#Reynauld my beloved

[favonlus]

wip 2 electric boogaloo

[hyper-light-knight]

THE CRUSADER IS BACK BABY!!!!

[cryptiduni]

“Welcome to Hamlet.”

[majitek]

They brought my boy back

[anko-murasaki]

Some angst for the soul

[coffee-in-veins]

in your local steam on may 8th

my sence of humour is immaculate and i will receive criticism only in the form of hard boiled cash

[watermeat]

Reynauld my beloved

[nessietessimal]

Some meme redraws from our last DND sesh, and some campsite cuddles of the party dads (but they don't know that yet) 😔💕

[viktormaru]

I headcannon that Para and Reynauld both are autistic but while Para had room to understand herself and flourish with her reseach and interests Reynauld supressed it very hard so when Para finds out she is a little outraged at the situation

Nooo rey my beloved aoughuahghfuh my man's gonna start living his years for real on his retirement jdsuufhaushf F

Get them paracelsus, get they ass, the buffoons!

[reynauld]

What's the biggest risk you ever took? What risk reaped the biggest reward?

His life was full of them. Risks. Reynauld folds his fingers between his knees, and the barracks bunk creaks under the weight of the armor.

“A risk? Euh… Tis’ a long queue of them. Perhaps the decision to set my company through the night pon’ a waste. Twas’ a storm of sand devouring the sky, and many of my soldiers were afflicted with pox. I feared that we would lose ourselves before touching our enemy with blade and bow, thus, I called for a rest, knowing many could die during the night. – It was with fortune that we survived. Mais…”

There were other stories. His brow furrowed.

“– Having my wife bear a child. Twas’ deadly, her body. She expected to die. It envenomed me with determination to beg her, survive. Yet, our son was beloved, and beautiful, and she drew breath after such bleeding. Aloys was brilliant– he knew no words, see, born a mute, so we taught him thieves code of the hand.”

He laughs. Strained. 

[accusedofsin]

Hey Sarmenti how much would it take for you to go up to Reynauld strung you instrument and call him a bitch?

Sarmenti didn't even look up from tuning up his beloved lute:

"Standard price for mockery. Ten silver if you want it to be a personal song, five if it's only an insult, plus you get to handle the bar brawl explanation if my performance starts one," the jester strung a melodic cord and giggled, his mask crumpled in a wide grin. "Interested?"

He was slightly underselling, there, but to tease Dismas like that was an incredibly alluring opportunity.

[cryptiduni]

young soldier with blue eyes.

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 13: Curse

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022

previous days: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

now available on ao3 too

Curse VERB - invoke or use a curse against; be afflicted with.

* * *

It could be argued that in many instances of his tumultuous life, Reynauld was blessed by the Light's guiding Grace. First and furthermost, the Light willed him to survive the crusades, which many of his battle brethren didn't. Arguably, it also provided him with a fresh start to wash away his heinous sins of misguided youth and lead him back into the fold of natural desires suited for God-abiding citizens by making his family disown him and hurriedly marry him off and away. At least, Rey preferred to see that particular part of his younger years as a test - the one he struggled through but came out victorious. 

Then was the marriage - rocky at first, awkward and somewhat cold, but he prevailed even there, and learned to love and treasure his wife and the son he managed to sire. And maybe the love he harboured for his wife was more like that to a close friend rather than for someone who made his heart beat wildly and loins churn, but bringing new life to the world was a duty and not a pleasure, he supposed. 

Last but definitely not least was his knighthood. Sure, at the current point of his life, it was probably somewhat dubious, considering that his Order undoubtedly considered him dead for quite a while by now. Not to mention that his trusty steed, Chernush, was killed on his way to Hamlet - and what was a knight without a horse if not a mere footsoldier? Still, Reynauld argued in his feverish prayers, pushing the bitterness of his futilely spent life as it threatened to overwhelm him, still, it must've been yet another test, a lesson in humbleness, repentance for his noble, indulgent youth. 

