#cathedral knight greatsword

[midorishinobi5]

Art backlog: Dark Souls 3 OC Inquisitor Millicent, an unkindled working under Pontiff Sulyvahn and the cathedral of the deep to bring about the age of the deep sea

[cerastes]

“Deirdre’s a bit hard to comprehend if you don’t know her. For example, If she tells you something to the effect of ‘I’ll make your blood flow’, that’s good news.”

“...How is it good news that one of the top ranked state-sponsored Gladiators just said she’ll make your blood flow?”

“It’s because she means your literal blood flow, your circulation. Dee wishes to be a master masseur one day. She’s gonna give you a massage, and to be honest? She’s pretty damn good at those. Now, on the other hand, if she promises you ‘plentiful rest’--”

“Oh, that’s when she’s going to disembowel you?”

“That’s when she’s going to disembowel you.”

-- A conversation between a certain visiting Archbishop and a new intern, regarding Deirdre.

Deirdre “Caerbannog” Gutraidh, drawn by the talented Yoko (@Yoko_Yukine04). As a state-sponsored Gladiator, her ring name is “Caerbannog”, but outside the arena, when not fully kitted out in that tough, identity obscuring armor and helmet, she’s just Deirdre Gutraidh, aspiring masseur (or massage artist), usually seen dressed as a janitor around the Holy Gladiatorial Grounds doing this and that, as part of her mandated disguise. It is only during nighttime, when the sea of neon drowns out the stars and the bustling night crowd keeps the blood of commerce and high-stakes leisure pumping in the entertainment districts that Deirdre is allowed some much needed me-time, usually hitting a quiet little bar on the outskirts and drinking the night away while chatting with drinking buddies of hers, a most stalwart group comprised of other bar regulars, or sometimes, if schedules align, her only close friend, a certain Archbishop (who takes proper precautions to not be recognized in the wild in a dinky little bar, of course).

This whole “life” thing would be pretty easy if she didn’t think about it too much: Fight whoever she’s told to fight, make sure to read the fine print that sometimes says “kill him, make it look accidental, we’ll handle the media as usual” or “drop the fight 6 minutes in, make her look good”, and then do as she’s told. It’d be oh so easy to just follow the instructions that her boss and adoptive father, owner of the state-sponsored “Sun Eater Gladiator Club”, lays out for her. Sometimes, someone the state doesn’t like is being a bit too successful, and the brass on top of nation calls in a favor with an attached paycheck to the old goat, and he’d be remiss to deny his old buddies in the Cathedral of the Firmament their satisfaction, so sometimes, someone’s gotta go, and likewise, sometimes the Cathedral goons have put a lot of money behind a certain someone and want to make them big, so chop chop, get making them look good, old goat, and old goat always says yes. What’s a win or a loss, anyways, when no matter what, as long as you do as you’re told, you’ll always have a roof above your head and an easy, leisurely life ahead of you?

Well, if you ask Deirdre, that’s hell. 

The Kingdom of Stars, Attorhia, has many a legend, many a myth, a cultured seeped in folklore. For the school she was attending, it was just an end-of-the-year stage play, a sundry affair, a bothersome tradition, even, but for Deirdre, it became a lifelong inspiration and aspiration: The Pilgrimbreaker.

The story is a staple in Attorhia, about the famous folk hero, the eponymous Pilgrimbreaker, a knight from long ago that fought tirelessly against corruption, her climatic showdown against the entire Gashdyre Cult, her sworn enemies, being the stuff of legends: For 72 hours, she fought against the entirety of the Cult. The Cult congregated every single member it had and went after her at the same time. For anyone but the Pilgrimbreaker, this would’ve been a lynching... Oh, but they failed to realize that all they did was save her the trouble of finding them! 24 hours in, her greatsword dulled out. 48 hours in, she couldn’t feel her muscles. 72 hours in, her senses had given out and she was running on pure instinct, swinging the heavy, dull sword and never missing her mark. The story ends with the Pilgrimbreaker courageously declaring that so long as the selfish desires of the corrupt threatened the honest man and woman of Attorhia, she’d forever keep fighting. This is the story that Deirdre idolized. This is who, what, she wanted to be.

Ah, how mighty can folklore be, to shape the worldview of aspiring do-gooders and children around the world! But Attorhia is less a Kingdom and more a series of cogs nowadays, and the engine that keeps it grinding and turning is capital. Though Deirdre was excited to become a Gladiator in her adoptive father’s Club, as the Pilgrimbreaker herself was a Gladiator in the early verses of her story, she was convinced she’d be paving the way to a better tomorrow, that she’d be honoring the esteemed high officials of the Cathedral, that she’d uphold the values of knighthood and the greater good. The more she fought, the more she was given strange orders such as kill here and lose on purpose here, the more Deirdre came to realize that Gladiatorial Combat was just a stage for political power plays and a boiling pot of ad revenue: “Caerbannog scores yet another crushing victory! Did you know? It is said the mysterious fighter’s chains and hooks were supplied to her by Kizna Heavy Industries, the premier weapons and armor manufacturer! Kizna Heavy Industries, carving the way to an auspicious tomorrow! Check out our catalog at www.kiznaheavy...” This was something she was far too used to by now. And yet, part of her wanted to believe these were just her trials, all paving the way for a future in which she could inspire and protect others properly, a road paved one bloody brick at a time.

If only she knew that soon enough, something would happen that would shatter even that last bit of faith she held with bloodied, splintered fingers, and from the scattered shards, a river of blood would pour forth...

But that is a story for another day.

