#deathblightprince

@deathblightprince

Radahn soon returned, with his army. The trip did not take too long, and everything went smoothly. His men, while surprised, were happy to see him alive, and once he explained them what happened - leaving out the worst details - and how Godwyn, who returned, had saved him, they were eager to help out. They have been fighting a hopeless battle for a long time. Now they would once more have a worthy cause, and their beloved general back.

He reported back to Godwyn when he returned, while his men settled in.

It seemed everything was going well, but inside, he had been falling apart. Seeing the devastation in his old home, and how few were really left, was painful. And while he did not tell anyone, he was filled with dread the whole time. Memories of the rot came back in full force, along with the fear that he might get infected again. He never expected to be afraid.

Being out of there again was a relief, and he made sure to eat the boluses his men offered. They supposedly prevented infection.

On top of that, he also learned his faithful old Jerren was gone. He should have expected it, but the news still broke his heart. They had a deep bond, and Radahn missed him dearly.

After his return, the nightmares got worse. That fragment of Miquella's grace, still embedded in his soul, seemed to gain more and more... sentience. And it tormented him. It knew all his fears, all the memories he'd rather forget.

How weak you really are, Lord Brother... all your strength, all your magic power, and you are still brought down by something as small as an echo of me.

He tried to avoid sleeping, and he still did not seek help. They had much to plan with Godwyn, and he buried himself in work.

"Miquella, art thou alright?" He asked softly towards the boy, gentling opening the door after knocking. He peered inside to see his baby brother, inspecting him in hopes of seeing him in better spirits.

"I hath some tea, honey and crackers. Wouldst thou care to join me?"

(care for a comfort RP with Godwyn the Golden in these trying times?)

The boy huffed.

His golden hair fell messily across his face, as he tried with trembling fingers to arrange the wreath of lilies in his lap. However, every time he thought he had knotted the stems correctly, they came undone again.

Kind Miquella seriously considered giving up the task, but even though he felt like eating together with Godwyn, the young boy did not forget the nagging that still hovered around his head like a dark cloud.

There is a cloying sensation of jealousy Messmer could not help feeling burn within him alongside his ever-loathed flames whenever he looked upon Godwyn. He was the 'firstborn' in Marika's eyes as soon as her golden child was born and he felt that shift strongly the day he got to bore witness to his younger brother swaddled in cloth born with a purpose in this world.

A purpose he could see all too clearly for every year that passed. Was his brother aware of this favoritism? He would surely find out seeing as he might have imbibed a little too much wine as of late, bitter thoughts wringing through his mind along with his contained companions writhing contained beneath the veil of his clothing.

He'd grab Godwyn soon as he was able before he could wander elsewhere, snatching his wrist and keeping him captive so that he may listen to him alone for once.

"Tell me brother mine." He starts with a hiss, their mother's golden seal resting in his socket almost glowing fiercely with his better kept emotions.

"What is the meaning of this, brother?" He gestures towards them, especially Radahn. Radahn? Consort? It was a shocking revelation to him. Why would he want Radahn as his consort in an age of love and kindness? Does he need to go to war for it?

Godwyn looked nothing like he once was. His once brilliant golden skin and locks were now dull and pale. Veins of purple and black lined his arms and neck, some reaching across his face. His robes were dark like a death shroud. He looks like he just climbed out of his coffin to confront Miquella.

@deathblightprince (sorry it took a bit of time, trying to keep myself organized with these threads)

It was a voice that had been silent for an age but one Miquella could pick out among hundreds. One that he thought had been lost to the world and would never be heard again. "O, my dear lord brother, that I should finally see thee again at such a momentous time."

Drifting down from Radahn's shoulders the god landed silently on bare feet. When his gaze landed fully upon his brother's figure his lips parted ever so slightly and his eyes flickered behind delicate lids. "This is the fulfillment of one of my many hopes. With my consort by my side it will be a new age for us all." As he spoke he approached his once shining brother, overcome with such an emotion as he had yet to feel in his new form. "I can finally help thee, lord brother, as I had not been able to before."

Despite Godwyns protests of the current state of his physic and health, appearance, low energy but high anxiety, he failed to convince Radagon otherwise. He ordered him to make a public appearance and make a speech regarding The Night of The Black Knives and dissolve any further anxiety and "misinformation" about his wellbeing.

He waited until he could hear Radagon climbing down the last few steps, counting each one he steps until their the sound of metal footsteps coming from downstairs and large creaking doors open.