But what in the Light's merciful name was the stickiness of his fingers he failed to see, despite begging his God for any sign, any hint of an answer. What did he do to be cursed in such a way? What sin did he forget to repent for? Could it be the punishment for his deviant carnal desires? - Reynauld wondered at times, as he looked at yet another shiny trinket in his trembling hands and despair held him especially tight. And if so, how could he repent? And even if so... why wasn't his loins cursed with lack of strength and stamina? Why would the All-Knowing Light need him to be... a disgusting, vile, petty thief?

The knight kept asking that question - firstly, the target was himself.

Then an actual thief. 

It was inevitable that Dismas had caught him, really. They've spent too much time together. Initially, that time was enforced upon them. Later on it blossomed into a camaraderie of their own volition. Considering the rogue's proximity, it was merely a matter of time before his things started disappearing, only to be conveniently found and returned by the knight. The highwayman wasn't a fool, himself, and hiding anything was a futile endeavour - especially after Reynauld almost caused yet another expedition to fail due to his thieving streaks causing mistrust and hostility amidst other adventurers.

The knight was steeling himself for one more shouting match - but this time filled with rightfully deserved accusations, for a punch, even a knife, maybe. 

What Reynauld didn't expect, was a pint pushed in front of him and a request from the brigand to teach him. Gushing about his sleigh of hand. Compliments.

It took a lot of time - and even more booze, interlaced with zealous mutilations of flesh (the ones which Dis stopped for whatever reason each time) - for the crusader to surrender his incurable curse in an ashamed wavering whisper. Dismas was silent for quite a while after that. 

He started hiding his flask the next day. 

And it hurt. Reynauld bared his greatest shame before the blaggard, and all he received was prejudice and a somewhat understandable, but still hostile attitude. That flask became Reynauld's obsession, but the damned knave hid it well and always kept it close, securing his vice. The crusader wanted it. He needed to have it. It became the focal point of his yearning. Not that he'd destroy the thing - he was aware of the value it possessed for the scoundrel - but he decided he'd burn that bridge once he crossed it. 

It took him weeks, but eventually, the flask was within his grasp, once Dismas lowered his guard and fell into an exhausted slumber by his side. Reynauld held it in unsure fingers, trembling from excitement and rush of pleasure the stealing brought him, absentmindedly whistling an old melody of his half-forgotten youth. The thrill, the euphory, the high crushed into him, hitching his breath and making him tremble. Dear Light above, he shouldn't have - but oh, he was enjoying himself so much. 

Yet as the moments passed, the joy made way to weariness and then was drowned in shame. For all his crudeness, Dis stuck with him and trusted him enough to find respite in his company. And what did Reynauld do? Stole one of the few possessions the rogue treasured for a cheap thrill? For sating his disgraceful urge...?

"Took ya long enough," a tired grumble broke through Reynauld's whirlpool of thoughts, pulling him out of his spiral. "Next time, I won't go easy on ye."

This earned the highwayman a confused, slightly panicked glance. Dismas chuckled and reached for the flask, and the knight returned it without a heartbeat of hesitation. When he spoke, his words were measured and careful:

"You're not... angry at me?"

"Why would I?" the scoundrel chuckled, taking a sip from the thing. "I'm not gonna accuse m'self for stealing m'own things, ain't I?"

Reynauld had enough decency to blush slightly from that loaded question.

"B'sides," the rogue continued after another gulp. "Nothin' else disappeared those weeks, no?"

The crusader stared at the squint of dark eyes, recognizing the grin by the prominent crow feet at their outer corners, lost at what to say or how to feel. He was so enraged and bitter at the highwayman all this time, harsh in both words and denying him their usual small comforts...

The shame of stealing turned out to be not the worst one.

"So," Dismas drawled, breaking him out of yet another spiral. "Wanna bet t'will take ya tree weeks again?"

Now that was presumptuous!

"Nonsense," Reynauld huffed, inexplicably not feeling like the scum of the earth after he stole something. "Two at most."

