#verse; vagrant lord ( interim. )

[of-forossa]

ryviath felt the heat rush to her face, boiling the blood in her body and and flaring the fire that eternally burned in her heart. such barbarians ! her lips curled back, teeth bared - animalistic and unhinged - 

“ it’s only because of humans egos! they breed and breed dragons to become nothing more than docile animals. they call it domestication. a disgusting, vile attempt to bend nature to their own will. ” 

( @ryviath )

"Perhaps." Whereas Ryviath seemed fit to burst into an inferno of outrage and fury, his expression was more contemplative and considering. Brom thought deeply, recalling his past experiences. "To overcome and conquer that which once we feared is very human indeed... though just as human is the ability to cherish the bonds we've fostered with former foes. Many times have I seen the bonds between rider and dragon run as deep as any born from blood, the loss of one mourned deeply by the other."

Brom raised a hand, as though to dissuade her preemptively. "That isn't to say your words are without merit. Too often men have meddled with such things they had no right too, and one day it very well may be the death of them. Dragons are yet one more to add to the scales. That something good could be born from the dragons being diminished is merely a small glimmer of good amidst the dark."

#ryviath #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. )

[of-forossa]

you'd never date an Annie . . . i dare you . . i dare y--

@anammxlech // companionship on these endless trials // accepting.

"Would I court a terrible hurricane, with its howling winds and incredible strength as it rages across a coast? Would I court a mighty earthquake, incomparable in might and indescribable in scale as the earth buckles and breaks beneath it?" He says it not with judgement but with a quiet respect. An awe and admiration kept close to chest, close to heart.

Brom considers it. Considers her, from curved and crooked claws to the baring of fierce fangs in mirthful laughter. Considers that rusted rage incarnate she had become to the moments after, her fret for him more than herself. He considers, and thinks, and muses, knowing well and good he never needed to.

"Easily. Though what worth she could find in the company of a cursed and coarse creature such as myself... no matter. I'm content enough to enjoy her company without coveting more."

#anammxlech #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// u bet your ass he would!! #// brom: i'm literally just a dude who refuses to die; what's that compared to *jazz hands at annie* #// brom: i saw her eat ten pounds of raw beef the other day with a cup of coffee and I felt my heart skip a beat.

[of-forossa]

just lifts him up , off the ground he goes - armor and all. :)

@anammxlech // chance encounters on a journey without rest.

Was there any prompting to this (admittedly impressive) display of strength on her part, beyond showing off just how much power was stored in her smaller frame or simply amusing herself? Brom would never ask-- he found that the not-knowing was something of a joy in and of itself when it came to the time they spent together. When so many years were spent tirelessly, endlessly working towards one grim task after the other, the simple relief in the unexpected was refreshing.

Even if refreshing is simply being held a mere foot or two of the ground, considering the clear difference in their heights.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," he muses out loud, only just holding back the laughter that even now tugs at the corner of his mouth. With his helmet set aside in comfortable company, there's only so much he can do to hide the amusement and even cheer she draws from him in these moments; feelings that grow easier to draw upon each time he visits this strange but surreal town and its odd but kind people and-- and Annie.

He swallows past a sudden lump of something in his throat and leans down, pressing his forehead to hers with a solid force he knows could hardly hope to harm her, a hand reaching around to hold her head. "Do you intend to keep me up her forever, Annie? I could get used to the view, and being the trophy of the strongest person in Pinegrave is quite the enviable position..."

#anammxlech #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// ahhhhhHHHH my heart fam #// absolutely need a verse for brom stopping by pinegrave #// brom getting carried around by annie like a sack of potatoes is such a good image #// blessed ;~:

[of-forossa]

“Cull the deathless, lay open their undying hearts! Bathe the realm of our lord with their life!”

A seething wave of bloody red and obsidian rages forth, men and women turned to mere animals in their fervor to drink first the blood of their supposed prey. They howl and shriek in their maddening rush, sprinting and running as dogs on all fours baying for man-flesh, their robes and hoods filthy for the grime and gore of their ceaseless sacrifices to Nahr Alma. Joining them are abominations beyond name or recognition, beasts of bone and shadow fused with curses; of skeleton horses and shambling man-things with too many limbs, of hideous flesh puppets muttering tidings that corrode the ground beneath them and of countless other monstrosities known only to the god who gave them their imitation of dark life.

They lope and charge and sprint across the field of ice and snow, an ocean tide of madness and death threatening to overwhelm the bulwark of humanity that awaits them. Line after line of shields and spears, swords and axes, each gleaming in the scant light peering through the darkening sky. An army born from men and women of every nation, a shield against the darkness long taken root in ruined Forossa, outnumbered by the thousands yet resolved to meet them not with fear or terror but rage-- a flame of fury stoked by every son and daughter taken, every father and mother lost, every brother and sister seized by curse or corruption now given form in these monsters.