Deirdre’s magic is simple and straightforward: She can sharpen things. That’s it. It would be rather underwhelming if this wasn’t paired with her immense sheer brute strength and wild, berserker style of fighting. It’s not that she’s lacking in intellect, or that she doesn’t have proper training; retired Gladiator “Eclipse”, her adoptive father and boss, personally trained her in the art of fighting, even passing down his vaunted tridentfighting techniques to her. In fact, her first few matches as a Gladiator had her use a trident. But Deirdre cannot be bound by the desires of others, not even when fighting, thus she quickly put her custom-made trident back on the rack and made herself a pair of makeshift weapons: Composite stagsteel chained hooks. Stagsteel is almost exclusively used as a construction material, and makes for an unorthodox choice of material for a weapon, as it is far too heavy and far too hard, making swinging it difficult and sharpening it an incredibly expensive, time-consuming endeavor. Deirdre’s raw strength and ability to sharpen things, however, make it a perfect match for her. Going wild is just natural for her, and following her sharp instincts is just what’s best for her, she insists. Besides her chained hooks, Deirdre has a penchant for sharpening her fingers to lacerate foes with brutal swipes of her hands.

Her close bonds include a slightly strained relationship with her adoptive father, a close friendship with a certain Archbishop that likes to stick her nose where it doesn’t have any business sniffing around, and casual friendships with some drinking buds of hers, in particular a certain journalist. Of note, Deirdre’s made fast friends with two twins, a brother-sister pair of “League Gladiators” (think pro-wrestlers, their fights are a show instead of actual fights) with high aspirations, and it is from them that her interest in massaging was born. But that, too, is a story for another day.

Despite her wild fighting style, her demeanor is rather amiable, and is surprisingly passionate for things that catch her interest. She likes dressing in what others consider old fashioned clothing, for reasons unknown to anyone except Deirdre herself, and makes it a point to always be sharply dressed if she can help it. “it’s important to keep decorum,” Deirdre says in her immaculate dress, even though she’s just watching hydraulic press videos while slouching over the computer and eating Soritos on her day off.

When “another day” arrives, her story will be told.

[mytypeismohg]

Game Theories!

Okay so not a lot to go off of obviously, but with the trailer and the things we do know from the previous game I can think of some.

Messmer the Impaler -

Possibly a child of Rykard?

Possibly an alter ego of a character we already know?

Not much to go off from him, but he says "Mother", is this Marika he is referring to?

The imagery of the winged snakes of Volcano Manor including the snakes around him and the power of flames. The sigil on his back also has a piece that looks very similar to the Dragon communion sigil.

Possibly a very old follower of the Crucible?

Maybe Messmer is far far older than he seems. Almost everyone who is against the Erdtree, exception of a few, has the idea of using fire against the Erdtree/Golden Order. Maybe they were inspired by him? Far fetched kinda.

His red hair and yellow eyes suggest he is a child of Radagon or Marika or both. Is he a long lost demigod, a sibling, or even Miquella himself, possibly another alter ego. I also find it interesting that in the statue you can purchase he stands very similarly to the Cleanrot Knights. His spear also looks suspiciously similar to Miquella’s needle.

Miquella -

"Pure and Radiant" yet "Terrifying. So is Miquella truly pure, or is the Lands Between so accustomed to violence that true purity is what they fear?

Its possible that Miquella still holds the same ideology of all things becoming pure and perfect. Similar to Marika, except his method is to brainwash everyone into becoming loving followers. Instead of using terror and violence, he uses forced love.

Possibly Miquella has more alter egos than just Trina, one of which could be entirely wicked, or simply have motives he doesn’t agree with . Perhaps Miquella is fighting against himself similar to Radagon/Marika.

If the DLC takes place after the invents of Elden Ring and is not a glimpse into the past, I find it odd how we still see Miquella as the youthful androgynous boy he was previously (although he appears slightly older than he is depicted in the statues). So is the body in Mohgwyn palace just a cursed corpse like Godwyn?

Why is Miquella leading us? To our death? To defeat Messmer? Is he asking for help or deceiving us? The text says Miquella "left behind his flesh", so Malenia knew Miquella was gone when she said "he would return". Maybe Mohg somehow disrupted his return, or people are right and Mohg was part of Miquella’s plan to begin with. Maybe Miquella is a liar entirely, or there's something we don't know yet. Miquella could be completely deranged, evil and power hungry, or just as misunderstood as many others are.

Who is the Lord Miquella waits for and why? Does Miquella serve someone, or is he seeking marriage the same as Ranni? Or is he already married? (Ranni also refers to us as Lord under the cathedral we find the moonlight greatsword in) Is it related to Godwyn? There is never a mention of Miquella’s Lord in the base game.

I love everyone's theories, even if they may get proven all wrong or right lol. They're so much fun to read. 4 months! 🙌

[sapphobolide]

FFXIVWrite Day 29 — "Job"

Free space prompt supplied by @archmage-lleweneth

King Thordan fell. The great sword Ascalon, embedded with an eye of Nidhogg, slipped from his grasp with a thunderous clang. With one final cry of defiance, the God-King, leader of a dozen primals, the Ultimate End, fell—but only an old elezen hit the ground. Archbishop Thordan collapsed on the floor of the Singularity Reactor. His jewelled crozier, his gilded crown, his stole of office—all lay scattered around him, along with the bodies of the Heavens’ Ward.

The silence that followed was shallow. Alphinaud sobbed quietly over Ysayle’s body. Caswyn murmured prayers over Estinien and Lucia, though the steady rhythm of her voice told Tamsyn that they would live. The evil technology of the Allagans continued to hum within the walls of the twisted cathedral they had made their battleground. Planting the tip of her greatsword into the glowing panels beneath her, Tamsyn pushed herself onto her feet.

A wheezing gasp escaped Thordan’s frail body. Tamsyn’s head snapped up to see the Archbishop raising himself onto one shaking arm. With what seemed to be the last of his strength, the old man lifted his head and looked at her.

“How…how can this be?” Thordan rasped. “A millennium of prayer and the Eye's power combined—and still you stand?” Fear filled the Archbishop’s eyes for the first time. “Who—what are you?”

Tamsyn clenched her jaw. Her grip on her sword tightened. “I am the shadow you cast,” she said, stepping forward. “I am who Ishgard looked to, when you and your knights turned a blind eye to her suffering.” Thordan had pushed himself up with both hands, but she easily closed the distance between them. “You have sown lies and misery and pain, and I have come to return it to you tenfold. I am the answer to all your sins.” She towered over the Archbishop, blood-stained, blade bare. “I am a dark knight.”