"Bet?"

The dark eyes were filled with mirth, and the knight offered a smile in return. And as he shook the wiry hand, he didn't feel cursed for once. 

"Bet."

[coffee-in-veins]

Face Your Failure and how to uproot all of character’s backstory and development in one model or less - a practical guide by RedHook

can anyone tell from that title that i’m salty yet?

so major spoilers ahead about which i couldn’t care less, but people love this game and i want to be polite, and as objective as i can be, so: please be warned, DD2 ending and boss moveset is discussed under Keep reading. if you want to experience the ending for yourself, spoiler free, do not read

Edit: you know, after contemplating about it, i realized - it’s not a bug, it’s a feature (tm.). this is distilled quintessence of everything wrong with this game. it shows you everything, places all cards down and punishes you one almost-last time if you cared or paid attention - the last time will be in the very last cutscene, if you pay attention to the lower part of it. if this, too, doesn’t bother you, you won’t have any issues with this game. if you did, this will be the last nail you needed to lean back and take time to contemplate your choices.

i think they shouldn’t fix this. because this is what Darkest Dungeon had become, and they should be honest about it and their attitude.

so. the big bad boss on the throne has a move called Face Your Failure - which, as the title suggests, summons what the chatacter you select (Come unto thy maker-style) thinks is his biggest failure in life. Para gets her zombie mentor, Barristan gets the spectre of his fallen comrades, Audrey... gets a zombie of the husband who tortured... and... abused her...? Including sexually...? Do you want to tell something by showing this, RH...? Something very, very dubious...?

But I digress. I’m here to show you that writing in DD2 makes no goddamn sense (tm.) by pointing to our beloved rateating highwayman:

Namely, pay close attention to the mob it summons for Dismas

it isn’t too obvious, and the arena is spun wide to see all of the tentacles and the iron crown, so here is a closeup:

notice anything interesting about its weapons? let me give you a hint.

this is the guard from the clown car the stagecoach that Dismas robbed in his backstory, in which the woman and child were. the ones he killed by his reflexes misfiring after the fight was over accidentally “in erratic gunfire”. the ones which spiked his guilt. the ones which pushed him into character development and coming to Hamlet and trying to find redemption. you know? that tiny miny plotpoint thing which was the culmination of his backstory and made him the character who we knew? that passing thing?

and this is the prison guard from his very first shrine:

do you notice the weapon choice? the stagecoach guards have swords while prison guards have batons. and the big bad boss summons a spectre of Dismas biggest failure. with a baton in hand. a prison guard.

I... genuinely dunno what to say, because the implication, unless I’ve lost my mind, is that Dismas’ biggest failure in life was getting out of prison. and this scene in the credits:

makes no goddamn sense (tm.) because this is not his biggest failure - prison is. the locket isn’t tormenting. it’s not shameful. it’s just there. it means nothing. because a cosmic deity which supposedly knows all of existence showed Dismas his biggest fear - and it had nothing to do with killing innocents.

i could’ve chalked it to cuts on model prices. but Audrey received a new model of her deceased husband. if Dis got a spectre of the woman he killed, the ghost of the child staring at him, anything - Reynauld’s corpse half-eaten by the Heart of Darkness for fuck’s sake! - it would’ve been better. but no. he has a prison guard. because who cares. it looks cool and that’s enough.

on a more personal note... i’m happy i didn’t have the money to buy early access. i genuinely am. i’m tired. i know i would never buy it, now. not after their eradication of Reynauld, not after how they butchered Dismas. if you can enjoy the game - more power to you. i’m not here to police your fun. but for me... DD2 got cancelled during development stage, and only thanks to Shibs’ vigilence we got to see the models and animations. but nothing else exists because accepting it is a far too tall of an ask.

now i crawl back into my cozy reymas saltmines.

