#darkmoonfirekeeper

A man enters the firekeeper's room, it seems to be sparsely populated for the moment. He's wearing a black arming jacket, tied at the front wall white strings. He seems to be armed with a type of sword though it's not exactly clear as it's obscured by a large black cloak which covers most of his body. His hood is pulled up and hides his face though a pale chin pokes out from the reflection of the fire. He gives the pommel of the coiled sword in the flames a light touch as embers crack and the heat rises. He flashes a look in the Keeper's direction but sits at the fire first with a heavy "uff."

She knew her Knightess was not looking forward to seeing her homeland again, but they were nowhere near it. Her stiff posture and complete silence for the last few hours had Gwyndolin wondering if something else was amiss. Gwyndolin leans forward, taking the Knightess’s hands in hers. She’s dressed comfortably for travel, without her helm or heavy jewelry, able to peer into her partner’s face. Her snakes join her, sitting themselves up on the bench beside and tasting their air anxiously.

“Good evening,” he greets her. Then, quieter, “...is there anyone here I should be concerned about?”

He would love getting to know her better and see what makes Gwyndolin enjoy her so much. Because of this she automatically was on his good side. Someone he looked up to. Anyone who was capable of protecting the Kingdom and its people living inside, was someone he’d fully accept. He wondered what she actually did around Anor Londo, besides tending to flame, considering even though they lived close together, he barely saw her. Part of him feels like deep down there is a kind soul…

Popular times for prayer, with the rising and setting of the sun. Priests in Lothric take their meals only after they have sufficiently prayed.

 “Some have the strangest festival traditions... I’m not certain who came up with the idea of firing arrows into melons to honor the moon, but I support them.”

So when the disgraced Knightess and her crossbreed daughter had come to the two of them, they hadn't been surprised by the news at all. Yorshka sits huddled by her adoptive mother's side, tail curled around herself, frail as starlight even beneath the furry traveling cloak she was wrapped in.

Lorian nods, but signs, Just be sure she likes swords. Not everybody appreciates them.