#uldrenspeaks

The poem. In my eyes he perfectly fits this little poem.

"If I cannot not wanted, then I will be needed. If I cannot be needed, let me be used until there is nothing left of me."

He lets the drifter drag him into situations. He phrases them as deals - you do this for him, he does something for you. Even if he doesn't want what his end of the bargain would be - see that one descendia conversation where if you're not to 21 completions and he'll basically beg you to stop because he knows enough and does not want to know more.

Roathe being a yes-man though he disguises it as bargains, as deals. Roathe breaking down when he doesn't know what he's supposed to do or why you continue to want to help him. Roathe begging you to stop because he realises he's in over his head and doesn't want it. Not knowing quite how to tell you he doesn't want it. Roathe not quite knowing how to explain why. He doesn't know how to accept that he's allowed to be upset and have his own opinions and even phrases it in a way that is almost detached.

Roathe, possibly dissociating when he's overwhelmed, because distancing himself from his emotions is the only way he can keep doing what other people want of him. He wants to be good. To be wanted. To be needed. He needs it like he needs the air he breathes. Trying to take back his agency and convince himself he has a right to be angry and upset and hurt but not sure how to display those feelings without being the way that he always has been. A cold, threatening weapon. Like the blade of his tail he has been honed to a point to be useful. Because what is he if he's not useful. If he's not impressive and ready to do whatever dirty task is requested of him and come back stained in blood and muck.

Maybe he enjoys it. Maybe he enjoys the tasks of violence and tearing things apart - but is that because it's what he wants or what Nitokh and later the Drifter (via the gemini skin) wants of him? Is it the serum, the way the infestation twisted him, making him crave violence? Does he crave it or is it a need or is he just letting himself be USED.

He says he lies to himself. The lie was the weapon he excelled at and he turned it upon himself and "Oh, how I bled" - did he want it.

Roathe standing at the doorway waiting for the drifter to collect him, blood around his claws, blood in his mouth and he cannot shift the metallic tang of regret no matter how many times he bites his own tongue to convince himself it's his own blood he tastes. He is a killing machine and likely hasn't been seen as a person - stay with me - in a while. He wants to just be a person it's why he likes Bird 3. He can just be himself. How much of what we as the player see is just the persona he puts on to try to convince us he is Useful and how much of it is truth? Has he lied to everyone so well he's convinced himself that in order to be worth something to these people he must be sharp and antagonistic. Which isn't the truth at all.

Roathe curled up at night because all he is, is a soldier. Roathe trying to war with that fact that he deserves to be a person and forgiven for the things he did to survive. Roathe not understanding the concept of mutual love - not really. He understands ownership and sex and devotion but love, his hands would shake as the drifter held them softly because he wants so much to prove to them his own devotion that he does not realise it's their way of proving their own. He doesn't know how to be held softly. To be truly tender. To be kissed as not an ask of violence pending but to be kissed out of love. Roathe not understanding the concept of consent because he wants to do whatever it takes to make you want him. To prove he's something worth wanting, because he doesn't believe that he is. Roathe down on his knees clutching the drifter's pants and pleading silently to be something to them and they're looking at him like he's the one who put the stars in the sky for them to discover.

Now applying this. Roathe making himself useful for the drifter whether it be finding them things he considers of interest. Telling them things they didn't know. Using whatever tactics he has got so that they don't let the operator finish what should've happened on the night of the naga drums, when he should've died with everyone else.

Making himself useful for Marie and Lyon, too. Bringing them pastries whenever he could. He was grating with them because he didn't want to be there and it has to be so utterly boring being ditched with strangers by someone who'd offered him a second chance and remaining trapped in what's basically a basement.

Taking it steps further. Roathelyon. Roathe fussing about whenever he had the opportunity to, making himself useful, whenever Marie isn't there - tending to Lyon's wounds in stony silence because he doesn't know what to say. He's not sure how to empathise with this, he doesn't have this experience, but he has experince with men dying on the battlefield and his soldiers dragging themselves limbs twisted to him for any shred of compassion whilst they faded away. So he puts himself to work. Wet rags and whatever alcohol he could find to use as disinfectant because it's dark and gross and dirty in here and he doesn't know if the twisted abominations that are the protoframes can get infections in their wounds. Sitting away from the altar and watching like a hawk as Lyon's face burns red where he's slapped himself. Wrapping the priest's knuckles when they bled after punching the wood so hard it splintered and bit into his skin. Roathe accepting candlelit silence as comfort when he was used to the bustle of life of the empire because it would be out of place of him to ask for more light. He wouldn't be serving right. He claims that the path to victory is through seeming submission but he doesn't know how to take the space that doesn't belong to him.

My drifter, Atelier, pronouns he/they.