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 29: Festival

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

previous days: 1, 2, 3,  4, 5, 6,  7,  8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28

now available on ao3 too

Festival NOUN - a day or period of celebration, typically for religious reasons; an organized series of concerts, plays, or films, typically one held annually in the same place.

* * *

My lover's got humour She's the giggle at a funeral Knows everybody's disapproval I should've worshipped her sooner

-- Take me to church by Hozier

There was no surprise, Dismas supposed, that the Glorious And Blessed And Most Certainly Not Corrupt Church Of Holy And Divine Light was an organization fucked up to its very core. And he was saying that not only because a structure so widespread was inevitably corrupt and fucked up. Hell, he’d say for the most part at least they’ve played pretend well enough and used a lot of gilding to hide their real affairs. Most people genuinely saw them as benign – even those who worked there. Church devotees somehow managed to either turn a blind eye or even justify all of the completely messed up atrocities their beloved Church committed.

And commit cruelty the Church did! Like human trafficking disguised as finding gifted kids. Or self-torture which was proclaimed as the true path to righteousness. Or ban on food in those few merry months when getting it wasn’t as infuriatingly hard as it was at other times. Or forcing its most devoted lunatics to wake up in the middle of the night to praise the Light which wasn’t even fucking there for at least five more hours. Or any other things which made even bloodthirsty ex-brigand cock a disbelieving brow because what the actual fuck, how is any of this can be alright, Reynauld.

He was thinking this not only because he had the unfortunate experience of working in big voracious groups, and could tell countless tales of how any group which got any real power became fucked up quickly enough. One could argue that happened because he was only working with scum and mercenaries. Dismas could shrug in turn that it wasn’t rogues who invented indulgence. However, mostly he deduced that by being forced to work together with zealots and seeing how the glitter inevitably fell away each time their resolve was tested and failed, revealing tormented, broken people in places of former living saints.

But if there was one thing where even godless highwayman had to admit that the Church knew how to use to sell itself to the masses, it was the festivals it held for the devotees and “silly lost heavens” alike. No expense was too great, to extravagance too opulent, and if it was created by the free labour of its followers, so be it. Even in the forgotten backwaters of Hamlet, church celebrations were a captivating thing of beauty and carefully planted hope.

All Saints Day was no different.

Maybe it was the candles, white and pristine, and not offending his senses for once. Maybe it was the procession, sweet-smelling with frankincense which Dismas inevitably started associating with safety. Maybe it was the rare glimpse of optimism on people’s faces.

However, most likely it was the fact that Reynauld found his white holiday garments and was proudly wearing the new crest. There was an odd satisfaction in the highwayman’s chest when he had seen it – or the subtle yet obvious change in the other man’s posture, in the way the knight held himself. That made the cut spent on ordering the crest so much worth it and made the holiday actually bearable.

“Ready?” Reynauld turned to him, radiating against the sunset seeping into the room. Dismas just huffed with a half-shrug and scratched his unusually shaved chin which felt unpleasantly naked. On top of that, he had bothered to find a clean shirt – mostly because Rey tricked him beforehand and his favourite one was still wet. Still, that should’ve accounted for something.

Apparently, it was enough, since the crusader grabbed their candles and hurried outside to join his flock, babbling happily about The Forerunners of the Light, but made sure to include some of the spicier tales of the saints to keep Dismas entertained. A most welcome precaution, albeit an unneeded one – the rogue was surprising himself by simply enjoying the time they were spending together. The candles drew intricate glowing patterns on Rey’s chiselled face and hearing his voice being so uncharacteristically happy was a treat on its own. Despite hot droplets of wax falling on his fingers and the overall church nonsense around, the ex-brigand was content to be there.

That was, before they met the Abbot.

Because Reynauld immediately rushed to His Holiness, leaving him behind, and Dismas’ good mood burst like a soap bubble.

Sure, “I’ll be right back,” the other man said.

“Just stay here,” the knight threw over his shoulder as he was sprinting away.

“Don’t let the candlelight die,” he reminded the rogue, already from afar.