Before them stands their unifier, a lord not by right of birth or prestige but by conquest, a king crowned by the souls claimed and strength seized through every trial and tribulation. Longsword bared towards the dread horde fast approaching, Brom stands at the head of this army of the unbowed and unbroken, and over the curses and oaths of the enemy his voice rings out as a roar.

“Look upon them, my brothers and sisters!” He cries, the sound heralded by the steady beat-beating of blades against shields and the pounding of their feet. “They expect us to cower before the prospect of eternal torment! They think us cowed by the shackle put upon us by jealous gods, that we would turn tail before the thought of being offered up to Nahr Alma on his altars as perpetual sacrifices!” He turns to them now, their pounding growing only louder, and raises up a gleaming crown of silver and steel, that of Vendrick so long ago. “They think us still shackled to our lives, but we are not! They have forgotten what it means to fight as though there is no coming back! They have forgotten what it is to die for a cause, to lay one’s life down for something they believe in, to die knowing they will not return!”

“But we will remind them! Think of your husbands and wifes! Think of your sons and daughters, your brothers and sisters, your mothers and fathers!” Placing the crown over his helm, the symbol of his rule soon to be earned is molded into the helmet and the world ripples and struggles to recognize the strength of a lord’s soul unleashed. Beneath his feet the earth splinters and cracks, around him the air seems to tense and shiver, and with a sound of thunder Brom raises his longsword. “Let your deaths have meaning once again, kinsmen! Let the gods envy our mortality once more, let the death of men be met with honor and reverence anew! If we must die today, then let it be no longer as undead but sons and daughters of humanity!”

#drabble tag. #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #era: war of frost and blood ( nahr alma v. brom ) #// MIGHT REDO THIS BUT #// vibes vibes vibes

[of-forossa]

ϟ (for Yumi @gatheringofsouls ~)

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

Here in this place, this shrine dedicated to the moon and the rabbit built by his own hands, she tends to wounds that the bonfire will not scour away as all others are-- those left in the wake of their war against the inky shadows and shades of the many-headed serpent. Shed of steel flesh and clothen hide, bereft of the armored adornments that have for so long defined him, Brom feels all the more aware of the exposure; perhaps not to the elements even with the blowing wind so near to the mountain’s peak, but to the eyes of Yumigami as they surely see the lengths in which his battles old and new have taken him... scar after scar after scar, a tapestry woven not from thread and needle but by the bite of blade and bow and battle-axe among so many others.

“Those are old, Yumi.” He tenses at the light touch, though by the breath and the slight chuckle he lets out it’s not from any lingering pain so much as some sensitivity left between the jagged lines of battered skin. They begin at the upper half of his shoulder and go down towards the small of his back at least six inches before they taper out to uneven points-- triplet reminders of what lies in store for any man or woman brave or foolish enough to challenge the wilds of Forossa. “I earned them during my trial.” 

“My trial...” Brom seems nostalgic, the words tinged with fondness and some small sadness as well as he explains. “Knights of my order were not simply the sons and daughters of nobility, nor were we guaranteed the right to wear this armor simply for the strength and skill of our hands. To wear these plates, to wear this fleece, you must prove yourself as much a lion as Faraam was said to be. You must see his domain in your own eyes, to treat all of Forossa as your stalking grounds and, from doing so, learn to revere her just as surely.” Leaning back, fingers tapping slowly as though keeping a tempo only known to him, Brom sighs. “Thus, the trial. When you had proven yourself by battle and the glory won from it to be a warrior, you were asked to prove your faith by seeking our god where he preferred to dwell-- not in our temples, where we beseeched and troubled him, but in the wilderness where he as the lord of beasts held his court. Our highest priests, the Northwarders, would anoint you, give you furs and a spear, then sent you on your way. To learn the ways of our land as our master knew them and return with proof... or to perish.”

“And so I learned. I climbed and scaled her highest peaks and peered through the thundering clouds above, hoping I might have glimpse his lightning shape stalking among them. I traversed the length of her deepest forests and learned each tree by their bark and branches as though I had grown among them. From one end of Forossa to another I roamed, even to the places where mere men dared not tread...” His eyes lose their focus, his stare seeing past the goddess that his company keeps and his mind delving deeper into memories even the curse swallowing his spirit cannot consume. “Days spent laying face down on a lake of ice that never thaws, with neither food nor drink save the melt of snow upon my tongue. Nights where the winds whispered to me in the voices of my kinsmen and beckoned to me in the flurries of snow, no fires to warm your flesh for flame was not given their leave to burn. Dreams of a world I could not recognize when I slept beneath the boughs of the black tree, of wingbeats and lightning and flame and death...” 

