#sweet-temperedsludge

Lorian is smiling as he shuffles down the path to the underground lake that carved the cave.  About nothing in particular, he’s just happy.  That’s a common enough state to find him in, these days.  Lothric is draped over his back like a dead thing, but Lorian’s mood is just infectious enough to provide some basis of contentment.  This new life has been much harder on Lothric than Lorian.  Lorian is used to camping and adventuring.  Lothric can have a day of pain to look forward to if he sleeps on the wrong mattress.  It’s how today’s been going.  He’s still collecting feathers from his teleportation spell to stuff into a sack, but he doesn’t have the energy to put proper effort into it.  A lot of the energy he does have is briskly stolen and shredded by his consuming fear of being unsafe.  Nearly everybody in the world wants to kill him.  The castle felt safe because it was familiar.  He has memories of growing up there, regularly abused but generally safe from physical pain because he wasn’t yet old enough to power much of a blaze.  This new place is a complete unknown, and he feels dramatically exposed and unprotected.  But if Lorian can be a little thoughtless and happy today, spared from a role of soulless guard dog, that’s honestly everything.

There are two rats by the underground lake.  One of them is barely moving, and the other is bustling around them, squeaking frantically.  Their neighbors, the rats, have their quarrels, as any prideful creatures who observe scales of morality might.  Whether the fellow on the ground is a victim of some crime, a would-be instigator of one, or a hot-blooded youth with a violent go-to solution for resolving arguments, it’s not immediately clear.  But it doesn’t matter.  The vision of two huddled figures takes the younger prince right back to Lothric castle, right back to the day they realized they’d had too close a call and it was time to move.  There’s a golden flash of light, and he’s suddenly at their side, meekly begging them to let him help, shameless tears forming in the corners of his eyes.  There is some tense negotiation involved before the rats will trust a stranger, but he’s unobtrusively insistent that his help is available, and he’s finally allowed to pray over the fallen rat.  The rats are elated when the injured one stands up on sound claws.  Their joy is plain in everything - they squeak, they happily run around, they press their faces into Lothric’s hand, they lick his fingers.  He turns to Lorian laughing and crying, immensely proud of himself and relieved that he could help.  Lorian is just staring with his mouth hanging open; maybe a little bit for comedic effect.  Lothric closes his eyes, hides his face in his hand, and giggles, as the rats bump their faces against him.

Suddenly, the rats want the brothers to follow them.  Curiosity turns to awe as they’re led into a chamber that’s giant even by the brothers’ standards.  A single rat sits on an enormous throne.  It can only be the Rat King, the one responsible for providing this new peaceful life, though they’ve never met him in person.  Lorian bows deeply and respectfully.  Lothric only holds on, calculations running quickly behind sharp gray eyes.  If this meeting goes poorly, they could be on the run again.  But if he presents himself as anything less than a king, he could swiftly identify himself as a subject.  And any who feel the slightest claim of ownership over him suddenly have either a sacrifice or what could be the most valuable bargaining chip ever to grace the political scene.  All of that will all color the interaction unavoidably.  He will have to speak well.  

[ Personally, I think Vendrick put it there himself, and then walked, or was guided, down in the Crypt, as a hollow. ]

The pyromancer blinks, idly, and cants his head to one side. 

“Of course, Mire,” he says, offering a broad grin. “There’s a spot over there by the elevator - we could chase Petrus off and have it to ourselves for a bit of back and forth, yeah? Careful not to outclass me too much, if y’please.”

He stands up and dusts himself off, and as a show of familiarity, tugs his hood back.

"Wherever you go, the moon still sets in Irithyll. Wherever you may be, Irithyll is your home."

The “home” of Irithyll has been naught save a prison to Ciaran. It’s Pontiff and his compatriot, the Devourer, were the cause of her lost mind, lost memories, and it was their Eye which seared her body in pain for countless years and drove her to the brink of madness. All she remembered, all that her subconscious could bring forth to her, was immeasurable pain, a broken vision of herself crawling on the floor, akin to an animal.. how.. disgusting.

She knew not who she was before the Pontiff found her, nor who she was to be now that an Unkindled committed his body to the Earth, and claimed the villain's soul for their own. She is driven by wanderlust, by a hope of regaining her lost memories, and piecing back together her addled fragments of mind.

