from the crowds, for one, or whether he will allow this tourney to pass him. a wry thought occurs to him, and it triggers an equally wry smile. (not only is there still time to decide, there's still the chance that the laughing storm may convince him to put down his name and bloody that of another challenger. what a sight that would be.)

empty festival grounds, delineated by empty stands and lit pavilions from inside which late - night merriment flows, are a surprisingly conducive environment for consideration — but he ought to return to his own tent now, lest a lack of sleep impact his next day negatively. the night, however, has one more surprise left for him. a shadow lengthens towards him, dark as anything, and it rips vann's attention away from his thoughts.

he looks up, then stops in his tracks, at the sight of the bright prince.

were it not for the telltale red - and - black ensemble of the ruling house granting him a silhouette, vann would have thought him a pale ghost. the knight half - turns and moves out of the prince's path, head bowed and eyes cast to the half - lit soil. " my lord. "

s.c., ft. @lykirae.

[tyrran]

oh we are so fucking back y'all. this is a celebratory starter call.

[tyrran]

mutants ought to consult mutants and leave men out of such sordid affairs, or so it's said, except it's a bitter poison capsule when it turns out said mortal men are the catalyst for (in their eyes) equally sordid relations. the payment he's been offered to mediate between the village alderman and the reclusive sorceress will feel tainted within a few days of collecting it, and vann will be glad to spend it if only to see it gone. the north window is open but a middling crack, and through it the scent of salt comes in with middle notes of, almost impossibly, magnolia and woodsmoke. it's not the first time he's glad for his keen senses: he fixes his attention on that saline note and though he be a learned witcher aware of common superstition, vann wonders if it'll protect him from evil.

he's had to hide his medallion under every layer of armor and clothing, because the magic in this small - yet - larger - than - it - seems house won't stop making vibrate. it is a dull tickle against his sternum by this point. " you haven't told me what you want from me yet, " says the bear witcher, shifting slightly in his seat. the scent of flowers seems to develop a will of its own, because it overpowers everything else. " but i doubt you take coin ... or anything conventional. what's a witcher to offer dhufeainnewedd in exchange for help, so that he himself may help with a curse? "

s.c., ft. @favoriteache / @cuntlike.

[visceries]

ambrosius is met with silence. as much as expected; they continue on nonetheless. "it matters because it wounded you." their gaze wanders away from vann, toward the weeping figure looming above them. time has been unkind to the statue. its face has long since surrendered to weather and devotion alike, worn smooth beneath generations of desperate hands. yet grief etched into its posture. stone remembers what flesh forgets. "men have a habit of christening their wounds." their thumb glides across the handle of their cane. "calling them different names: duty, faith, necessity." their head tilts. a flame gutters somewhere amongst the sea of candles. "the wound remains."

outside, the hunt prowls through yharnam's arteries. the city groans around itself; timber complains; distant bells toll. in the dark, something cries out. howls with a voice too human to belong to any beast. elsewhere, a hunter answers. "i have opened enough bodies to know that flesh keeps its own counsel." their gaze finds its way back to vann below. "the wound closes. the years pass. the body says nothing, until it is asked." a smile. it does not quite reach the eye. "and even then, it answers slowly... as if the soul suffers from the same affliction." for a moment, only the incense moves. clings stubbornly to dead air. then coils upward in pale strands and disappears into the rafters, joining centuries of prayers that never found an answer. "you left the church, vann, but it did not leave you. every time you speak of it, i hear its footsteps." the dead are generous in many ways. they leave much behind.

the observation comes without malice. "it sits beside you when you speak. it stands behind you when you grieve. it follows you into places like this and kneels with you before statues that cannot answer." the shadows lengthen with the flicker of candlelight. as they regard vann, it seems to gather at his back, cast by nothing visible, stretching black fingers across the stone. then the illusion passes. after a time, they look away once more. their gaze returns to the faceless saint. "the church changed us, embedded itself in the marrow." stranger still if it had not. even now, they feel its roots beneath their marred skin.

their voice lowers, growing distant. "when i first awoke, there were places in my own mind i could not enter. i remember discovering a gap and trying to determine its dimensions." the smile breaks; the mouth caves downward. "there are methods for measuring cavities. i became rather good at it." their eyelid drifts shut. they do not meet vann's gaze again. "you carry an absence with remarkable care. i wonder if you know where they buried it." they hum. after all: "i know the feeling. mine did not stay buried, either."

[tyrran]

he has heard many a priest speak with such reverence; clearly, ambrosius is correct in their appraisal of the church living in their bones, a once - symbiote turned parasite. they both channel it as hunters, and even the life it has bestowed upon them both again tastes like ashes and cupric syrup. vann closes his eyes and listens to their sermon, fittingly delivered within oedon church to the distant toll of a bell. though he does not see the coalescence of shadows behind him, he does feel it. there are few things that can break through the warm haze of incense and frenzied pleas for protection, and the easiest way for them to do so is to live within the human body that later carries them into hallowed ground. with another toll of the bell, the illusion fades. its absence is cold.

vann alternates expressions with ambrosius, now bearing a smile in their stead as though the gesture were a treasure trading hands. it's more melancholic than it ought to be, but there is little room for true joy among the dead. " i half - expect to come across its gravestone at some point; plenty of time tonight, after all. " its burial mound will be disturbed and empty, of course, and it'll prove a grim reminder of what has rejoined him in life. the likeliest explanation for the heaviness of his existence is the second skeleton wound around his current one, a mockery of fraternal twins.

" your mind ... have you mapped it out again? " asks the hunter, driven by concern and curiosity alike. the church didn't leave its mark on his memories and he's thankful for it, and as such he cannot imagine what it's like for ambrosius. it won't keep him from helping them, should they accept a different kind of hunter to join ambrosius in their endeavours. " the deeper we dig to get to the bottom of this, the likelier this is to take us closer to another key for you. another gap to measure, to use your own words, and hopefully to force yourself through. i think i could help. "