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.