Brom blinks once, twice, before shaking his head. His chest aches, and with a small start he realizes he’d forgotten to breathe. With a deepening breath, he continues. “During the last month of my trial, I realized I was being stalked. Tracks in the snow, brief glimpses as I scaled the bluffs and cliffs, the quiet crunching of branches around my camps... I knew I was being hunted and had my suspicions, but the beast was too cunning to be caught out in the open, and back then I did not trust in the strength of my hands or spear enough to try and challenge it openly. I settled for caution and patience, deciding that I would wait for my pursuer to make the first move.” With a slow shake of the head, Brom seems somewhat chagrined. “It was a mistake. Three days before I would return to the Northwarders triumphant, I was set upon while making my way through a snowdrift that had covered a field I needed to cross. It was a northern lion, young but strong enough to seek out a territory of his own, and when he pounced he nearly grabbed me by the neck-- my slipping in the ice and snow saved me, for he only managed to maul my back with his claws rather than wrestle me down to snap my spine.”

“It was... a hard fight.” He manages a chuckle despite himself. “He was strong, so, so strong he might as well have foregone stalking me altogether. Even with all that I had learned and survived during my time in the wilds, even with the challenges I had faced and overcome, he was like nothing I had ever faced. His claws made to strip the flesh from my bones, his teeth sought to tear out my throat, and the act of keeping from simply being throw down and mauled to death took so much of my own strength... we fought for what felt like hours, Yumigami, and even now I confess that I couldn’t say how I survived.” A light hum, thoughtful and pensive, emanates from him. “When our battle was over, I had broken my spear off into his belly at the cost of him breaking damn near every bone in my body and spilling a fair share of my blood onto the ground. It was all I could do but lay there beside the corpse of him and simply breathe for a long time.” As though in reminiscence, Brom takes a deep breath of his own. 

Reaching around his neck, he pulls up the length of twine carrying some of his more personal mementos. A signet of a brigade now fallen and buried, an aged feather given to him by someone long lost and parted ways with, and the curved length of a lion’s claw that even countless years later gleams razor sharp in the firelight. “From his paw, I pried loose this claw as proof of my trial, and as a reminder of what my homeland truly is... truly will be once again. An untamed place, a place of strength and harshness where even her sons and daughters must be tempered and willing to adapt in order to survive. Forossa’s children, with or without Faraam, must be the same in a world that is unfamiliar to us... and the longer I am here, Yumigami, the less I seem to recognize. Of humanity and the gods, of fire and darkness, of myself and my role in all of this madness.”

“So,” he holds the claw aloft and makes to swipe at her with it. “I remember where I came from. I remember what I managed to do with my own strength, with my own hands, that the trials that await me need not seem so insurmountable.” He rises with a stretch and a flexing of tight muscles, pulling back on his tunic and adjusting to the dwindling pain left from tended wounds, and regards her with a quiet fondness. “Perhaps even more so, now that I’ve exchanged a god that abandoned his people for a goddess worthy of admiration such as yourself, Yumigami.”

#gatheringofsouls #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// young brom nearly getting killed more at 11 #witchamania

[of-forossa]

" when the soul suffers too much, it develops a taste for misfortune "

@teluminum // chance encounters on a journey without rest.

“And when that taste for misfortune bleeds into our bones, when our throats are parched not for water but for the spilling of blood, when the world around us crumbles before the pursuit of that pyrrhic comfort... how can we look at ourselves and say with confidence, “these are the hands of men” rather than the instruments of death and destruction that they’ve become? That we have ourselves become?”

Another realm razed, another kingdom crumbling before the bite of the sword and trampled beneath the thundering march of thousands under the banner of their lord in him. They have already reassumed their journey, those men and women oathsworn to himself returning to the road in search of their next conquest and the next to follow that one, their vision of a world no longer shrouded by the shadow of the gods and their selfish designs too within their reach to rest more than a moment... but Brom remains for a time yet, watching the flames rise ever higher in their hunger. Watching as those who had refused to give up their gods are themselves given up in final sacrifice, burnt offerings to beings that would never receive them with anything more than disgust or scorn.

“What have you suffered, stranger, to know this truth enough to speak on?” With a glance the knight examines him carefully, considering. Wet blood still drips from the edge of a sword still unsheathed, ashes cling to the steel plates of his armored stature as though he’s a specter of the death dully delivered before him, but the words Brom offers in reply are calm and collected. “Have you been brought to the doors of death only to be turned away time after time? Have you lost everything you have ever known or cherished, felt it all slip through your hands no matter how tightly you clung to them? Or is this suffering you endure proof of a greater pain than something so mundane as death or loss?”