It was almost poetic that the next gust of wind left rogue’s candle with but a whiff of smoke coming from the glowing wick – but then again, maybe he was merely self-sabotaging as always, and let his hand fall to his side instead of shielding the gentle light. Despite the laughter and flickering candlelight all around him, he remained in the shadows. As one with his background should be, arguably.

He was oh so tired of chasing glisten.

With an exhausted sigh, the seasoned sinner turned and sulked away from the glimmering procession towards the dingy-lit windows of the Tavern – the only light which remained in his life, apparently. So much for trying--

“Dismas? Dis! Where are you?” a familiar voice called behind him, followed by heavy footsteps and a knight stopped in front of him, barely keeping his candle from going out. “There you are! I asked you to wait for me, why wouldn’t you?”

“You… came back,” Dismas muttered, unable to quench the surprise in his voice.

“Of course I did, I told you I would, didn’t I?” the knight cocked a heavy brow. It looked so odd on his usually vexed face, and so familiar. He must’ve picked some of the highwayman’s mannerisms. “I had to remind His Holiness that I cannot do my duties as Relic Bearer this year.”

“You cannot?”

“It’s the head of the procession and I know you hate the limelight. Besides, you’d have to abstain from booze and hearty foods for a week to be allowed there, and I didn’t want to—Dismas, your candle!”

Too stunned by the new information, the highwayman blinked at the half-melted piece of wax in his hand:

“What ‘bout it?”

“It went out,” Reynauld complained as if it was a tragedy.

“Ah,” Dismas paused and technically didn’t even lie when he said. “Wind.”

“Oh, those are holy flames, Dis, you’re supposed to take care of them,” Rey glanced around like a boy who was about to yank someone’s braid and stood towards the ex-brigand. “It’s frowned upon, but I want you to keep the flame…”

Wicks touched, charred against burning, and in a few moments, there were two tiny flickering lights to chase the darkness away, like two unsteady heartbeats suspended in the night. Dismas supposed it was fitting, that Rey’s broad smile was outlined with a golden glow. He was breaking the rules, maybe, but he was breaking the rules for them… whatever they were.

“Let’s go back to the festival, I haven’t told you the story of Saint Elmo, I think you two would have had a lot to talk about if you ever met…”

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 15: Old Bones

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022

previous days: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

now available on ao3 too

Bone NOUN - a rigid organ that constitutes part of the skeleton in most vertebrate animals; one's body; a corpse or skeleton.

* * *

Most of the time, Dismas harboured a feeling that religious folks were just as mad as the cultists they were hired to hunt down - if not more. The ways they honoured their deity bordered on his masochism they condoned themselves, and their zealotry came indistinguishably close to the indoctrination cultists apparently were subjected. The self-inflicted misery was borderline self-abusive, and way, way too off-putting to an honest rogue who wanted to forget the suffering of their shared mortal coil instead of adding to them.

The highwayman refrained from asking why the hell all of this was happening if the Light was supposedly a caring and benevolent god - the brawl that followed the first time he voiced his doubts had put both Reynauld and him into Sanatorium for a week and a half. Thus, he changed tactics. He observed. He asked. He pondered.

Some of it made sense if he squinted long enough or tried to see who could benefit from a whole order of single-minded servants, always ready at one's back and call. Other things sounded like simple application of the army's rules in a religious connotation - which wasn't too hard to deduce, after all, those zealots were expected to die, spreading the Light's glory or whatever.

When he asked Rey if he got pleasure from being hurt and if that's what all those scriptures were about, the crusader became offended. And yet it was the only way Dismas could explain some of the things the knight put himself through.

Because there were practices in the rigid crusader's life that he couldn't explain with anything else even if he genuinely tried. Like waking up in the middle of the fucking night to mumble words of Light's glory, probably to add to the issues of bad sleep, cold and nightmares. Or having to play some bloody mind games to simply be able to eat for a couple of weeks each year, as if they didn't have enough problems with provisions already. There were also times when the crusader would insist there were angels around them, and those angels needed the blood of the saints to grant them victory, and he was the only saint in the vicinity. Or that his battered body needed to be starved and lashed even more, because only pain and deprivation were a way to repent for his sins - thankfully, those moods weren't too frequent for the knight, else Dismas would go insane trying to take care of him.

