this is how i play bloodborne
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@chhosen
this is how i play bloodborne

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i’m gonna write a deep, deep meta on dark souls philosophy. i’m gonna talk about jean-paul sartre, i’m gonna talk about friedrich nietzsche, i’m gonna talk about pathetic fallacy, i’m gonna talk about dionysian tragedies, i’m gonna talk–
so i’ve been playing nier: automata
saddest character deaths and their last lines of each dark souls game:
dark souls i, solaire of astora.
‘... ahh, it's over ... ... my sun ... it's setting ... ... it's dark, so dark ...’
dark souls ii, lucatiel of mirrah.
‘my name is lucatiel. i beg of you, remember my name. for i may not myself ...’
dark souls iii, siegward of catarina.
‘now for a final toast. to your valour, and my old friend yhorm. long may the sun shine! well, i’m going to have myself a little nap. the only thing to do, really, after a nice toast. you are a true friend. best of luck with your duty.’

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what if i changed jokanaan’s character design to have ... tattoos
i wanted to share a helpful discovery with other original character writers, and those interested for the sake of interest, what makes world-building good? what makes it memorable? how can effective world-building breathe life into your language and characters?
it’s called the three era trope.
the most remarkable stories of our generation - lord of the rings, harry potter, a song of ice and fire - intentionally follow the three era trope. so what is it?
0) the myth. this is your creation story. your genesis. the spring of arda. how was the world formed? what destroyed the world? every well-written story has a genesis. this is the base upon which you build your three eras.
1) the first era. traditionally this is the founding of the world. the first age elves, young voldemort in spinner’s end, the reign of the targaryens. the first era has significant people or places.
2) the second era. depending on your story, this can be the dark age or the golden age. the pevensies restoring cair paravel or the firebenders wiping out the air temples.
3) the third era. this is where your story takes place. the world after an age of darkness or glory. the chosen undead flying to lordran, the wild hunt after ciri, aloy finding her focus, link’s awakening.
why three? because it’s easy for the reader to categorise the history of the world and what events are important to note. the first two are mythical, the second intriguing, and the third one to beware.
they borrowed howl’s clothes, which looked like a tunic cut in half and trousers too tight on their legs. but it gave ingarians something nice to look at. jokanaan was human. black hair that fell to their hips only held back by a loose braid, and bronze skin that glowed under the afternoon sun. men and women remarked on their gold eyes, ‘like a cat’s!’ they’d say. and they were returning to the moving castle with a burlap sack tossed over their shoulder filled with foodstuffs: poppy seeds, honey syrup, eggs, apples, marionberry tartlets, and a pig’s shoulder. markl was very specific that jokanaan get a pig’s shoulder.
turnip-head was waiting for them by a rock, looking like the scarecrow could sit on it. and as jokanaan neared he gave two bright bounces then began to bounce off in the direction of the castle. he always seemed to know where the castle was at any given time. if it moved a hundred miles the scarecrow would still know the precise location and follow it. the undying warrior followed it up the sloping farmlands of ingary. farmers and wives waved at them as they passed their fields.
as they neared the castle markl ran out the front door ( or back? jokanaan still never figured out which way was what ) of the castle to great them. to him, jokanaan was like giant, standing a few feet taller with strong arms and thick thighs wearing howl’s pants that would rip apart at the seams any minute now. howl had encouraged them to wear something — anything other than their suit of armour. he wanted to see their face. even markl agreed and said it felt like talking to a real person and not a suit of armour. jokanaan acquiesced it without an argument, but it did seem like they were destroying more of the wizard’s clothes than he could keep bringing in. they would have to go back to the armour soon enough. maybe no helmet?
nevertheless, the undead banishes the thought and follows the youngest wizard into the castle while turnip-head made a new home on a rock a few feet away. they dropped the burlap sack on the dining table — or what should’ve been a dining table. it was stacked to the ceiling with old tomes and scrolls and knick-knacks that everyone had forgotten about.
❝ pig’s shoulder! ❞ said markl, heaving the giant piece of meat out of the bag and holding it to the sky like a trophy. calcifer snorted with a puff of smoke.
❝ the wizard? ❞ rasped the warrior. even as a human, their voice was hollow. They couldn’t remember if their voice was always like this.
❝ didn’t see which door he left through, ❞ said calcifer, reaching for the thickest log in the pile. ❝ but he said he was going shopping. ––––– shopping! ❞
jokanaan wrinkled their nose at that. the castle was already so full. what could howl possibly be buying? they dusted off the closest bench and sat across from markl, still holding the pig’s shoulder and rummaging through various books left on the table looking for something. howl would be back soon enough. they’d only become human again recently and they meant to thank the wizard for the souls.
jokanaan has invaded the world of @hearthwarm !