"Thou mayest come out now, Nouma." He calls to her gently to leave his closet. She had to scram when Radagon visited very abruptly.

@deathblightprince (survivor verse)

Waiting an moment before truly leaving the cloest. Thank the gods she wasn't wearing her boots. Lord Radagon would've heard her rushing to hide.

"Gods...would've been a hard time explain why I was here...dressing like this..."

He asked, the hood over his head was pulled back, but he wished he didn't touch it now. Who knew the sun would shine so brightly in the middle of summer? Not Godwyn, the prince who lives underground apparently.

He carried Fia in his arms, allowing her to enjoy the breeze unburdened. He carried her on the way up to the Altus Plateau, he didn't show any sign of wanting to put her down anytime soon.

He remembered these golden fields. They weren't that far from the outer walls of Leyendell. He spent a good portion of his late childhood and early teenage years training, camping, and hunting in this stretch of land. He half expected Fortissax to come swooping down from the heavens to meet him.

Those days are gone. He didn't dwell on it though, a new chapter was ahead.

@deathblightprince (proposal RP :3)

Fia was, for the time being, content with being carried. These golden fields were a ways away from where they emerged from, and this gesture seemed to keep him in a relaxed state.

Godwyn has been agitated since he discovered a dark secret relating to his death, and little brought him comfort these days.

“Indeed. I can scarce see what lies ahead of us…”

Her small white hand shielded her eyes from the sunlight while her robes waved gently in the wind.

It was another typical day in the Roundtable Hold... or so he thought.

He was just walking back from the library, having returned some books to their shelves before plucking a few more to read. Fia had gone off to do something on her own, presumably to wander and find someone to chat with.

He entered the main room, to enter the corridor back to Fia's quarters until he came across a new face. A face that look so eerily like his fathers. It actually made him freeze in his tracks, as he almost mistook the man for Godfrey himself.

Godwyn himself was in disguise as well, but he did not look the same as he did when he was the Golden Prince. His skin was a more sickly pale with purple tints. His viens a deep navy blue or even black. His hair was somewhat visible through his hood, revealing long pale gold locks. He dawned a mask to cover his nose and mouth, but his eyes remained revealed and remained the most striking thing about him. His eyes were a dark grey, nearly black, but they were clouded as if he was blind. He clearly wasn't blind as he could see the man in the room with him, but it served as a haunting look.

"You look like a new face." He commented with a sense of curiosity, clearly having a lot of time to practice his modern english. This man was taller than him, and he was bulky too! He wore beautifully tailored clothes as well compared to Godwyn's shabby-looking sewn up black cloak and mask. "Is it your first time here?"

Given the fact that neither of the two brothers look at all like they did the last time they’d seen one another, they really might as well be strangers.

The voice strikes an eerie chord within the Omen’s breast, but more because it had spooked him than due to any odd remembrances. A ghost of the past, a ghost of the present — really, when he turns to look, this sickly-seeming man could be a spectre a hundred centuries old by looks alone. Ah, but who is Mohg to judge a man’s appearance? His shock wears off quickly, and a smile curls the edges of his veil-obscured lips.

“Indeed, it is,” the Omen-in-disguise admits, a solemn nod accompanying the words. He turns to face the ‘stranger’ with a wide arc drawn by one foot across the floor, his robes dancing around his ankles, almost like a curtsey in the way it accompanies a small bow. His hand covers his heart. His expression is like that of a man lost in bittersweet mourning. “I am new to these realms, and the strange beings that inhabit them. Hopelessly lost it would seem…” Sigh. “Art thou one of this hold’s noble Tarnished, then? Ah, what beautiful eyes thou hast…”

Within a gold crib lies a screaming child, his tiny body wiggling to crawl over to the tall metal bars. He sits up, grabbing the bars as he wailed for someone to come in and comfort him.

@deathblightprince (fic verse: reincarnated baby Godwyn. Take your time with this one I don't mind.)

It was only a minute of the babe's crying that Fyra entered the room, looking exhausted. The bags under her eyes rivaled Gideon's, all because her new son was inconsolable it seemed. The perfumers called it 'colic'. She had only ever been familiar with the colic horses got, but the perfumers assured her that for a baby it simply meant they cried a good deal for no discernible reason.

She picked her son up, knowing being held was one of the few things that kept him quiet. "Shhhh. Shhhh. Mummy is hear. Ooof. You are so big already." She gently rocked him, "Maybe Marika can watch you for a bit... Mummy is so tired you know?"