blighted-beak-blog

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ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ʀᴘᴇʀs

PLEASE REBLOG THIS IF YOU ARE OC FRIENDLY

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Much has changed in the time taken to travel, for many lives familiar and unknown have dried and kindled, others falling pale of glow in the heavy air of eternity. With heavy steps the man in the cloak walks from the mountains to the sit aside the fire, casting his gaze into the deep embers, the dying light casting forth a glow for a silhouette to be seen from town. The man, his beaked mask, and the old, frail catalyst his bony fingers hold onto, as a drowning man clutches a drift of wood on a stormy sea.

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With a dance of magic on the winds the man in the mask observes the chaos befalling the realms inhabitants. 

Surely the many lives born again and lost through this great combat must have some deeper force?

A question for a wiser man.

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“An exile of exiles would be a sure fit of my figure, a knight as reknowned as yourself would have become aware of any companions of mine at this time.”

The man in the mask slowly twirls to observe the area, the dead trees framing the grey sky through skeletal branches. 

“The sallow realm is home to many like me, but I fear none who know enough about their condition to retain their sanity and assist me in any scholarly pursuits”

Turning back to the hulking form of the Knight, piercing eyes scan the knight from head to toe. Like a cat observing a stranger from shadows, the man in the mask assesses Raime.

“You seem to have your wits about you; tell me, what do you know of the curse?”

“…Love birds though I may, that helm is simply ridiculous.”

blighted-beak

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“A scholar yes, that would apply. I had a name once too, but in time it has escaped me. You see the curse has driven me very close to my limit in these lands, but for a long, long time I have teetered on the edge of oblivion. Thustly, here I am. Trapped in limbo, no hollowed beast to hunt me, but no goal beyond my travels, beyond my wandering in search of the evidence that this world was once good.. You would know... wouldn't you, Raime?”

“…Love birds though I may, that helm is simply ridiculous.”

blighted-beak

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"I've heard of you, but from the encounters of others. What may your purpose be in the dying world we are in, now...."

The body language of the man was sharpened, like a cat’s. Under the oilskin and leather it would have appeared he would have been doing something akin to bristling.

“I...” he stammers, keeping his dull eyes locked on to the figure before him.

“I am but a simple scholar, Aldia, and I am very far from home in the dying world.”

In a single deft motion he attempts to cover the catalyst of charred wood with his cloak, still not breaking eye contact.

“Dying is not the correct word. Look out to the coast, look at the waves and the rolling clouds. The seasons don’t fear the reaper, nor do the wind, nor the sun, or the rain. Despite your attempts to bastardize life as I see it, nature will hold strong, as it always has.”

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“And the sinner shall be slain in his tracks lest retribution be sought. All of us shall seek, and until the end of our days shall we seek retribution for the sins of those who we once where.”

The man in the cloak watches the figure chew the bone.

“Or so quoth the raven.”

“…Love birds though I may, that helm is simply ridiculous.”

blighted-beak

[blighted-beak-blog]

bold what applies to your muse: flaws edition !

feel free to add more.

easily scared | whiny | repetitive | selfish | arrogant | easily excitable | too silly | stubborn | blank minded | overly cautious | loud | easily bored | untrustworthy | disloyal | manipulative | over sensitive | possessive | clingy | obnoxious | gullible | annoying | judgmental | tactless | merciless | unlucky | soft-hearted | sarcastic | reckless (CAN I BOLD THIS TWICE?) | paranoid | unsophisticated | pushy | self critical | smart-ass | infamous | solemn | erratic |

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For those of you who don’t know Miracle of Sound, he made this song for Dark Souls II last year. The lyrics and tone of the song are really what brought about the mulling over in my head that eventually became The Man in the Cloak.

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Salty spray stung on the wind as a brewing gale lashed against the stony bridge extending from The Saltfort. The figure glided across the stone bricks as his cloak thrashed in the wind, he stopped and watched as the hollowed archers above gave him a momentary glance before turning away.

A hollow cares not for another hollow.

Another figure did move, and with a animalistic growl he threw himself away from the ledge into the interior of the Saltfort, aware of the presence coming into his prison.

Adjusting his shawl, the man in the cloak continued along the bridge to the saltfort, his ancient catalyst clutched in his frail hands.

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the-crest-fallen started following you

The two men exchanged a glance over the licking flames of a bonfire but no words where exchanged; but with a common glance the man who was broken, and the man soon to be knew all about each other they would ever need to.

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holder-of-the-fort started following you

The man looked up his beak as the man in plated armor strode past him through the halls of the fort, giving him time to shrink against the wall and attempt to remain unnoticed by what is obviously a wielder of great person strength.

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His composure once again achieved, the man looks down his beak, up into the eyes of the dragon.

“Many of the bonfires I have seen in my travels lay dark, and it all but seems to me the firekeepers of old have left the land and faded into lore.”

The man looks out over the tops of Majula’s rooftops from the hill on which they perched, watching the sun begin to crest above the waves, the soft morning winds pushing the dull clouds from the horizon.

“This place is where I have been for but a few weeks, but I did not know others shared this hill, is your home nearby? I trust I haven’t been a disturbance.”

On the last word he looks around to the small camp, a thin sleeping bag, a small fire, and many candles scattered around the small reprieve on the hillside, turning back to the dragon, his eyes dull behind his mask.

"You are... Different than most knights I see wandering through here? Who are you?" (Fenianthedragon)

The man turns to see the great scaled beast before him, staggering backwards before falling onto his back. Seeing that his dooming has yet to come, he attempts to quickly regain his dignant composure, returning to his cross legged position.

“I am no knight, I have never been a knight and I have never called myself a warrior, but in this times of late, one must take the necessary actions to preserve longevity… speaking of such, why has a dragon come before me?”

[blighted-beak-blog]

"You are... Different than most knights I see wandering through here? Who are you?" (Fenianthedragon)

The man turns to see the great scaled beast before him, staggering backwards before falling onto his back. Seeing that his dooming has yet to come, he attempts to quickly regain his dignant composure, returning to his cross legged position.

“I am no knight, I have never been a knight and I have never called myself a warrior, but in this times of late, one must take the necessary actions to preserve longevity... speaking of such, why has a dragon come before me?”

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Channeling Magic #1

The Hills above Majula howled with wind and the moon rose in a toothy crescent, arcing it’s way across the sky not unlike a bony finger across the pattern of stars soon to be obscured by myriad stormfront. The folk of the town below had closed their shutters and buttones their tents, above only the man in the cloak held his post in the thrashing wind.

He spread his hands, fanning out with his palms down as candles lit around him despite the harrowing winds, and they grew in brightness until the winds cut sharp, the candles flickered, and it what seemed to be a beam of light from the moon missed in a mere blink of an eye, the man collapsed.

He stood, lowering the hood from his head but leaving his mask on as he surveyed the thick fog around him. Truly ancient magic, assisted by the power of a nearly naked moon, allowed him to traverse space and enter the dreams of figures with great souls. Through the fog he grasped, and saw the shape of someone drawing near.

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((Hey I’m back, sorry I disappeared for a while. Hard times, but I’m not dead. Anyone want to start a thread?))

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Your Golden coat of plates, created by a shaper of mortal metals, or the hands of Fina?

This is the work of no goddess. 

Created by mortals, it may be, but it is mine, and mine alone.