META: FILIANORE’S LIGHT.
one consistent mystery in the dark souls universe is, what happened when you touched filianore’s egg? i’m gonna do my best to illustrate what happened ( through my digital, all-caps handwriting ). to start, the egg filianore is holding a vessel for light. all of gwyn’s children had a unique, unparalleled power, and filianore is no different. her power is to trap time. and light in the world of dark souls is akin to time. when there is more light ( the age of fire ) time moves freely. people can age, grow, and transform. when the fire wanes time is stagnated. death doesn’t exist.
filianore’s slumber in the ringed city purposely stagnates time. time outside the ringed city can be easily influenced; time within can’t. when the unkindled one ( you, the player ), touch the egg which was already beginning to rot, we break the spell keeping filianore asleep and simultaneously release all of the light it’s captured through untold ages.
let’s pretend for a moment that time is linear and disregard the ‘lands converging’ theory. on top you have a normal timeline from beginning to end. certain things happened and took place at certain moments of time. you can place every single event that took place somewhere on this timeline. the ringed city happened before ds1, but it was displaced from time by filianore’s vessel. the ringed city is seperate from the dark souls timeline. it is a fixed, contained point in time that never changes, ages, or buoys. everything that happens in the ringed city has no impact on the main timeline and vice versa. it is essentially ‘locked out of time’.
because it’s seperate from the main timeline, when you touched the egg it broke the stagnation. it broke the vessel which contained time, so all that light from all those centuries spill out at once.
because so much time took place between gwyn putting filianore to sleep in prior to ds1 and when the unkindled touched the egg at the end of ds3, the city is ‘shocked’ back into the main timeline and experiences the entire past all at once. it moves through the centuries at rapid speed from where it was originally pushed out of the timeline.
so naturally when it’s pushed back into the timeline, we ringed city in a dilapidated, ruined state. this is the present ringed city had it not been pushed out of time. it’s buried and covered in dunes. only faint towers and remnants of a bygone age can be seen within the dunes. the unkindled one never ‘time travelled’ as popular fandom theory dictates. the city is the one that moved through time in a split second. in the present, filianore is long deceased and the ringed knights are no more. only gael and the last pygmy kings exist. the trapping and freeing of light doesn’t exist anymore. only the dark soul itself.
it’s my child :~)

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IT SEEMS TO have happened without his knowledge, or will. pulled away from his aimless wandering by an impossible and intangible force, which directed him towards the lieu of his downfall, the burial grounds of his identity, the graveyard of the farron household. dragged to the soulless peaks of the northern continent, where the howling of the wind was the only thing he could remember clearly. the wind, and the relentless chanting of the rows of monks that surrounded the many idols and statues situated upon the mountaintops, carved out of its very stone, their stare directed towards the capital of arravan. a band of fanatics, that’s what they were known as, even in the ranks of the high priests of the great city.
the frost nipped at his skin, seeping through the hard-boiled leather of his armor, as the sole of his boot sank into the soft snow of the path, moleskin gloves doing less than nothing to keep slender digits from turning red, from getting sore, even as his grip tightened around the hilt of the blade strapped in a sheath at his side. the more he walked, the closer it became. the louder it rang through his head, as if a grim reminder of the life he had lived, words of faith, of prosperity, for their people, and their race. despair & hope entwined within the words of the priests, knee-deep in the frost, their skin rotten and swollen, and red, as if decaying from the sheer amount of blisters that plagued their mien. they all looked the same, men, women, and even the children they had brought up there, to be blessed by the touch of a deity.
yet, the hood of his cloak is forcefully pushed off of his head as a gust of wind shakes him to his core, forcing him to sink a little further into the frost— looking up, he saw them. a knight, from the looks of it, clad in pristine armor, looking off into the distance. they were… incredibly tall, and powerfully built, in each and every way. like a hero of the legends, no. like the harbinger, rhyfel themselves. the scent of death loomed heavily upon their head, their blood-scent. the blood of monsters, the blood of beasts. the blood of men, and corpses.
the fallen lord’s grey eyes gleam, their edges slashed with wrinkles, his skin burnt by the wind, and the cold. the grim downturn of his mouth is not lessened in length, but lessened a tad in its hideousness, and for a moment, his eyes close. his insolence, to flee from his destiny, perhaps, it had caught up with me.
rhyfel— take me in your embrace.
still, he opens his eyes, and the knight is still there. and he is flooded with a loss so profound that he stands in it, chest-high.
“you must be headed for the capital,” the man’s hoarse voice cuts through the wind. “there’s a storm brewing. i suggest you take shelter as soon as possible. prithee, be careful.”
