#thy kind

Silent gesture starters.

Sword all but forgotten in the snow-covered cobbles, the rat servant stood there, inhaling the icy air and not feeling its sting in their lungs whatsoever. Before them, the scorched figure of a knight of Irithyll writhed and groaned, cooking in their armor. Steam billowed forth from the half-alive remains, and the stench of burning hair and seared flesh wafting up in clouds of dense smoke. 

A gnarled hand twitched, reaching toward its fallen weapon, to which Mire took grave offense-- with a sharp grunt, they summoned another pillar of flame from the earth and burnt all the flesh out of the armor, blackening the area for several feet under their boots. This was the price for assaulting their master-- with fire, no less! Seeing the very thing they had used to bring peace and protection to all of ratkind turned against their King sickened them so deeply that they could hardly see straight. 

Weapon descriptions.

Unsheathing the flamberge, they laid it out across their hands with noticeable reverence for such an old sword. It was not a particularly pretty sight, clear indicators of mended chips and cracks from a countless number of years’ repairs marring its tarnished surface. But even so, it was impeccably forged. The blade undulated to and fro in a tapering wave perfect for carving deeply into foes. Straight swords simply slid off its sides, often proving useless if Mire was on the offensive. Paired with their pyromancy, it was brutal to imagine what could be accomplished with it. 

Breakfast.

During the night, the Rat King and sent his servant off in the pursuit of something proper to eat. Indeed, much to his chagrin, it had taken them several hours to return with it, but the princes would have a decent meal or two, at the very least. Mire had come back with a few sorts of berries, mushrooms, dandelion greens, and even a few carrots. The berries were the most plentiful, as they could simply strip most of them from the bushes-- their wrapped hands betrayed their efforts, sporting new cuts from thorns and dirt under their fingernails. 

Breakfast.

They had tried to be quiet, but knew eventually their milling about in the kitchen-- mere steps from where Creighton slept-- would rouse him from the couch. Luckily, they were nearly finished by this point, and could offer food to curb his presumed grouchiness. “I-- G- Good morning,” they offered, glancing backwards for a moment. On the table behind them were an only somewhat matching tea set, steeping, and a bowl of various fruits.

Sharp things starters.

Mire nearly dropped the sword all at once, but managed to stay their startled hands, delicately lowering it back into the table. Prince Lorian’s blade was enormous and beared a weight to match, yet they had been enchanted by his ability to summon fire to it. They’d moved from looking it over with hands folded behind their back, to picking it up and looking down the pommel without even realizing-- so taken they were with the fine craftsmanship. 

Rolling the dice. ( 20 holy shit-- )

He could at the very least appreciate that Sweet Shalquoir was a suitable conversational partner for him, matching him for intelligence and cleverness, as so few other creatures seemed to. 

Well. Almost. 

Rolling the dice.  ( 12 )

This was embarrassing. Winter was harsh on the burrows, some years, thus causing the need for small fires to be lit, and sconces to be maintained in some of the more populated corridors. Since they were the only rat presently about with thumbs, the duty fell to Mire. Yet, in spite of their proficiency with the flame itself, they were having trouble igniting the tinder that had been gathered for them, without the use of pyromancy. 

Inquiries from children.

“Of course, my beloved.” His tail curved protectively about the weary kit, the two lying among other rats in a large nest of straw and other soft, discarded things. “Once, in another time, there was a rat who strode amid the stars, in the blackest depths betwixt them, with a pelt the same color, eyes of gleaming novae, and a tail which stretched about the deepest reaches of the cosmos...” 

The tale of the space-rat was entirely a fabrication, of course, but it was a folktale as old as time itself, one of which many different cultures, even those of humans, had some variation or another. Curious, how often mythos tended to overlap, he mused.