Archbishop Thordan said nothing. Tamsyn raised her greatsword high. “May Halone take you into Her halls—and deliver you the judgement you deserve.”

Her sword fell.

And it was done.

[sclitvde]

Cloudy hues glance at the shadows cast by some flying creatures above. "Wyverns, Your Grace." A cathedral knight reports; eyes for a prince whose sight has been challenged as of late. It is not only Lorian's sight that is impaired but his lower extremities, the Elder Prince's gait now bearing a limp. Yet still the eldest twin carries his twisted greatsword, bears it in defense of his brother and the heir to his House An unyielding blade for his Prince.

Sword remaining sheathed, the pale - haired prince meets the dragonrider upon the ramparts. "Thou trespass," moreso an observation than a warning. "If thou hast lost thy way," head tilts, stringy curtain of pale yellow shielding a face of a certain sickly pallor, "surely, thou shall want for direction?"

open to: all!!!!!!

plot/connection/backstory: lorian is no stranger to dragons and their riders; he has slew many in his prime. but as the shared curse between him and his twin progresses, the prince finds himself more hesitant to meet opposition with violence rather than diplomacy. gen!fantasy/fire and blood - based but open to plotting something different or more in - depth!!

ooc note: canonically, lorian is quite large, standing at twenty - two feet tall. will definitely adjust that to be more... acceptable and reasonable... if you'd like!

[jones-friend]

If you’re looking for a build to use in Elden Ring

The game has an insane depth on what weapons and spells you can use in combination. Recently I started a new game to lead into the DLC and the build I made hard carried me, so much so I’d love to share it and how to do it here.

The plan is to become a fire paladin, using strength with a pinch of faith to grease the wheels. How it works is we have utility spells to buff our damage and stave off run ending statuses like scarlet rot.

One of the cool parts of Elden Ring is when you begin new games you can scrounge up almost anything you want from the getgo. Below I’ll post steps on how to get set up with this build with links to all relevant gear and items. Know this guide will make most of the early game trivial.

If you want to inspect the build skip past this block of bullet points.

Spawning your new game in Limgrave, youre going to start by picking up a gold-pickled fowl foot. This increases rune gains. You can skip this step, I just prefer to get the most out of this early game rune gain. The third location listed is the easiest pickup from the early game.

We need a bleed weapon. The easiest grab is the Morningstar in southern Limgrave/the Weeping Peninsula. Follow the road past the bridge to the peninsula and you’ll find some carriages. Its in a chest. Snag it and run.

Next we need a starter sword: the berserk reference Greatsword. For this we’re heading to Caelid. Head to the Third Church of Marika and collect the tear and Physik. Behind the church is a teleporter that will take us to the Bestial Sanctum in Caelid. Use the link for greatsword to snag it. There’s a lot of killer dogs so just grab it and run.

Next we’re headed to Greyroll in Caelid. Head down by her tail without bringing any enemies with you. Take that morningstar out (you may need to two hand it). Start smacking her tail. After a number of hits you’ll see a bloodloss proc take out a chunk of her health. When shes about one more bloodloss away crack the gold fowls foot. You’ll end up with 98,000 runes, a hefty chunk in the early game.

Fast travel to a site of grace and level up. Out of your stats bring Faith to 15 and Mind to 16. Dex you can increase as I recommend reaching around 16 for some weapons. I also liked having more stamina and heavier armor so I put a chunk into endurance. After you set Faith to 15 and Mind to 16 and you aren’t sure how to plug your levels in I would say about every 2 levels Strength add 1 level Vigor. Around 25 is good, give or take. MAKE SURE YOU HAVE ENOUGH DEX TO USE GREATSWORD.

We have a rudimentary build that can take on Stormveil castle. Now we need to get the fire paladin side running. Find the Cathedral of Dragon Communion in Caelid. Here patrol two Banished Knights. They have a 4% chance to drop the banished knight greatsword. Kill the knight then reload the area by fast traveling to that site of grace till it drops. What makes this sword so good is when you equip it in two hands it uses an alternate moveset that’s very fluid and good at catching enemy dodges. Its one of the better greatswords.

Next we need the red hot whetblade. If you triggered the Radahn Festival you’re gonna have to beat it first. Its easily found in Redmane Castle through running.

While you’re there snag Flaming Strike behind the castle.

Set Banished Knight’s Greatsword ash of war to Flaming Strike, then with the new whetstone give it fire scaling. Your sword now deals both physical and fire damage. By using L2 then R2 you coat the weapon in fire! Rad!

Pick up the Strength Knot Tear off the fucking ground and put the Flame Shrouded Cracked Tear on your to do list. Putrid Avatars are rough, but this combo does the most for you.

Back in Caelid go to Fort Gael and pick up Flame Grant Me Strength. This is a huge spell for the build. This buffs your physical damage by 20% AND fire damage by 20%, a boost to everything we’re doing. Its absolutely insane with the physik. You will chop chunks off their health bar. This spell is so good in part because it doesn’t scale, its as good if your faith is 15 or 150. So we can leave faith 15 for now.

With 15 faith there’s a number of other good utility spells you can add to your list. Give the beast clergyman one deathroot for the strength scaling clawmark seal. Then on your third Deathroot he’ll give you beastial vitality. This is a spell that slowly regens HP over time. It is great for the field and will prevent the need to top off with a flask. Flame Cleanse Me can be found early on and cures Poison and Scarlet Rot. Brother Corhyn has two damage negation incantations and a third when he moves to Altus. A fourth Divine Fortification can be easily found in the Weeping Peninsula. These can make certain boss fights so much easier.

You now have a compelling Strength/faith fire build. But you’re going to run into enemies that have fire resistance (magma wyrms have 100% res). I recommend packing a holy weapon to swap to in these cases. My favorites are the golden halberd, Ordovis’s Greatsword, Siluria’s Tree, Marika’s Hammer, or Maliketh’s Black Blade. All of them scale predominantly with Strength. Ordovis’s Greatsword’s weapon art carried me through a number of fights as did Black Blade’s death damage.