@chhosen : plotted starter.
snow crunches under the weight of their sabatons, a long trail of footprints behind them. they had been in the storm peaks for four days, trailing the monks and prowling in shadows. the monks were slow moving, often making stops at shrines carved into the mountain and reciting long, foreign passages of their faith. they were on a pilgrimage from arravan, jokanaan guessed. or to arravan. but to the knight, they were on a slow, unwitting pilgrimage to them.
once they fought something similar in another world. a land of hosannas and fallen monks. they wielded bo staffs and leapt from trees, able to keep up with the dextrous knight. but not these arravan monks. they were unwitting and defenseless, their faith their only weapon. they would be souls soon enough. a feast for the undead. they would devour them, leave their hollowed husks behind and disappear quietly into the blizzard.
as the monks approached the final shrine, the knight crouched closer to the mountain, visage obscured by a large boulder and brows knit as they watched, falchion unsheathed and ready. with the monks stooped and caught in fervouress prayer, the knight rose from their position, a waiting lion in a savannah. but voice from below suddenly called out to the knight. the boulder obscured the them from the monks but not from other travellers who dared ascend the mountain. the voice is friendly. unwitting as the monks are, and mentions something about the capital and storm brewing. the undead glances at the monks, unsure if their presence had been given away but their chants remained unbroken, bodies still kneeled before their shrine. they were unnervingly devout. jokanaan guessed that nothing would shake their faith. if the seas rose, lands erupted and lightning needled its way across the sky they would keep chanting. faith was a weapon of the mind.
with gritted teeth, the knight climbed their way down the mountaintop, only feet above where the man called out to them. and when they reached the ground they could see he was cold. frost had made a home in his hair and his body was stiff. why has thou come if only to freeze to death? ❝ why has thou come to this faraway land? ❞ they asked, voice was dry and barely a hush. after all, the dead cannot speak. if they could, it would be a whispering one. the knight’s falchion was still unsheathed and very briefly, they considered slashing a red line across the man’s stomach and moving on the monks. more souls.
this is a dynamic / plotting call! as a plot-focused original character i want to establish a relationship between your character and mine! share your character and your world! tell everything with me about them. how do you interpret them? engage with me in plotting and not just ( no shade ) ‘cool. nice. haha’. like, homie, it takes two to tango. i don’t want to do all the plotting that’s uncool. so liking this post means i’m free to send you an i.m., askbox memes, plot a relationship, and vice versa! let’s be friends. :~)
jokanaan is a dark character but not in same that we understand darkness or evil.
most stories write good and evil as a complete black and white space, but jokanaan isn’t a black character. they live in the black but they are grey. they can do evil but never for others, only for themselves. if someone said ‘go kill these people’ jokanaan will not because it doesn’t benefit them. they aren’t loyal to pure evil. they are not loyal to the black space.
re: my aus, jokanaan isn’t a sith lord, but they are on the dark side. they’re erratic at best and would never serve the seperatists, first order, etc.. in lotr they aren’t a dúnedain akin to aragorn. they can pass through the elven realms peacefully but also can hunt elves. atla, they are a firebender but not loyal to the fire nation. t100, they aren’t loyal to lexa or the grounders even though they are one.
the point i’m trying to make here is that jokanaan can often found on the “evil” side, but aren’t loyal to the evilness themselves. they can make friends with good characters and pass into the “white”, but will not remain.
i need to develop more aus

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90% of the time i will write jokanaan as undead. sunken cheeks, hollow eye-sockets, tree bark skin, bald, half-eaten ears, etc. because they’re unalive. their story isn’t about becoming human. that’s not the point.
but give me a thread where jokanaan is human. they devour someone’s humanity and remember what they looked like before they became undead. let them look into a mirror and see gold eyes, bronze skin, long black hair in a messy braid, thick brows, and a strong jawline. let them be surprised to see themselves again. let them be surprised that others see them.
jokanaan is the series opposite of gael.
gael is a slave knight who is as old as they are. he’s been alive since the dawn of the age of fire and was fodder in gwyn’s war against the dragons. jokanaan was a ringed knight then. gael was lower than them. granted, no human kingdom was lauded after the war; even gwyn’s gift of the ringed city was a lie.
gael and jokanaan are both undead, battling against the cursed life of mankind. gael was thrown into chaos and told to die. jokanaan was locked away in the ringed city and betrayed by gwyn. jokanaan could’ve very easily had gael’s story and vice versa. jokanaan’s mission was in service of the fire. they know gwyn is the ultimate betrayer and original sin, but they are still in service of fire. gael is in service of the dark. ‘a dark soul [ ... ] for my lady’s painting.’ gael discovers alternative way through the painted worlds. the painted world is created by the blood of fire, but the painting woman asks gael to consume mankind’s dark soul to paint a dark world, ‘ ... a cold, dark, and gentle place.’
jokanaan consumes souls of fire and gael consumes souls of dark. his blood will be the blood of the dark soul with all he’s consumed.
they’ve lived since the beginning and end of time because they’ve had a purpose. a reason to not hollow.
gael is the series’ final enemy, the penultimate of it all. the end of the world is two lowly undead having existed since time immemorial are fighting for two worlds, two cycles, two philosophies. a battle between fire and dark. with jokanaan’s soul they will birth a new age of fire. with gael’s sacrifice to the painting woman, she will paint a dark world.
when jokanaan defeats gael they realises that fire is not the way.
jokanaan’s story ends with them becoming the lord of hollows. mankind rewarded. there will be no more reign of either. the world will born of dark fire and mankind will be it’s ancestors.