Atelier being tired enough that he doses off in La Cathédrale, because give that man a good rest, and Roathe noticing after he remembers he was supposed to be getting a visit and just noticing this pink haired freak utterly wiped out family guy death pose style on the pews. And Roathe is just utterly gobsmacked, How the fuck do you sleep there, surely that can't be comfortable? And he's RIGHT it's not comfortable at all but the drifter is just so fucking tired running around chasing everything Entrati fucks up to care. So what woukd Roathe do? Roathe, just, awkwardly scooping up this utter bastard of a man who'd made it quite obvious he doesn't care where he sleeps because need I tell you, for those of you who've never sat on old wooden pews, they hurt your ass. They're uncomfortable and awkward and no offense, Christians, but I'd rather die than ever sit on a pew again.

So Roathe scoops this freak man up and carries him back over to his "comfy" little wooden throne and just fully cradles him because what the fuck else is he suppose to do?? Leave his lover to suffer? Sure Atelier wouIdn't CARE about waking up sore, but Roathe cares, partly because he wouldn't be responsible for the soreness but also partly because there's something soothing about the weight of the drifter asleep on his lap, and the slow beating of his heart, and the way that heartbeat thrums slightly against his claws when they rest on the drifter's neck...

The drifter waking up confused because he teleported like 15ft whilst asleep and Roathe staring down at him with the SOFTEST expression before realising oh shit, fuck, he is awake.

"Did you enjoy your nap, pet?"

"you moved me??"

"Admit it, I'm far more comfortable than those blasted pews."

PLEASE. PLEAAAASE...

Inserting my drifter, Atelier - feel free to add in reblog how it'd go for your drifters, I'd love to know more about ppls ocs!

Does the Drifter even get sick? It's hard to tell. The man's always on the go and barely even rests, and when he does it's always in the strangest places or at the worst moments. Today seemed different. The drifter was paler than normal, seemed washed out and frankly, wiped out. He didn't even great Roathe as he approached, just clambered onto the devil's lap and buried his head into the crook of Roathe's neck. Not comfortable, but the metal of his armour felt cool even through his clothes. Roathe, utterly concerned, has no idea what to do with this. Sure Atelier was BOLD but this was a new level. So Roathe kind of freezes. What's he supposed to do? The drifter's breathing comes as a choked wheeze and he's coughing, trying to cover his mouth the best he can, when Roathe realises that he's just sick and NOT dying.

He'd fuss about it a bit, I presume. Trying to goad information out of Atelier and only receiving muffled huffs and complaints in response.

"Awwh, what's gotten you so unwell my pet? Did you eat something you shouldn't have?"

"Knock it off, Roathe... I think I'm dying... I hurt so bad..." Atelier isn't known to really whine. He complains, yes, but whining was mostly beneath him - unless he was throwing his subject puppy dog eyes and asking ever so politely for what it was he wanted.

"Oh, really? Here I was, thinking you weren't afraid of death. How incorrect I was in my assumption. Do continue lamenting your existance, though, could you do it quietly?"

"I'm not afraid I'm just.. I'm miserable... I can feel my heart beating in my throat and I don't like it."

My drifter, Atelier, pronouns he/they.

Lyon's plagued by visions. His fist coming down hard on the wood top of the altar and he's muttering to himself beneath his breath, digging his nails hard enough into the surface that he can't tell what's splintering in the darkness. It's late, he's pretty sure Marie has fallen asleep floating over in her corner, and Roathe has half curled into himself to try to get even the slightest bit of shut eye. And the drifter shows up. Pink hair is the only thing he can focus on as the man walks toward him, strutting in with new holes in his jacket and muddy bandages tied around his denim jeans. He seems unharmed, or at the very least, unphased. The drifter's prosthetic hand finds the priest's back, and he leans in, muttering something half lucid - almost like he's asleep on his feet. But what comes out of the drifter's mouth is some smash up combination of sounds that don't really make a lot of sense when interpreted as a functional sentence. And Lyon really has to question if that statement about the logistics of feeding pizza to horses was something that was supposed to come out of Atelier's mouth or if it was supposed to be something that actually made sense with the gentle affection of the cool metal against his scarred skin.

And obviously. Lyon can't make heads nor fucking tails of it. Why is the drifter talking about folding up pizza into fake-calzones and diluting them in water to make them softer for the horses teeth. And the fact that horses are supposedly omnivores - an uncomfortable fact he learnt from Lettie in the first place - and would probably appreciate a meat pizza. Lyon is just utterly baffled. Atelier takes the confusion and only serves to further it because the man is so exhausted he doesn't care what he's talking about and he mentions something about feeding fried eggs to chickens, then kisses Lyon's cheek. It's stupid and weird but it grounds the priest enough to realise that hey, what the fuck, and he takes a breath bit sure whether or not this fiend is going to say anything else that'd give him nightmares of a different sort. He's certain he's going to dream about horses and liquified pizza. He's about to say something but the drifter shuts him up by dropping the bombshell of the fact blenders exist and he may randomly blend some food for the priest to sample. And Lyon just fucking loses it. The drifter grins like he's won something as Lyon bows against him, his hands wrapping around the priest.

Redraw of an older art piece that I'm using as my discord profile picture right now 😎