#teluminum #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// brom: oh look someone who gets it. same hat. #// thanks for the ask boss! hope this is all right ^^

[of-forossa]

❛ Kindness can thrive even amongst cruelty. ❜ [ @Helaena ]

@dxrmiveglia // chance encounters on a journey without rest. 

“And do you think this is an act of kindness?” Brom mutters to her underneath his breath. Whatever discomfort he might feel from the feeding, from the draining of whatever supposed life still thrums from within his veins down her gullet doesn’t show upon his face as he turns away from the bustling marketplace to properly regard the vampyr.  “Keeping you from starving yourself into a pile of wind-swept dust? Preventing you from slaking your hunger on some poor fool who mistook you for an overly beautiful woman?”

Within the shadows of the alleyway they currently linger in, the two might’ve been mistaken for a pair of lovers for their closeness and the supposed seclusion of themselves from any potential gawkers... but anyone watching could not feel the coolness of her flesh nor its unnerving texture, nor notice the razor-edge to her teeth and to the nails turned claws upon her fingers, nor even the tell-tale bruising of her flesh that has so perilously little to do with any overly passionate throes and everything to do with the nature of her condition-- one he indulges her for the sake of her wellbeing and that of their continued cooperation. 

“There is no need for cruelty when your needs can be met with little consequence.” His voice is a quiet rumble beside her ear, kept low for the sake of not drawing any undue attention for either of the cursed beings keeping to each other’s company. Undead or vampyr, to be witnessed and understood for what they are would no doubt be too much of a sin to stand for those who could not comprehend what it meant to endure such things. “Sinking your teeth into fresher prey isn’t an option any more than revealing the Darksign within my flesh to anyone save yourself. Would it be an act of kindness or trust, then, that we rely on one another here and elsewhere Helaena?” 

#dxrmiveglia #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// ahhh hope you don't mind me setting up a small partnership or something between these two #// couldn't resist seeing as though being undead doesn't mean being a corpse for brom rofl

[of-forossa]

@monstriiss || x

"Your forest? You'll forgive me for not seeing the signs and warnings posted all around these woods naming you as their master." Is that amusement in his reply, at seeing her surprise at his resurrection even momentary? It disappears as quickly as it might have come. "I suppose the stories about this place ought to have been warning enough, no?"

Settling the dripping sword across his lap, Brom props his elbows onto bent knees and leans forward to better see her, shrouded by shadows and obscured by the darkness gathered at the edge of flickering firelight. With his expression hidden by the steel helm he wears, there's no telling if the steadiness of his words, even as he takes in the sickle-sharp claws and expressionless visage boring into his own from so far above, is reflected on his face. "If you're so concerned about guarding your territory tooth and claw, then you'll be even less pleased. Those men who so kindly pinned me to one of your trees the other night are witch-hunters. Talented ones at that, if the word of the one I found and dealt with is worth relying on."

Grabbing a cloth from his side, Brom retrieves his stained longsword and cleans the blade of its blood. "Anything and anyone that doesn't fit within the doctrine of their faith is fair game. Witches and warlocks, pyromancers, undead such as myself... I happened into them just beyond the border of this forest, and found them to be far less cordial than yourself." Brandishing the sword, he takes a swipe through the flames and nods to himself before setting the weapon aside and regarding her again. "Perhaps they came for you, though they probably wouldn't dare to face you so directly."

#monstriss #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// brom: if you don't like tresspassing humans boy do i have some bad news for you! #// honestly i'm pretty sure drath could kill the hell out of them all on her lonesome?? #// but also these dudes are probably too chickenshit to actually go into the forest looking for her so maybe they'd try to burn the woods?? #// another horrible idea but these guys are fantatics and big brain plays aren't their forte you know?

[of-forossa]

@lcstrega || x

"And do these hands of mine look like those of a builder's to you? Do these belong to an architect of good works and miracles?" Palms turned up and opened to her, these gauntlets of his bear the brunt of so many centuries worth of battle. As weathered and scarred but still as strong as the one wearing it, they flex and curl before clenching into closed fists. "Long before the day of my death denied, I was reared and raised to know the ways of war. What is good or evil was rarely discussed so long as there were swords to break and shields to shatter... and perhaps even more so in these days of the Darksign, where men lose sight of themselves and the gods sit back to watch as we tear ourselves down to dust."

