#verse; curse bearer ( ds2. )

[of-forossa]

ooh can i get creighton for the heart meme!! pls mister brom how attractive is the stinkman in your stellar eyes

@lockawayknight // these are the chances we always took too late, left up to the hands of time and fate // accepting.

ratings:

💔 -> non-existent.

💗 -> very low.

💗💗 -> a little.

💗💗💗 -> hopeful.

💗💗💗💗 -> high.

💗💗💗💗💗 -> maximum.

VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💗💗💗

( purely aesthetic appreciation of looks. )

"Creighton is... a rugged man. Rough, weathered, not unlike a stone that the wind has worn away at. It suits him more than the image some of the stories of his life in Mirrah have painted for me, I think. Rather than the softness of their nobility and knighthood, there is strength in his face and eyes that is so Forossan it makes my chest tighten. No doubt if he were not already taken by another, there would be some further north who wouldn't be able to tear their eyes from him."

FRIENDSHIP LEVEL: 💗💗💗💗💗

( how close a friend they consider them. )

"We are the blood of the bitter north, the frost and snow of Forossa that cools our veins and gives the winter's edge to our wrath. We are bound not only by kinship and camaraderie but purpose-- where his axe falls upon an enemy, my sword will be soon to follow. Wherever he might plant his feet to wage war, so too will I stand at his back. No more loyal a man have I known than he, and no greater a warrior could I ask to walk alongside."

SEXUAL DESIRE: 💔

( wanting to have sex with them. )

Brom chuckles and shakes his head.

ROMANTIC INTENT: 💔

( hoping for a romantic relationship. )

"Even if I did, I'd rather not have to concern myself with getting a spear stuck between my ribs."

[crimsonlocks]

⭐️⭐️ for laurence!! and ✨ for ornstein’s ds2 verse if u would like :0??

Facts about my Muses - ACCEPTING Laurence loves to swim and can do it actually really well. He always liked to cool down in water when he wasn't feeling well thanks to his natural anemia, which was often... and he often would get dizzy in the summer. But thanks to the natural lake around Byrgenwerth, staying in the water normally helped him and swimming with his friends was an activity he liked to do, because the dizziness wasn't too bad in the water. Even as the Vicar, he sometimes goes for a swim, though not in the Moonside Lake anymore.

And for a second fact... Laurence always wanted to have a pet cat as a child, but with his parents being busy often and him often being sick, they feared he wouldn't be able to take care of a pet and didn't allow it, giving him a plushed cat instead. The plushed cat is still one of Laurence' comfort items and he keeps it around even as an adult and even though he has now several cats to cuddle when he's upset. It can be find in his room on his night stand, where it always oversees his sleep. And the setting fact about the Old Dragon Slayer's verse... I actually headcanon, that Drangleic is pretty deeply plunged into darkness already. Nashandra feels right at home there, we have a covenant for the dark and hexes are a completely normal thing. That is why Ornstein was tarnished by it when he entered Drangleic. For a being blessed by the soul of light, the dark didn't had any trouble to sneak into him and make him lose his memories, tarnishing even his armour into a more blackened version of his usual gold. The dark never left Drangleic, instead I feel that Drangleic one day embraced the dark. Maybe when the Bearer of the Curse took the throne, it became a kingdom of humans and humans alone? I am not too sure, but I feel that they don't have to rely on the flame anymore. It was a big part of why Ornstein thinks that the flame is a corrupting force in his Dark Souls 3 verse.

[of-forossa]

attraction meme? :U

@hithernthither // these are the chances we always took too late, left up to the hands of time and fate // accepting.

ratings:

💔 -> non-existent.

💗 -> very low.

💗💗 -> a little.

💗💗💗 -> hopeful.

💗💗💗💗 -> high.

💗💗💗💗💗 -> maximum.

VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💗💗💗💗

( purely aesthetic appreciation of looks. )

"I... would like to admit something. Of the many trials and tribulations I have faced on my journey, none have been so... gods-damned frustrating as the number of charlatans, cutthroats, rogues and thieves that never look or seem the part. It goes beyond mere suspicion and doubt, of course-- of damned course it does --and delves deeper into the knowledge that even whilst knowing these devils are devils, it hardly makes any difference. Ever. Even now, after scrubbing every speck of soot and smoke from my armor from that rigged chest of his, I still cannot get past his way with words nor the handsomeness of his features. It's infuriating, to have walked into the mouth of the wolf while he grinned at you all the while. I will enjoy breaking his handsome face, starting with his jaw."

FRIENDSHIP LEVEL: 💔💔💔💔💔

( how close a friend they consider them. )

"I have every intention of nailing him to the nearest building with his own spear. We'll see if he can glean anything from the experience; namely, the wisdom in why one should always be wary of trifling with Forossans."

SEXUAL DESIRE: 💔

( wanting to have sex with them. )

"I crave a certain intimacy with Pate. That of feeling his pulse jump and race between my fingers, in admiring the way his slim throat fits so well in my calloused hands and feeling the hitch of his breath against my lips... while I'm choking him to death with my bare hands."