Ciaran found herself in Lothric, within the outer ramparts of the Cathedral of the Deep, just past the Farron Keep. The dirt caked itself to her silver boots, and exhaustion bade her, begged her, to stop at the rather odd mudd dwelling she found herself at. Slow steps were heard, keying the woman into the prescence of at least one human inside, accompanied by thescurrying of what could only be some sort of small animal. A sword drawn at her side, the Knightess took slow measured steps into the hole.

"...Hello..?"

A three hour journey into a tunnel so narrow the walls on both sides scrape against his shoulders and so short he walked with a bend in his back better suited for a man thrice his age, and the sheer relief Sam felt is nearly palpable. 

For a month’s time he’d been trapped in that ramshackle village of broken down houses and people above this shrouded maze, scrounging for what little food and drink there was to find in the miserable place when his nerve wouldn’t betray him. The ones with sense enough to speak plain rather than in riddles called it Majula, home to any and all things that belonged to nothing and no one anymore; a where for something to go when there was only nowhere before. 

A fitting place for one such as himself had it not been for the ceaseless roar of the ocean in your ears and the sight of the pitch waters in your eyes no matter how tightly shut either were. It was everywhere in that place, echoing in the wooden walls and shaking the rotten roofs fierce enough to fear for yourself. No matter how closely he’d pressed himself into a dark corner, no matter how desperate he’d been to shut it out, there was no putting it out of mind, no passing of that torment. It sought to drag him without mercy back into the memories of home he’d locked away, and the nights and days were unrelentingly cruel in their reminders.

But here, enveloped in the damp darkness of the underground with nothing but mere sparks of light to guide his way, there was no biting wind howling from the tops of cresting ocean waves. There was no violent crashing of the sea against the sheer cliff faces, no heavy stench of the churning waters burning his nose or thick salt on the air to further ruin an already scorched throat. There was no sign or symptom of the dread tide here, no mention of the depths that thought to drag him down along with all the rest...

Here... Here he was safe from the sea. Safe from what dwelt beneath its waves, seen or unseen.

But maybe not from whatever keeps making that sound, Sam groused, a frown pulling at his face from beneath his cloak. They’d begun nearly an hour or so ago, a quiet rustling of claws against stone and a bit of muted chittering here and there. Subtle enough to slip the notice of an untrained mark, but for the ears of a hunter as paranoid and experienced as himself they were hard to miss. Something, or rather several somethings had it in mind to stalk him down here... maybe it was time to catch them in the act.

Coming to a sudden stop, he reached within his cloak and lifted something from the satchel at his side. Holding aloft the near painfully warm jar in his hand, he gave it a vigorous shake, stirring the butterflies within into taking renewed flight. Their flapping wings flared to life, and for a few seconds the tunnel is brightly illuminated, chasing away the veil of darkness in favor of revealing the culprit behind the noises he’d been hearing. Craning his neck back and forth, he scanned the path ahead and behind him for any sign of a stalker, sharp eyes narrowed in their search.

But there was nothing waiting for him; nothing save a few holes similar to a few he had already seen in passing earlier. Kneeling next to one, he peered in, finding only a few weathered scratches in the uneven stone and a bit of old coarse fur for his troubles.

I don't know what to say. It's hard to compose my thoughts very easily, but you know this well enough about me by now. Despite hardships, it's been wonderful knowing you and being friends. I've always loved your characters and how you're unafraid to try new and sometimes very difficult challanges with your writing, and you manage to do it nicely, too. That's admirable, and it's been wonderful to have you on my dash. I believe in you, friend ;_;

sweet-temperedsludge replied to your post “¤”

[ A great friend and writing mentor. I'm very grateful to be able to exchange ideas and tackle new and interesting things with you. You push me to be better at like, not just at writing, and I really appreciate all your time and energy. ]

The first thing that rolled up her spine was.. discomfort. You don’t always come face to face with... well, a giant rodent. Still, Lochlan was respectful, this was a covenant she could join for protection.

 She honestly couldn’t believe she’d even consider such a thing. But, the Sweet Shalquoir, the blessed feline she is, warned her of a place like this. Truly she’d thought she was kidding. Talking Felines and rodents. Oh my.