Resting his elbows upon his knees, those steel-plated fists loosen their grip as his chin rests upon them. Something tugs at his lips, something dry and amused, before it fades as quick as it came. "Forgive my impertinence then, madame. I would not presume the mind of anyone in this day and age-- I can only act on what my eyes tell me, right or wrong." His stare is intent, considering as he meets her gaze. "But if cutting down those who would stand in the way of a better future meant securing it, if tearing them to pieces means clearing the road for something greater than their loss, then we are of the same mind indeed."

#lcstrega #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// HOPE YOU DON'T MIND BUT I WAS HELLA HYPE #// aeva: i don't have the patience for people my heart is not good #// brom: oh mood??

[of-forossa]

@halfliing-ormr || x

Their companionship is one often kept in comfortable silence, whether it be in the contemplation of their pursuits or in the pondering of paths before them they could not yet see but planned for nonetheless, and in truth Brom doesn’t terribly mind. Quiet had rarely bothered him even when he was but a man, and in the countless years since awakening from death he’d spent much of his journey with that quiet as his only constant. That she is similarly reserved in her expressions, in the sharing of her soul and self, likens them to kindred spirits in his own eyes even if their natures and goals differ drastically.

What is so often needlessly spoken for others went without saying between them, whether it’s in the heat of battle or something as mundane as walking the ever winding road, and Brom takes no small solace and comfort in saving talk for moments such as these. “One of my brothers-in-arms, a man by the name of Darragh, used to sing it whenever we were on the march. Said it always reminded him of where he came from, that his ancestors used to sing the very same words when they sailed the open ocean.” Bereft of his steel helm at day’s end and in good company, the fire casts shadows across the slight curving of his lips in fond recollection. “He was a terrible singer, truly, but he always sang with such passion and gusto half of us would join in before long. I hadn’t even realized I remembered all the words...”

He huffed amusedly before turning back to her, that apparent mirth giving way to a more muted gleam of humor in his gaze. “Did you find it to your liking then, Asta? I fear I have grown rusty in my travels, so perhaps I shouldn’t be too judgmental...”

#halfliing-ormr #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// BUSTING OUT THE DARK SOULS TRACKS YOOOO #// that's the good stuff right there sister rofl

[of-forossa]

@halfliing-ormr || x

There it was, at long last, her coming to a standstill after hours of erratic motion. A sign that the beast within her that hungered for the destruction of her foes, that bathed in the blood of those that stood against her and desecrated the corpses left from the ensuing slaughter when the snuffing out of a life wasn’t enough to sate her, had been finally satisfied with the ruin it had wrought. After engulfing the world of these cutthroats and robbers in fire and flame and trampling over the ashes, she had returned to her flesh and with it the mind he had gotten to know in their travels together...

Making his way across the once brigand camp is a simple affair, a mere stepping over still smoldering ashes and the scattered pieces of those who had thought themselves capable enough to challenge a dragon’s daughter, but Brom does so with a care and concern only partly for himself-- fear her he does not, no, but even with her wits seemingly returned it wouldn’t do to startle someone coming down from the perilous heights that blind rage and bloodlust could raise them to. He’d seen it enough among his fellows when he was but a living man yet, had seen how their wrath could burn as an inferno even knee-deep in the ice and snow, and for someone of her nature there’s no telling how long it could take for her to completely calm.

Her sudden crying out and the giving out of her strength shakes Brom from his recollections, and he hastens his steps accordingly with no small measure of concern, allowing his longer strides to carry him over what little could’ve stood in his way after the carnage wreaked at her claws and flames and sword. By the time he reaches her, by the time he sees the damage brought upon her own flesh by her own strength and catches sight of the welling wound given no doubt in parting by a fellow quite dead, he’s already lowering himself into a kneel to be eye level with his wounded companion.

“Asta,” He quietly calls out. A careful, cautious hand takes her by the shoulder in a loose grip in an effort to steady and ground her in the here-and-now rather than in the what-was, and through his visor he does his best to catch her gaze. With the other hand he seizes the dismembered head and casts it aside far from sight or concern before reaching for the curatives and healing things he’s long accumulated from a journey without rest. “Asta, if you can hear me, I have something that can help with the pain. You don’t have to say anything, just blink twice if you can understand what I am saying.” With a radiant lifegem in hand, Brom relinquishes her slim shoulder only to take her blood-soaked and flame-savaged hand between his own steel-clad ones, wrapping her wounded claws around the healing stone. “You need to crush this. It’ll soothe most of the pain and help clear your head, but we’ll have to use something stronger for that cut. Do you understand?”

#halfliing-ormr #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// brom: whoo boy probably should've stepped in sooner #// apologies for the lateness my friend-- still getting some things on my end taken care of i'm afraid ^^

[of-forossa]

ϟ

@halfliing-ormr // a song spun from the wounds we wear, their memory our burden alone to bear // accepting.