ROMANTIC INTENT: 💔

( hoping for a romantic relationship. )

"Whatever it is my kinsman and that charlatan have going on between them, I want no part of it."

[of-forossa]

Before his death and subsequent resurrection as an undead, Brom would pray to Faraam for blessings of strength and glory while burning incense, usually evergreen and amber. The scents would typically cling to him, and helped to mask the stench of death and blood while in battle.

As result of being an undead and thus almost always being in close proximity to bonfires, Brom typically smells of smoke and flame nowadays, though on occasion he'll still burn the incense he did in life to focus on a task or simply clear his mind while alone.

[of-forossa]

Bloody lion knights, how did Forossa ever fall with the likes of you still breathing?

“Because we died.”

Swords of a hundred foes bent and broken against steel plates blessed by the hand of the god of war, blade and wielder alike laid against the anvil of war and utterly crushed before the hammer’s fall. Arrows innumerous turned away by the fury and ferocity of the formerly favored faithful, shattered against the once-will of Faraam made manifest in his northern knights. Castles and fortresses of unparalleled craftsmanship torn down stone by stone by stone, the corpse of their rubble bones and battered remnants left behind as a testament of Forossan strength for all the ages to bear witness to in fear and reverence.

He is proof of all these things, in the way he fights and speaks and breathes. In the swinging of his sword, in the shifting of armored limbs against all assault, in the swathes carved through all that stand before him– in these things does Forossa still endure, in the soul and spirit of her wayward son ever marching onward, ever onward… and exemplified by the curse festering in his flesh.

“Why else do you think they crossed our borders so brazenly, treading and trampling the paths my ancestors carved through the mountains with their hands and wills? How do you think they marched through the forests and valleys unmolested, how do you think they ever turned their eyes towards our grandest halls and tallest towers?” There is a simmering heat in these words, in the recollection of slipping memory that for all the dulling the Darksign has delivered unto his mind is still all too painful. “Because they paid for it, Mirran.” 

That spark of anger doesn’t ignite, extinguished with a loosening of steel-clad shoulders and replaced with something far more tired and raw. “They marched their armies to our borders, met the sons and daughters of Forossa in ambush and subterfuge, and for all the advantage their surprise earned them they still paid their due to Forossa in the end with their death and anguish. Piles of corpses and those soon to join them frozen to the dust and stones of the earth by their still cooling blood, stretched as far as the eye could see at our borders. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, my brethren and I cut them down even as their swords and spears slew us down to a man and the hooves of their horses crushed us beneath their weight and fury…”

Brom trails off, casting his gaze out and away, the words to follow coming after a moment or two of silence. He shakes his head. “A pyrrhic victory if ever there was one, for some of us linger still even after the hours of our death… and I have not forgotten or forgiven what was taken from us.”

[of-forossa]

A small package was left entrusted in the care of the Emerald Herald: a ring, with four gemstones studded within - sapphire, citrine, ruby, and amethyst - wrapped in a piece of parchment inscribed with the line "Roses are red, violets are blue, here's to my favorite Bearer, a jolly Fina's Day to you!"

“anonymous” undead // chance encounters on a journey without rest. 

What a kingly gift, he thinks, holding up the ring in the dying light of the sunset. Those last rays make the gemstones gleam, their cut and color standing out in clear testament to the quality of their craftsmanship and the consideration his admirer must have had for his person-- to say nothing of the letter given to Shanalotte to be handed off to him, nor her amused silence as to the identity of the gift-giver after a few questions on his part.

Perhaps not knowing was for the best. In the spirit of the holiday, in the exchanging of pleasantries and generosity and love, perhaps the surprise of receiving a token of someone’s genuine admiration and affection was worth more than knowing just who could’ve sent it... or what he could’ve possibly done to have warranted the attention and fondness he can’t help but return for this nameless passerby. 

“Thank you, kind stranger.” With a care he slides the ring onto his finger, marveling once more at the quality with a quiet, private sort of smile. “Thank you.”

[of-forossa]

@luckyberet || x

“Hardly strange at all, everything considered.” Men and women of all straits, fair or dire, seemed to have found themselves in this kingdom of myth and legend. What was one ghost to another, if this place she hailed from was as lost to her here as his own homeland was to himself? “Especially in days such as ours, where the dead find no rest and the darkness on the horizon seems to loom heavier with each passing day.”

Truly though, Vinheim was unfamiliar to say the least. Melfia was the only school of thought worthy of recognition on the continent unless something drastic had changed since the beginning of his journey. “It doesn’t ring any bells I’m afraid, no, though I daresay if there are more with your talent then I’d likewise welcome their arrival.” A fist is pressed to his breastplate in greeting, head dipping ever so slightly in faint bow. “I am Brom, of fallen Forossa. Well met, sorceress of Vinheim.”

[of-forossa]

ϟ

@axemurderercreighton // a song spun from the wounds we wear, their memory our burdens alone to bear // not accepting.

Sharing a bonfire is a rare opportunity here in Drangleic. Too often those bearing their curse are long hollowed, devoid of human reason or sense to the point of listlessness and mindless rage, fit only for the bite of the blade to give them the peace in death they’d been long deprived. So many days and nights kept to the company of himself had left him... unfamiliar with the presence of his fellow man, and to finally have the opportunity of some small companionship with nothing to say felt to him quite the waste.