There was another practice that could only bring Rey pain, but he still stuck to it vigorously.

As the infected were finally considered sentient and the ban on their executions was finalized, the whole Hamlet succumbed in disarray. Hastily built holding pens those religious mooches dared to call "quarantine zone" were abandoned in equal haste, their unfortunate habitats let out with gushing meaningless apologies. The abbot even held a special sermon to "beloved martyrs", as if they weren't his victims.

The rogue could only imagine where it left the Church's executioner.

Dismas followed the shoddy cobblestone path to the less-frequented side of the Graveyard, and - quite expectedly - found a kneeling figure he was looking for. Reynauld was quietly tending to the purple hyacinths and white asphodels planted on the unmarked graves in the corner - without armour, with no regalia, just a man with a loose shirt and dirty hands.

The whole scene was too symbolic for the highwayman, and he hurried to break it into a more mundane one, stepping closer.

"You needn't worry, my friend," was what he heard instead of a greeting. "This is merely one more burden to add to my sins."

The highwayman stepped closer, unsure what to say to those words. Finally, he offered a simple:

"I'm here if ye need me, tin man."

That earned him a mirthless chuckle:

"I appreciate your attempts to cheer me, but I don't deserve them," the knight shook his head slowly. They fell into silence for a while, but unlike their usual ones, this felt scratchy and awkward. When the ex-brigand was contemplating taking out a pipe, Reynauld finally continued. "You know, Dis... last time I was here, I caught myself thinking - Gracious Light, thank you that we at least were out of time and wood to build pyres. Because... because those were planned, you know?"

The rogue felt his fists clenching. The same fists that still remembered the feeling of claws tipping each finger. Still, Dismas' voice was quiet as he came closer to place a hand on the crusader's shoulder and breathed out:

"Yeah. That was lucky."

If they could call desperate sabotage that the then-forming Hive did "luck". Still. Dismas sat beside the knight and gave him the time he so obviously needed. The rogue wasn't too surprised when, despite his big words, after merely a few moments, the zealot bit his lips and hid his face in the worn-out fur of his overcoat.

"I'll face them during my final judgement, and they'll be in their right to demand my eternal damnation," Rey muttered. "I robbed them of any hope of salvation."

Not exactly what the former infected expected to hear.

"How so?"

Another bitter chuckle:

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not t' me," Dismas mused, eyes darting between the distraught crusader in his arms and too-familiar names etched into the gravestones.

"They died as monsters, without the salvation of being a human," the zealot insisted as if he was explaining obvious things, but his voice was weak and wavering. "Without returning to being a human."

That was one fucked up reason if Dismas ever heard one. Being infected himself, he could argue he remained human all the time the Crimson Curse burned in his veins.

He didn't, letting the crusader vent instead.

"Without dying with human dignity," Reynauld continued, blissfully oblivious to the highwayman's predicament. "Now they'll never be able to return to Light's embrace, do you understand? I robbed them of this mercy!"

Dismas sighed, eyeing the hyacinths, but his treacherous hands were already rubbing soothing circles into Reynauld's back. And even if, for once, he was willing to try and prod crusader's beliefs without his usual caution about the inevitable consequences, he couldn't force himself to do it. Not while listening to the stifled, hiccuping sobs of a man his silly heart decided to fall for. A sincere man who wanted to do what was right but ended up being tricked into becoming a cold-blooded executioner by what was supposed to bring people warmth and salvation.

A little bit later. They would talk about it. Surely.

Just a little bit later.

—- 

Purple hyacinths usually mean regret and asking for forgiveness, while white asphodels mean being sorry and wishing peace after death.