 “Dragons are rarely seen in my homeland, the great stone beasts long since driven from Forossa by Faraam in the ancient days.” At the name of his once-patron, his brow furrows and the muscles in his jaw tighten, though it loosens after a moment with an irritable exhale and a shaking of his head. With the point of his sword Brom stirs the ashes of the bonfire they’ve made camp around, casting embers into the air and continuing. “While true firebreathers and greater descendants of those beasts of legend have been seen in the centuries since, their lesser kin in drakes are far more common, nesting in the mountain ranges that border Drangleic and flying south in search of prey during the warmer months.”

Carefully setting aside his longsword, Brom begins unfastening the leather straps keeping the armor guarding his forearm in place. “While slaying drakes is no small feat, they pale in comparison to their forebears. Those dragons of yore were laid low for good reason, for their strength and ferocity was enough to raze entire kingdoms on a whim and their immortal scales sturdy enough to turn away all but the piercing bite of lightning.” With a grunt, the pieces of maille and plate are removed with a gentleness that seemingly contradicts their intended purpose, revealing the toned and scar-riddle expanse of his left arm in the flickering firelight. “For all the years I have traveled, only one have I seen and slain, and were it within my power I would’ve never drawn a blade against the beast to begin with.”

Of the many remnants and regrets of battles past scrawled into his flesh, Brom runs a steel-clad finger along the broad expanse of what must have been a hideous burn. Beginning at the base of his thumb, the scarring stretches all the way to the crook of the elbow with a few breaks in between of comparatively unmarred skin. “These were earned in battle against Sinh, known as the Slumbering Dragon. He was worshipped by the people of Shulva deep beneath the earth, their king leading them in reverence of the great beast who was content to sleep until the end days.” He sounds wistful, thoughtful, with a distant look in his eyes. One that slowly turns grim. “He was stirred long before then by an assault on the city from the Drakebloods, a legion of knights with no allegiance to any country or cause save their own lust for dragon’s blood. They cut a bloody swathe through Shulva and slew her king in cold blood before their leader Yorgh drove his rugged spear through the sleeping Sinh’s chest, as though there was any glory in slaying a sleeping foe.”

With a scoff, Brom taps the burn scars. “Yorgh’s arrogance cost him not only his life but that of every man and woman’s in Shulva too, for when the Slumbering Dragon was impaled the poison that flowed within his heart erupted and slew all those within the city. Enraged, Sinh took flight, pouring out from his maw tongues of blight-flame so fierce they swallowed stone and a deluge of venom so deadly the earth recoiled before the bite of it.” Leaning forwards, the judgement and loathing darkening his expression slowly draining away, leaving him once more wistful. “I earned these scars when I tried turning away his flames with my shield, the acidity in his breath strong enough to eat through steel plate and permanently sear the flesh of my arm. By the time our battle had ended, the chainmail that had not been eaten into nothingness had been melted to my skin, and even with the healing warmth of a bonfire and bottle after bottle of estus it was a nightmare of a wound to recover from. Painful… Painful is woefully inept at describing it, but for lack of a better term I’ll settle.”

That wistfulness doesn’t waver in the slightest while describing wounds and suffering beyond horrific in nature, Brom’s mind clearly fixated on the miserable creature itself more than the scars left by his battle against it. “Would you think me mad to say that I mourned it? That after I laid him low and pried my armor away from where his rage and wrath had molded it to my body, I couldn’t find it within me to hate him?” Turning to the bonfire, his eyes seem sorrowful. “Stirred from slumber by a spear through his heart, driven mad by the pain and misery… there was no glory gained in giving him peace. Fighting to survive, to provide for you and your own, for a cause you believe in-- these are worthy reasons to draw one’s sword. But to kill for the sake of killing…?”

Brom shakes his head and says no more.

#halfling-ormr #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// whoo... yeah.. great story... #halfliing-ormr

[of-forossa]

@halfliing-ormr || x

“They were a sight like no other, this is true.” Obscured as he is by armored plates from head to toe, there is no hiding the wistfulness in his voice nor what must be a look of fondness on his face. “A shame there won’t be any more like them to come.”

When he turns to face her properly, taking care to brush any loose petals off his armor, he replies. “Straight to the point then. Fair enough.” He braces an arm against his breastplate, fist over heart in long unused salute. “I am Brom, born of fallen Forossa.”

There’s a pause then, a moment after the inclining of his head to her in short bow, where he simply looks at her before continuing. “And you are not who I thought you would be, stranger.” 