Perhaps that is where this began, the comparing of battles won and foes slain and the baring of scars in the light of a bonfire. Between a lion knight of Forossa and one with the air of lethality and danger that Creighton carries as a cloak about his shoulders, the competition is fierce indeed.

“Here,” and Brom loosens the mail and plates that guard the upper half of his left arm, carefully moving the armored pieces off to the side. “We were leading a march into Jugo to settle a territory dispute between two of the greater houses in exchange for support with one of our wars. We were a day’s march from the meeting place when we were ambushed, set upon by an upstart lord who wanted to use the dispute to his own gain.” Pulling the patch of tunic over his shoulder aside, Brom reveals a particularly hideous patch of scarred flesh over the socket. Glossy white and easily wider than his fist, the old wound has a twin on the opposite side, and the memory of it seems to elicit a wince from Brom all these years past. “Horseman did this. Buried his spear into my back and managed to drive it through the front. Dragged me through the rocks and sand a good forty yards before I managed to grab hold of the spear and pull him from his horse.”

He actually manages a rumbling chuckle despite what must have been a terrible wound, rolling his shoulder as though it ached even now. “Was out of commission for weeks. Poisoned with a barbed tip, nasty piece of work. Nearly bled out before we ever made it back to camp.”

[of-forossa]

🔥 (lol is this too late)

drawn to you as a moth to open flame, without a drop of embarrassment or shame // accepting.

“Suppose I know now why Creighton might’ve wanted you dead.”

To say Brom hadn’t been terribly amused by that rigged chest would be an understatement, as would saying said chest hadn’t terribly wounded him would be just as understated. What steel hadn’t been shredded by the blast was blackened by scorch marks and melted painfully together by the sudden heat, and what remained of the plate armor was truly pitiful in the way it clung to him and clink-clinked with every step forward. His stride had been reduced to a stagger, a dragging of one leg through the dirt and the heaving of the other to support his weight.  

“Suppose that might’ve been an act as well though, no? I don’t see the bastard’s corpse anywhere.” He leans heavily in the doorway with a snort, the point of his sword stirring dust as he made a crutch out of it. Part of that once fearsome helm had been sheared away by the trap, and from a soot stained face glared out a single eye. “Pity. I would have rather liked to see the crows pick away at his bones.”

His breathing is a struggle, heavy breaths sucked harshly between clenched teeth as Brom shuffles inside a bit further. The exertion is taxing, hastening that inevitable descent into darkness so disconcertingly familiar now, but it doesn’t stop him from making his way forwards or speaking. “Pulling strings. Toying.” They’re bitten out shortly, between breaths, not so much angrily as bitterly amused. “Well played.”

By the time he’d come within a foot of that silver-tongued wretch Brom was no longer standing, collapsing onto broken knees with little mind left to feel the pain screaming in them. Blood pouring out too quickly onto the floor, soul leaking out from more than just the hideous hole on his shoulder, and there wasn't enough left in him to give him the strength he needed to raise a sword against that pretty face, or to reach up to choke the life from that elegant neck... mailed hands claw uselessly at the trouser legs so as to avoid falling onto his face, weakly grasping the clothing even as he murmured. “Always the pretty ones. Silver tongues, sweet smiles, soft voices...”

His grip slackened, the ground rushed up to meet him all too quickly, and all Brom could do as he died was stare up into that shapely face and ponder on all the ways he could ruin it once he reawakened.

[of-forossa]

🔥? have you need for miracles- lindeldtsaint

( @lindeldtsaint​ ) drawn to you as a moth to open flame, without a drop of embarrassment or shame // accepting.

When Brom closes his eyes, he can almost hear the chiming of bells, their deep and solemn songs ringing soothingly even from memory.

How their song had washed over him as he knelt in prayer before the statue of fierce but fair Faraam, how their chimes had echoed in his bones and filled his heart with peace of mind and purpose, revitalizing his stumbling spirit after so many battles or brothers-in-arms lost. They had been a comfort to the people who heard them, a constant in their day to day, a consoling thing that so long as they rang promised all would be well.

And then Forossa fell, crushed by conflict and corrupted by curse, and they rang no longer. They had hung from their broken towers still as death when he had but freshly woken from death and found them, as lifeless as the people their songs once so deep and soothing had touched. Their silence had slithered into the cracks of his crumbling heart and soul, widened them in their wake. As he stood there in the ruins of his home, surrounded by frost and death, he could not help but hate them then- hate them for having lifted his spirits only to so cruelly crush them with their loss.

That deepening loss left in faith's wake, that once comfort turned to ash in his mouth, that is what Brom sees in the woman before him. For all her slim but shapely beauty, for the shine of her flowing hair and the fairness of her face, he sees in her shrewd eyes and too-wide smile something empty. A void behind her face that hungers, hollow as the belief she would sell as genuine.

"You can drop the act," he advises tersely. "You could no more sell me one of those miracles than you could carry me on your shoulders, pretty face or not."