For Talismans I prefer survivability over damage. Some relevant talismans for this build are Old Lord’s Talisman, Assassin’s Crimson Dagger, Assassin’s Cerulean Dagger, Taker’s Cameo, Ancestral Spirit’s Horn, claw talisman, and the Fire Scorpion Charm.

And that’s the build! From there tweak as you want. I recommend going into the dlc:

50 vigor, 16 mind, 36 endurance, 80 strength, 16 dexterity, 15-25 faith

Banished Knight Greatsword + holy option, Clawmark Seal

Banished knight set

Takers Cameo, Ancestral Spirit Horn, Old Lord’s Talisman, and whatevers fun

Flame Grant Me Strength, Flame Cleans Me, Bestial Vitality, fortification spells, Golden Vow

This laid bosses low. It cut Malenia in two and embarrassed the game’s final bosses. I love this build, its very likely my fave and will remain my fave until I realize Messmer is highly fire resistant or some nonsense 😬

[valdiis]

Character Traits: Aidoneus Forgeron

Aidoneus by @placesyoucallhome

— B A S I C S

Name: Aidoneus Forgeron Nicknames: Aidon, Commander, 'Smith Age: Early 50s or so, just entering middle age for an Elezen Nameday: 16th sun of the 6th Astral Moon Race: Ishgardian Elezen Gender: Cisgender Male Orientation: Homosexual, leaning towards demisexual. Profession: Former Temple Knight, now blacksmith and something secret he keeps to himself.

— P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S

Hair: Salt and pepper black, coarse but straight, a little unruly. Eyes: Ice blue. Skin: Medium to dark brown, but somehow not a Duskwight. Tattoos/scars: No tattoos, but multiple scars. Mostly claw marks from dragons. Most prominently, however, his left arm is missing from just below the shoulder. He has a metal prosthetic that works off aether and machine oil.

— F A M I L Y

Parents: His father, Degmone Forgeron, was a Temple Knight too, but is now deceased - a casualty of the Dragonsong War. His mother, Daeira Mereioneaux, is elderly, but lives still in their small home in Ishgard. He visits her every few weeks or so and there's a lot of love there. Siblings: None. Grandparents: His mother's father was a priest of the Church, but not an Inquisitor, and his grandmother was a seamstress. His father's father was a Temple Knight (there is a pattern) and his husband was a scribe; Degmone is adopted. All have perished due to war or age. In-laws and Other: He has no in-laws or siblings, and is not aware of any cousins - though he has a couple. Pets: For a while, he had an orange tabby cat named Squit, but said cat passed away a few years ago. He has considered getting another, but fears he wouldn't be able to take proper care of it.

— S K I L L S

Abilities: While he was a trained lancer with the Temple Knights, he is no longer able to wield a lance. He can, however, wield a greatsword (don't ask how that works because I don't know, it just is). He is also a blacksmith - and that's his primary profession now that he's no longer a Knight. Despite lacking his dominant hand and having poor fine motor control on the prosthetic, he still manages to hammer out decent armor. Hobbies: He can sing remarkably well. He has a deep, soothing bass that sounds lovely inside a cathedral. Aidon also likes to read - primarily military history and memoirs.

— T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait: Aidon is a deeply caring, chivalrous man. He believes in helping the poor and downtrodden, the sick and weak, and even just the unprepared-for-the-cold. Most Negative Trait: Losing the touchstone of his faith at the end of the Dragonsong War has made him bitter and cynical. While he personally will care for individuals, he is deeply suspicious of organized groups. He's also rather cold to most people, masking his caring heart with a chilly, grumpy exterior.

— L I K E S

Colours: Black, blue, and grey. Smells: Fresh-baked bread, hot coals, church incense, the Coerthas forest after a hard rain. Textures: Soft fur, warm flannel, hard metal. Drinks: Gin. Lots of it. Hot chocolate if he's feeling indulgent. Mulled wine is another popular drink with him.

— O T H E R D E T A I L S

Smokes: No. Drinks: Heavily. Drugs: No. Mount Insurance: I-insurance...? Uh, no? He rides a traditional Ishgardian black chocobo named Alyente. Been Arrested: Not...yet...

Tagged by @briar-ffxiv (Thank you! I had a lot of fun with this!)

[grollow]

8, 11, 13 & 14 for the souls borne asks ? (yeah I'm trying not to ask too much XD)

sjnsafkfj FEEL FREE TO ASK AS MANY AS YOU WANT. I rarely talk about Fromsoft on here, which is kind of funny because I love most Fromsoft titles? It's usually bug hours 24/7, but I feel as passionately about Bloodborne as I do Hollow Knight. Hm.

8. Do you have any fond coop memories? Does a specific moment stand out to you?

When I first played Bloodborne, the homie was hard stuck on Chalice Amygdala. Now, it's worth noting that my first build was an absolute dumpster fire until I got Chikage because Bloodborne was my first Fromsoft title and I didn't understand what I was doing and ?? i leveled Bloodtinge. So I was running around with the cane most of the game, but once I got Chikage I was scary. I one-shot Chalice Amygdala on my own save, without any issues, and my homie was SUPER struggling. We kept dying as soon as we walked in and some guy wearing the doll outfit showed up with the Moonlight Greatsword and hard carried our pathetic asses. It was super funny because we were both just like "Well then."

11. What’s your favourite bit of lore?

Is this Fromsoft in general or Bloodborne specific, I wonder? I'm gonna answer as if it's in general and say that my FAVORITE bit of lore is Raime/The Fume Knight's story from DS2. He's also one of my favorite characters (easily the favorite in Dark Souls). My Raven Knight. <3

13. Do you have any weird head-canons about the games/npcs?

It might be 'weird' and it might not? I headcanon that the Bloody Crow is in fact related to Arianna, as siblings. I have a fic in notebooks about them. My brain took one look at them and went "Siblings. She's a Cainhurst descendant and it can't be coincidence you find him in the Cathedral Ward."

14. Which game was your introduction to the series?

Bloodborne. I picked the best one to start with. I've played them all, and I maintain the others all drastically pale in comparison. Genuinely the best narrative From's done. Game was my religion for over a year.