#halfliing-ormr #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// sorry for the late reply! been held up with all sorts of trouble i'm afraid '^^ #// hope your day went well friend

[of-forossa]

@vulpesse || x

“I would not hold your ridicule of them against you if you did.” The sincerity of that dry admittance is steel tempered, stern as stone, and for the set line of his jaw there is no hiding his disdain for the lavish waste that served as the dying embers of a celebration in lusting gluttony burning even now so late into the midnight hour. Casting those darkened eyes away from the predator’s stare of her in favor of returning to the ruins of this all too excessive display of debauchery, he seems in equal measures disgusted and... disappointed of the spoiling sights that greet him. “Were that all men could live so carelessly and free... contemptible as they are, they know nothing of anything else. They act simply of their nature, ignorant and blind to the world beyond their festivities no matter how dire the warnings they receive.” 

“And perhaps that is why I felt the need to come here,” he suggests, regarding her joining him with a measured stare while raising a cup to his parched lips. If the strong alcohol has any sway on him, it doesn’t show in the slightest when he turns to her- not even on his breath. “When one has been deprived of the death he has justly earned time after time, what other cause might he have than to prevent others from suffering that same accursed fate?” The stare that meets her own (piercing, sharp, attentive-) “tentative” gaze is searching in a manner that would peer beyond the veil of proffered illusions; of her beauty belying the balefulness beneath, of the coyness covering her cunning and the majesty masking her malice. What greets her is not the lustful raking of burning eyes across lithe and supple form but the careful consideration one might harbor when beholding a beast of the forest in their domain, and when he continues it’s with such consideration that he speaks. “I have seen beauty wither away, and wept at the loss with such fervor that I cursed having ever known it to begin with. I have seen the heart’s slow death, the dust of memories blown away on the wind, for they were mine to lose and to be witness to.”

When he leans in further still, the copper of his eyes tarnished with darkness on their edges, it’s not to drunkenly whisper sweet nothings into this faux admirer’s ears or to steal a venomous kiss from the serpent she truly is, but to confirm a truth. One so dire the revelators around them would flee screaming in abject terror or fall upon their knees weeping and gnashing their teeth were they so fortunate to hear it from the one who came to warn them of their eventual shared suffering.

“I am proof that nothing should be destined to last,” he admits softly. “That there is a suffering beyond the comprehension of most men when we are forced ever after to remain here beyond our allotted time. For when a mortal is deprived of their promised death, they are also deprived of their promised peace.”

He lingers here for a moment longer, in this equally shared and invaded space between them that to their drunken audience must seem a sordid thing indeed, before settling back into his position proper. One such fellow, glut with the providence of a never empty table and draped in once glimmering finery now desecrated by his inability to keep neither food nor drink down, slumps onto Brom’s broad shoulder with a snort and a snore. Without concern or consideration, he pushes the slumbering man off of his person and onto the filthy floor of the pavilion with a deep sigh, brushing off the debris left behind in the noble’s wake with no small amount of disapproval. “Swine though they are, they at least do not shy from what they are.” He says as much to the congregation of bloated celebrants, but when that stare once more meets hers, there is a question in them: so why do you?

#vulpesse #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// this is beyond late #// but as enamored as i was with the ask i couldn't let it pass #// considering i brought up replying to this ask months ago please don't feel any obligation to continue it unless you desire to my friend #// i hope you're doing well today ^^

[of-forossa]

023. — Burn my muse. (hi here is cerbinwen AND I'M SO SORRY)

@frostweaved // let us greet one another in this tongue shared by all, our words echoed in our bitter hatred and inevitable fall // accepting.

… the ashen mists swirl and churn... and Brom bares steel once more against a force of nature untamed, unchallenged, plying the strength of his all too mortal soul against one whose flames had struck fear into the hearts of even ancient dragons. Beneath them the earth crumbles and cracks, groans in anticipation of an ancient wrath unleashed once more upon a world that could never forget the touch of such terrible power, against which none had yet withstood...

Had he not tested the mettle of the gods before? Had he not found them wanting before the bite of his blade, before the strength of his will and soul? Nahr Alma cast down from a throne of blood and bone desecrating the remnants of broken home, Calib culled in like kindness to the souls choked to death with hideous plagues, Quella conquered and uprooted from the realm of dreams with ashen heart trespassed- they had all thought themselves the greater than humanity, thought themselves beyond the reach of those pitiful things with shadows for souls and a brand etched into their doomed and damned fates. Their arrogance had cost them, left them broken by the will of mankind turned legion, impaled on the spear of wrath and fury that Brom had forged from the scattered nations, from those that endured the shackle of the Darksign and persevered beyond death itself.

