#// ah yes the age old 'check THIS shit out bro' bonding ritual

[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.”