[valenteincharactercollection]

Dame Vivienne Allard, Honoured Knight

"My blade is yours, Lord Hadraniel, for whatever purpose you see fit."

Born to a merchant family in the cathedral-city of Lumiér, Vivienne felt called to a higher purpose at a young age. Of a more martial persuasion than a priest, she desired to enter the service of the Knight, to wield a blade in the name of the Church of the Triumvirate, defending it against heathens and enforcing the King's laws. She was trained at the Grand Cathedral in Lumiér and afterward was posted as the sole guard to a small chapel on the border of Avor. A squad of Avor soldiers sought to plunder the chapel of its Thrice-Blessed riches, and Vivienne performed her duty to defend them - slaying the soldiers to a man entirely on her own. For this deed she was granted an honour - sacred silver to line her mantle - and the post of personal guard to the angel Hadraniel, to whom she pledged her devotion.

Background: Knight Trainee - Vivienne has been taught how to fight and ride in preparation of serving as a knight. Skills: Swordsmanship, First Aid, Equipment Upkeep, Riding, Church of the Three (Connections) Wealth: +1 (Poor) Trick: Wrist Bandage - Vivienne can reliably get someone conscious and stable from a wound.

Origin: City Dweller - Vivienne grew up in the city of Lumiér, and while she was drawn to the tenets of the Triumvirate she was also a rowdy child who was not afraid to get into scraps. Skills: Scripture of the Three, Brawling Complication: Overemotional - Intense or conflicting situations can get her quick to anger or cause her to burst into tears. Origin Advance: Famous - Vivienne is well-known in Lumiér and admired by those who knew her in her youth. Origin Feat: (I'm drawing a blank on a good feat for City Dweller)

Personalize: Skill: Singing - Though she hasn't practiced since she was singing in the choir as a child, Vivienne possesses a talent for song. Trick: (nope too sleepy think of it later) Complication: Terrible Shot - While she is talented in melee combat she is hopeless with any kind of ranged weapon.

Kit and Advances: Kit: The Swordswoman (Gunslinger) Advance: On the Other Foot

Gear: White mantle lined with sacred silver trim, thrice-blessed greatsword, plate armour, candelabra symbol of the Three.

Relationships: Ally: Hadraniel, the angel she is intended to serve as knight to. Neutral: Knight Émile Aubert, a rival trainee from Lumiér who would take pride in showing up the storied Vivienne. Enemy: Sergeant Micah Booth, brother to one of the soldiers Vivienne killed defending the chapel. Despite an understanding reached between the Church and the army of Avor, Micah would still be interested in settling the score.

Motivation: Devotion - Vivienne feels a calling to the Three and to Hadraniel.

Tactical Combat: Basic Attacks: Vivienne attacks in melee with her greatsword. She doesn't make ranged attacks. Class: Duelist. Role: Striker. Feat: Reliable - Her training means that even when she misses she doesn't waste energy.

[blacknovelist]

worth (ffxiv fic)

(major spoilers for the end of ARR patches. I have a lot of feelings about early dark knight and That Stuff In Ul'dah)

(Feri'um uses he and they pronouns)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Feri'um spends the time it takes for the meeting to conclude and their little group to return to Ishgard with a knot in their throat and something twisting in the pit of their chest and stomach. The others converse around them— sometimes with, even— and they do their best to respond in kind, but the information shared earlier rings in their horns like high cathedral bells. Waves of hot and cold wash down their spine for every moment they linger on this, but they cannot look away.

not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead

you did not verify her grace's condition for yourself, did you?

Foolish. He is so very, very foolish. Blinded by his own overflowed heart, spun and tossed aside and without even the wit to think better course, the will to act on it—

This farce could have ended before the pain reached its peak but the cards were in play under their feet long before that. It sets their every scale on edge to understand, now. A Warrior of Light. Adventurer of Eorzea. Ever beholden to the political players who thought they could circumvent right.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to rip Ul'dah's stupid gates apart brick by brick, and do the same to Lolorito and the ghost of Adeledji just for good measure.

In the stone streets through the Foundation, Alphinaud asks if they are alright. G'avan does likewise in the Manor halls, disquieted though she also is according to the flick of her ears. Feri'um can offer but a terse nod and a strained smile, a warm hug that almost allows him to forget the cloying lava creeping up in his throat. Both of them had been so worn and wrung by the Braves, but still they look to him with heart— another failure scratched into his bones. Couldn't even spare them the ache of worry.

Ishgard may have allowed them into her streets, but Feri'um remembers. Unquestioned inquisitors and cruel knights, a report about supplies met with rebuttal about starving. Long days of scorn multifold, for scales and lance and blood from far beyond their land. Even now, only the weight of names protects them from more than fearful or disdainful glances, and through the haze they thank Dusk and Dawn for Haurchefant and Count Edmont. The look in some Temple Knights' eyes tell them it's only the knowledge they cannot win against one of the lands' vaunted godslayers that stays blades from swinging regardless. They hope G'avan made the trial fighters' bruises sting.

But it isn't enough. It's never enough, it never will be— it hadn't been in Ul'dah, after all, had it? Both of them had given everything for Ul'dah, for the three cities. Now they stand with none of them.

Through the window, snow drifts down on the street in white-cold flakes. Feri'um does not feel it. Just the scalding black tar on their tongue and the twisting thing in his chest, the faint whisper of the shadows in the corners of his vision. Softness did not get them anywhere, save bound and ready for their own incarceration. Indecision and inaction forced others to their aid, when they should be able to do it themself.

Nanamo is not dead. Raubahn, freed and healing. Ishgard watches, though, waiting. Expectant for the day they'll fail and it can sweep all of them up in the undertow. By the time it reaches for them, they will be ready. They will have torn the corrupted roots out, bare handed and howling, and lain it at the feet of their past self, no longer frozen and afraid.

Not again.

"Never again," Fray agrees. He does not care for the disarray of Feri'um's hair, the thick jacket thrown hastily on over their nightshirt, greatsword in one hand and the straps of a scabbard in the other. He just smiles, amber crinkled in the shadows of that helmet, and the darkness in their veins writhes. "Come. We have work to do."