The truth of the gods was revealed then, the nature of their divinity less than enduring as it bled out from their broken forms into the hungry dirt, the strength of their domains usurped as the hunger within all mankind drank deeply from it. At long last men were proven to be no less than those they had so long revered and honored without reward or respect, at long last those of a lineage so easily forgotten could be held in equal standing and strength to those born of the line that broke the world, to those selfish few who would burn all of humanity in order to thrive in the light of the First Flame forever.

He had broken such gods before. He had cut them down as mongrels, rained their ichor from the heavens and lofty places, and with the might of their souls forged a kingdom beyond all others, beyond the reach of this wretched cycle. This goddess would be no different, no matter her lineage or domains, no matter the primordial might within her that even now woke with a volcanic wrath and fury to swallow him whole. She is met with the vengeful strength of a lord among men, a mantle not by birthright given but by conquest claimed, and for every raging pillar of flame and choking cloud of ash that consumes him he responds in kind with blows that crumble the earth beneath their power and a relentlessness born from the dying of a thousand deaths only to rise again, and again, and again...

An inferno on her fingertips, an inferno ripping the sky above and the world below, an inferno that descends upon him and in an instant erased him from the history of the world.

A shattering of sharp sword and sundering of steel plates, a prying apart of the man within before hellish heat seizes a face contorted not in pain but hatred, and within her clutch blooms a pyre that reduces him to ashes blown on a searing wind.

A roiling of molten stone conjured with the flick of the wrist, the blood of the earth welling up from beneath the crust into a wellspring of death, drowning him in a raging sea that leaves no trace of the man consumed.

… the ashen mists swirl and churn... and when she approaches, untouched, unscathed, with the very flames that had consumed her mother and sisters and people wreathing her with their terrible beauty and wrath, Brom does not think to cower or grovel beneath the weight of destruction. When he makes to rise from where she had laid him low, from where she had struck him down once more, he can already feel the heat of another death gathering within her clutch. When he turns to face her, proud helm of steel crumpled and blackened yet unbowed and unbroken, there is a contempt beyond words or reason in his eyes.

“Once more,” he croaks out, choking on ashes and sparks with a cough that could’ve been a curse. “Once more, witch.”

… the ashen mists swirl and churn... and Brom bares steel once more against a force of nature untamed, unchallenged.

#frostweaved #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// time traveling using the heart of an ancient dragon's memories just to fight a goddess for her soul? it's more likely than you think! #// real question is whether or not quelavah is aware of how many times she's struck him down and fought him #// let me know if this works for you and i'll happily rewrite it if it doesn't #// damn have i been thinking about this one for a while rofl; felt good to finally put it out!

[of-forossa]

🔥(s h r u g,, one snowy sourpuss for u)

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

When she approached him with one of her so rare requests, when she demanded (-when she took, she could take what she willed, she deserved as much and more-) of him something so easily granted but never taken for it, Brom allowed her to see him in her way without protest or complaint. When lithe fingers drew over the contours of his weathered face he had not flinched, had not drawn back, had not been repulsed by his sworn sword in the slightest, for how many had come and gone in her place before him with none so much the worth for all their supposed beauty and wealth? Who were mere gods to decide one’s worth when hers was written in stone before his very face?  

“Fleurette.” He calls to her in kind, comes down from unwanted throne to kneel before her as though she were the lord and he her humble servant, and takes one of the hands that had seen him through touch to place once more against his cheek. “Look into my mind. See what I see whenever I look upon you, if you would.”

Likened to a fortress stone-built from so many memories and so many years of hardship and strife, the walls of his mind lower to reveal a measure of truth he has long felt but never been given reason to show.

Bedecked in silver armaments, the sharpness of her sword and swiftness of her strikes only outdone by the keenness of a mind that shapes a world she cannot see but conquers yet, Ser Fleurette is what Brom thinks the moon ought to have been. Were there any truth to the stories and legends of his people, the moon he once believed to be good would have surely been in her shape, would have surely shone in the same glory he sees burning within her as she takes to the battlefield and faithfully carries the weight of his, no, their cause on those thin and scarred but strong shoulders… there is no defining her any differently than beautiful and inspiring, for that is what she has branded herself as upon every memory and thought of which she is the focus- not by suggestion from her seeking mind (-she would never, had never-) but by virtue of her deeds and a heart buried beneath the scars that still beats with something preciously human.

“Did you see?” Brom asks, patting her hand gently before pulling away, his face softened into something less than the stone for a moment. “Were that we could only be half the people you are, Fleurette, that the world could share in so much beauty.”

#cagcdbird #verse; vagrant lord ( interim. ) #// brom: totes think you're neat bro. and pretty. and definitely worth more than what i can offer but u know #// once more i am needlessly long winded but here we are! no regrets!