#tinyredrose

─╠═►The Weeping Peninsula, south tip of the Lands Between, was ever a place most sought to forget. Nothing of worth was there, save for a fort, and some old churches. An evergaol, for those who had need of the things. But, as it were, fate were steering him in this direction. That odd thing; the delusion of whimsy and circumstance being anything more.

His horse, robed and silent, stepped and stopped beneath boughed trees, its rider dismounting without so much as a word. Blackened armor coated with dried blood stared out into the darkness. It was familiar, in an unfamiliar place.

With shield and spear in hand, the specter slowly descended through the ruins, step by step, his armor being the only thing he could hear.

A shame, that. Perhaps in a day past, before the Shattering, he would have enjoyed the adventure more. Would have let it move his heart, to look out in things in wonder and excitement.

At the foot of the stairs, Maldron stopped and stared. An altar laid before him, and perhaps there were more paths from this chamber, shrouded in darkness as they were. He hovered, before breaking the silence further with his own voice.

“And how might you be doing this evening?” The words come out raspy and dry, and the knight tries to clear his own throat. Gods, it would be preferable if that shot in the dark missed its mark, and not even the Erdtree was able to witness it. 

from a bloodlust meme [accepting!!]

He has to admit, he is impressed with this particular Tarnished — the will with which she fought; the times her blade snicker-snacked through his robes and flesh. It is not often that a simple human toting a sword manages to draw blood from a Lord, after all. He can’t deny that the smile that curls his lips is from equal parts joy in her disarmament, and amusement in her bravery.

But, in the Lands Between, and the lands far below its soil, a brave heart does not always mean a triumph over death. And here Rosalind now lay, unarmed and deathly wounded, the teeth of the demigod’s trident so painfully close to the pulse in her throat.

If she hadn’t impressed him, she would surely be dead already. But instead…

One bare, claw-toed foot would press down upon the wound that bleeds heavily from the Tarnished’s wrist, tourniquetting its flow — possibly, even, saving her life. “What brought thee here, foolish lamb?” the Omen then speaks, shifting his weight so that the pressure applied to her laceration both heals and harms. “Thou’rt surely a brazen one, winning the trust of my most besotted White Mask, then abusing the path to my throne which he’d bequeathed to thee. For how else wouldst thou have wound up in this place — here, in this mausoleum of blood?”

The pressure applied to her arm lessens, then depresses again, as if he were tapping his toes slowly. Blood gushes with his every step. His grin never falters — never fades.

He looks at the cat with a curious expression but turns back to the question.

Castella sits attentively the entire time, taking stock of everything Rose told her.

“What is the world coming to? The nobles are educated useless things like how many forks and spoons to use while their serfs and workers know what’s important, like how children are made and how to live.”

She gives Rosalind a hug.

He heard the horse approaching before he saw it. So clad in shadows was the beast and its rider, it nearly blended into the nighttime as a bat’s wings against the starry sky, all but invisible save for the clopping of monstrous hooves and the clatter of a weapon against stirrups.

He had reached for his axe instinctively. Too lazy to stand, not to mention too confident to bother preparing for a fight, the defect knight simply sits with his back against one of the crumbling stone walls, warming himself by a small fire, one hand draped behind his head and the other firm on his axe’s haft.

The woman is… nude. Oh. Oh, gods.

With a scowl hiding behind his chain mask, he lifts his free hand to cover his eyes, making altogether far too much of a sarcastically theatrical show of the motion. “Maybe y’should be askin’ where t’get some pants first, mate,” he grumbles.

That intrusive presence, beautiful but stony with her cold stare and expression, is paid seemingly little mind. Were it not for the slight stiffening of his shoulders and the tightening of armored hands on his trousers, one might say he hadn’t noticed the sudden and quiet creeping of company upon this private reprieve. Still the murmured song continues for another few moments before trailing off into silence, and Brom takes a moment in the ensuing silence to ensure his sword is still within reach before finally turning towards the stranger.

Finding some unsightly beast or a horror left behind in the wake of the Shattering lying in wait would’ve been easier. Simpler. Drawing steel and cutting down such things at least was familiar in these broken lands. This though... 

Moonlight spills over the aged stone to illuminate an unspeakable beauty. From long legs and wide hips to the swell of a generous chest, there is a striking allure to her that immediately sets him on edge even as it threatens to draw him further in. Pale rays fall upon her to shine through her sheer robes, tracing the generous curves beneath and giving the little baubles a gleam so clearly... his stare settles on her expression with a shake of the head, throat dry. Suspicion wars for a moment with want before reigning supreme, and the coolness of her frown and the look in emerald eyes peering past midnight locks helps to loosen the spell the sight of her had woven over him.

Normally paper would go right into his mouth, btu this paper was... Different. Colorful and patterned, he takes a piece and looks it over, doing his very best not to crumple it.

Leaves crunched beneath her feet, dried long ago already before this place had been locked up, before she had grown up even. As a child, she would make huge piles with them, jumping in them or just hide from the world if the Keep felt too constricting. Now, all Shanalotte concentrated on was to actually enter the Keep, place of her birth.

It looked dull. Abandoned. Silent. But the Herald felt how it moved inside, how the aura of death was disturbed so subtly that first, she had been inclined to turn around and tell Jarrod that the lead must have been a fluke. No one was here except the hulls of Servants and Monsters. Now- she wasn’t sure.

The lack of pressure usually radiating from the Keep worried her too. During her childhood, she had fined tuned her senses to pick up two presences even from crowds and through walls. Navlaan and Aldia both had sickening Souls, chocking her with the sickly sweet stench of rot and dark. She felt Aldia everywhere these days. Feeling him here wasn’t a surprise. But Navlaan was missing. “Let us hope I just lost my edge with him.”, Shanalotte mumbled to herself as she approached the giant doors leading into the Keep. They opened with no command or need to touch; one of the Keeps Masters returned. The Keep answered them like they always had.

Shanalotte saw the hallway and knew that someone had been here: No dust, no crates except for the monster cage and the air smelled fresh. These doors must have been opened frequently. Pressing her lips into a thin line, the Herald moved down the hallway, straightening her back, head held high. Whether she liked it or not, this was her home. Intruders in her home were potential danger to Drangleic if they knew it or not.