Feri'um follows into the night and wonders, only briefly, only once, if they'll recognize the world from the other side of the road.

[shinyachiba]

“Ultra greatsword wielded by the knights of the Cathedral of the Deep. Highly destructive if intolerably heavy.”

Yeah no fucking shit ‘intolerably heavy’ 😂 That is the duckface of pure joy right there Almost finished with the blade now

[zoinksmomentcentral]

fear he who has poise and a big fucking sword

[thesoulzofhades]

I was mostly trying to farm for the Cathedral Knight Ultra Greatsword but glad I got the Great Mace in one run. It took me a while to get all these weapons, tonight but worth it.

[dreadwulf]

prompt #1: The Green Knight

(Warning: Major Character Death. Not the Major Character you think. Be warned.)

The Green Chapel stands still and silent when the Golden Knight arrives.

Once he had expected a fine cathedral to await him at the of his journey, but by now he is unsurprised to find a crumbled ruin overgrown with ivy. Only the stone walls remain of this “chapel”. The sunken paving stones admit dirt and weeds between them enough that it is barely distinguishable from the forest floor, and the roof is long since fallen in. Everywhere it is overgrown with thick green leaves and vines, and surrounded by a canopy of trees that opens only enough to admit a slice of night sky directly above.

Ser Jaime Lannister enters watchfully, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The Green Knight is nearly invisible to him at first: concealed in greenery, grown into the landscape as though part of it. The bark of his skin is encrusted with moss, leaving no visible gap between himself and the plants around him. Judging from the growth, the Knight has not moved in a long, long while. 

Has he stood exactly here for the entire year, waiting for him? It looks more like a statue, or a tree carving. Something long abandoned. Much longer than a single year.

“Ser Knight,” he announces, “I have arrived per our agreement.”

Silence. 

There is only him here, and a tree that looks only a little like a man.

He is early, Ser Jaime realizes. Will be it dawn of the day, or the very hour of their meeting? He may be here for some time. It will be hours to dawn, and it had been another sundown after that when the Green Knight had ridden into Robert’s court on his enormous steed. 

One year hence, the Knight had said. Well, at least he is not late.

The pre-dawn hours are quiet here, and the grove is peaceful. The trees overhead open out onto a pretty sprinkling of stars, and all the noise of the forest and the brook which has lead him here has faded away.  He can see why the locals call this the Green Chapel. It is the sort of place that encourages one to pray, and to contemplate, at least if one is given to introspection and piety. 

Which he is usually not.

The Golden Knight quickly grows restless. Waiting is not a skill of his. He is impatient by nature, impetuous and impulsive. Faced with delay he will rush things ahead, or abandon his course. Unless, as in this case, he has no choice but to wait, and then he will be overcome with unease. 

He paces. His fingers twitch. His gaze darts around, landing on this and that. 

There is no sign of movement from the Green Knight. 

If he had not seen him walking and talking, he might assume this to be only a sculpture, and not a living being. He might wonder if he had been tricked, and if some unseen enemy hovered nearby laughing at his predicament. But he has seen the Green Knight up close, and ran him through with his own blade, and watched as the great gnarled hands pulled the greatsword from his own breast as casually as a thorn from his finger, and tossed the weapon aside as though it were a child’s plaything.  

His hands curl around the same greatsword at his belt. He has carried it for a year, this sword. It was his prize for accepting the Green Knight’s challenge, and ostensibly he is here to return it. When he does, the knight will return him the same blow, and stab him through the heart. 

Was it worth it? What, after all, did he do with his fine sword? 

Ser Jaime sighs and sits on the wet ground. He can grow no more muddy and disheveled than he is already. He left King’s Landing in his extravagant golden armor, wearing his lion’s helm, and riding the finest horse in his stable. But he arrives in the Green Chapel on foot, with no helm, dressed in shabby clothing and battered bits of armor. Even his golden hair is shorn, and only a thin growth of hair remains of his famous golden curls. 

The only thing of value remaining to him is the sword. And to be quite honest, the Green Knight is welcome to it. If he could, he would exchange it for something much more valuable that he had found, and then lost, along the way.

It had taken many weeks to get him here. There were some diversions - misadventures, a strange episode in a Keep, and a good deal of wandering around lost - but he has come a very long way from Robert’s Court to find himself here. He had managed the journey only with the help of his squire.

The girl had joined him on the road on the very first day. She was part of the crowd that had followed him from the gates, those knight-hopefuls who so frequently followed his footsteps around the city. Most wanted some of his glory, hoped for it to spill onto them by mere proximity. Some wanted merely to see him meet his fate, others to be part of that tale if they could. But there was very little glory in this journey. They had been beset by bandits, wild animals, bad weather, and strange side-tracks from almost the very start

There had been six, even eight of them at a time, during the ride through the Westerlands, but as he traveled further and further from the capital and the weather worsened their number dwindled, and by the tenth night there was only her. Her name was Brienne. If she had another he has already forgotten it.

She was a strange girl, ungainly large, and dressed all in armor, in imitation of a knight. She had a face like rotten fruit, softly misshapen. Her straw-blonde hair, ruddy and pox-marked skin, and stubborn pout completed the picture. Her very presence proved subtly irritating. If a maid cannot be beautiful she might at least keep herself out of sight; or else be a servant, who are barely women to begin with.

His followers quickly decided to make a servant of her. This did not go well. Ser Jaime came upon her fighting three of the men on the third night. One of them had blood streaming from his nose already, another was sitting on the ground looking dazed from a blow to the head. The last was seemingly unfazed by the fate of the other two, and Ser Jaime observed him take a good punch to the chin that left him spitting out teeth. They were trying to steal her supper, she said. The girl should be cooking for us all, the men said. 

“She is my squire”, Ser Jaime told them, deciding upon it at that very moment. “She will cook supper for only me.”

“Like hell I will,” the ungrateful wench spat at him. 

Ser Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to be a knight or not? First you must be a squire.”

She did at that. She did wish it, very much. He can see it in her eyes -- striking blue eyes, with a determined gaze. 

Brienne did cook his supper, the next night, over the campfire. Not very well, and he did not insist again. But she also tended his armor and sword, and that she did very well indeed. She handled his greatsword with tremendous respect and care, such that it touched him to see. He had long since stopped being impressed by the blade, after carrying it for a year. 

Brienne proved a loyal squire, if not the most typical one. When wolves attacked she proved herself courageous, stood herself well in front of older and more experienced men. When there was work to be done she would be first to do it, and without being asked: gathering firewood, tending the horses. Drudgery she avoided, but practical, necessary things she performed without complaint. 

She had very blue eyes. Sky eyes, clear and bright. He would have liked to look at them, except that she would be looking back, and that seemed to frighten her. She did not like to look him in the face. A shy maid, for all her armor and prickly temperament. He liked to tease her, and tell bawdy jokes with the other men until her face turned a pleasant pink.

A skirmish with the Brave Companions lost three of his would-be-knights and all of their horses,and it lead to their capture for a brief time. When they managed to escape, they were left traveling afoot, and without their supplies. His other followers drifted off then, losing their taste for adventure. Only the girl remained, and walked beside him along the road North uncomplaining through the long days ahead.

She was good with a blade, better than most. Not so good as Ser Jaime, who had a prodigious talent. But on the occasions he challenged her to spar with him, she got his blood up and roaring in a way he had not felt since he was a young man himself, and all his adventures before him.

She was kind. Too reserved to be gregarious, but generous in spirit. She took pity on every foundling, every poor farmer and milkmaid they encountered along the way. She wanted to help them, rescue them all; if he had not restrained her they would have been fighting for the honor of each individual cow from the Westerlands to the Neck. She was much disappointed that they hadn’t. What is a knight for, if not that?

She would learn, as he once had. The Knights of Robert’s Kingdom were more tarnished than a starry-eyed squire suspected. Heroes and legends in tales were only men in the flesh, and men with a bit of money and renown all went the same way. Given the best of everything they would indulge themselves, would grow greedy, would came to expect what had once been freely given. They fought not for gods and country but for glory, and mainly fought each other. They plundered wealth and women, sat by roaring fires, went slow, went soft, forgot hunger and killing cold. 

Honor was a facade, nothing more. To become a knight was to learn it. It made him glad she would never be knighted, and fail that lesson.

“Entertain me, squire,” he said to her as they rode side-by-side, needling her. “I have heard all of the songs and stories of this land, and they bore me. Tell me a tale of yourself, Squire Brienne. What adventures set you on this course to become a knight?”

She bowed her head. “I have no tales to tell, my lord. It is only a wish, and an aspiration. But I have no adventures but the one we are on now. But you, my lord, are a famous knight, and must have many stories to tell. I would be honored to hear them from your own lips.”

Ser Jaime had hundreds of tales. He has boasted of his adventures to innumerable audiences as they looked on him admiringly, the great Golden Knight. Wins at tourney, duels with other knights, riding to war for King Robert. But for some reason, as he turned them over in his mind, he discarded each of his favorite stories one by one. He did not want to tell them now; those stories are not for her.

“I also have no tales to tell,” he said.

“Are you not on a quest, my lord?” She looked over at him quizzically, her blue eyes innocent. “I hear tell you are riding to the Green Chapel in the north…”

“I am, and to meet the Green Knight. But even I am not so bold as to tell that tale when I do not yet know its ending. But it sounds like you could, Squire Brienne.”

Again she frowned at him for that title. But she did know the bare outlines of the story, how the strange Green Knight had rode into King Robert’s court and invited the bravest and boldest of his knights to face him in battle, to strike a single blow and receive a blow in return, and for it they would gain his greatsword as a prize. How the Golden Knight had taken up the challenge, and in a blow of great talent and precision stabbed the Golden Knight through the heart, finding the weakest point in his armor on a single try. But instead of falling down dead, the Green Knight had easily pulled the blade from his own chest and mounted his horse. He told the Golden Knight to meet him in one year at the Green Chapel, where he would return his blow. 

“And I see you do not hesitate to keep your word,” Brienne concluded the tale. “You are as bold and brave as all the stories say. But what will you do when you get there?” 

“Fight him, I suppose.” Ser Jaime’s hand tensed around the ruby-encrusted pommel of his borrowed sword. 

“Ser?” She blinked back at him in confusion.

“What, you expected I would meekly bow my head and be murdered? Of course not.” Ser Jaime’s shoulders shook. “Twas not a fair bargain, when he has such dark magic that he can take a sword through the heart and survive. I have no such magic, and it isn’t a fair exchange.”

“But you did not have to strike a deathblow. By the bounds of the agreement you might have only scratched him, and taken only a scratch in return.”

Well, yes. In hindsight, that would have been wiser. If he had taken the time to think it over, he might have put that together. But by nature he rarely takes that time. 

“He was a large and fearsome Knight, and I thought only to prevent the return blow. Of course if I had known he would survive it I would have acted differently. I know it now. And when I see the Knight this time I will fight him with everything I have, and he will fight me with everything He has, and we will see who is the victor.”

“But you made a promise…” She sounded faintly disappointed, and it irritated him greatly.

“It was a trick, girl. A trick to snare a knight by his honor. Would you have me die for a trick? What good will that serve? No, I will keep my appointment as promised, but he will have to work to land his blow against me. I’ll have my skill and my wit to defend me, as he had his magic.”

“Are you not afraid, Ser?”

“Afraid to fight? Never. It will be a fine duel, perhaps the finest of my life, and I am eager for it. It will be the battle that will make my legend, the kind that songs are sung of, and I look forward to that.”

Brienne said that she hoped to see it, and let the matter lie.

She did not see it, of course. They came to the Crossroads instead.

An inn stood at the crossroads, and cast-offs from the Riverlands sheltered there. Orphans and strays. Jaime and Brienne arrived only long enough to see a great many helpless faces before bandits came riding, meaning to plunder the kitchens, and carry off the women and children.

Jaime told the girls to run away as best they could, and aimed to do the same. If they were quick about it, the raiders couldn’t catch them all. 

Brienne, on the other hand, meant to defend them. They would not survive alone in the forest, she said, and if the bandits took away the food, the little ones would starve.  

“Better the bandits take them then, one or the other,” he said quickly, tugging at her. “But we had best retreat. We will not manage another fight in our condition, and not without more men.”

This was entirely reasonable, to him; better knights than he had often advised the same. There was no glory in failure, and certainly none in a pointless death in the middle of nowhere.

“No.” Brienne grew taller under his grasp, and would not be moved. “What good is a knight if he will not defend the innocent?”

“You stupid girl.” He holds her by the shoulders. “There is nothing you and I alone can do against so many men, no matter how skilled you are with a blade. They will surround us and cut us down -- it won’t even buy any time for your orphans. The best we can do is live to fight another day.”

“Someone must do something,” she says stubbornly. “I will not run.”

“Not to no avail! A battle is bravery, but this is suicide. It’s foolish, meaningless. It will make no difference whether you intervene or not - either way the women are taken and the children are killed. You will only add another body.”

“Someone must fight for them,” she insists. “Even if there is no hope. I am not enough, but if there is no one else, then it will be me.”

With that, she had shoved him in the larder, with a sudden and ferocious strength, and barred the door.

“Let me free, you stupid child!” He slammed his weight into the door sharply with his shoulder, enraged. 

He could hear her through the door, her voice steady and clear.

“Someone must fight for them. If there is no one else, then it will be me.”

“Damn you,” he swore at her. “Open the door and I will fight with you. Two against a dozen is better odds than one. Open the door!”

“You have an appointment to keep,” she said, and then there was silence.

Jaime could not see what happened after that, but he could hear it. He could hear the disdainful laughter of the brighands, and the drawing of many blades. He could hear for a time the blades clashing, and much shouting, and one unfamiliar cry of pain, and for a brief moment he was hopeful that she might prevail. She was a talented swordfighter. If they fought her one at a time he had no doubt she could best them.

He could tell, even without seeing, that they did not. The fight turned, became a slaughter. He heard a single cry that he knew in his gut was Brienne, taking a blow she would not survive. There came more noise then, more steel and blows, and then the screams of the women and children being dragged from the Inn. 

He screamed too. He wept, and clutched at his useless greatsword in a rage, wanting to throw himself through the door and impale himself on them like an arrow, these animals who would dare to touch a true knight. None of them seemed to hear him, or proved interested in the larder.

He didn’t know how long he had been left sitting there on the floor, with tears on his face and the earthy smell of raw meat weighting him down in the cool darkness. He waited for one of them, any of them, to remember him in the kitchens and come back, but no one did, and that was how he knew that no one remained. He wondered if he would be left there to rot. To moulder away with the bits of cheese and bread that remained there until he was nought but bones and a borrowed sword.

Eventually, quietly, a small boy with enormous eyes unbarred the door, having emerged from his hidey-hole only hours after the vicious intruders had left. Seeing Jaime huddled in the dark, he fled again and hid himself away in the Inn.

Jaime emerged into the twilight reluctantly. When he looked down the road, he imagined he could see them. The prisoners being taken away in the back of some wagon, women and children and women who were really children still, huddled together and weeping, down the long road and away. It was all for nothing, all of this. The brigands had taken them anyway.

There was no glory in this defeat. There was only a bloodstreaked trench in the mud where a terrible battle occurred, and in the middle of it a sad heap of metal. She was unrecognizable there, cut to pieces. Only a few strands of pale blonde hair remained to know her by.

The blacksmith’s armory had implements enough to break the cold ground. He dug a hole right beside the crossroads while the rain bucketed down on him. His chest hurt from the strangled sob caught in it. He put her in the hole and blanketed her again with the mud. If there had been flowers anywhere in that season in all the land he would have found them and laid them there above her grave. One day, he hoped, grass would grow. 

It was a meaningless gesture, and made no difference to the blue-eyed girl. But it meant something to Jaime.

It was not meaningless to them, the shivering children and the sad-faced women riding away in the wagons. They had looked back, mournfully, at the place in the road where her body lay. Looked back down the long road, into the distance, through the rain and the trees and the tramping feet of the bandits’ horses and out of sight, and they kept looking. They would look back long after the rain and wind had wiped away any traces of what had happened there. They would not forget. When the enemy came for them, someone took up a blade in their cause. Someone thought they mattered. Someone thought they were worth dying for. They did not face their fate alone. 

When evil comes, so long as at least one person stands against it, there is still some light left in the world. 

He left the shovel there in the road and went back to the Inn. It took some time to locate the boy and persuade him to come out of the trunk where he had hidden himself. He carried the boy with him North to the next village, where he left him wordlessly at the Sept, and turned North again, alone.

The rain never stops now. The ground is crusted with snow and the air is wet and mossy and somehow the rains never wash anything away. It only soaks into the dirt and grime and ice and blood and weighs it down. Makes it heavier. Makes everything impossibly heavy. 

There are more strange things that happen to him then: how the road curves and wanders beneath his feet and doubles him back to the start as though trying to throw him off his course. There were strange dreams, and visions, and he walks in a sort of fever. Nothing seems quite real after the Crossroads, nothing except the sword in his hand and his goal: the Green Chapel. He has an appointment to keep.

He grows only more determined to reach his destination. 

The nights grow colder. He wakes up shivering, rolling over, trying to wake the embers of the fire, and every time his eyes open they are looking for the foolish girl in her armor. They find only blackness and he remembers then the crossroads and the hole he dug besides the road.

He missed her terribly.

He misses her still, sitting here before the Green Knight. It is a persistent ache, a weight that grows heavier by the day. It makes him feel ancient to contemplate. He sounds like one of the rusty old knights who cluster around Robert, lamenting the roads not taken, the women they might have settled down with. Lost loves. It has been only days and yet it seems like years ago, and a road already overgrown and impassable. He can see it already, the enormity of his mistake. His life might have become something entirely different, improbably better. The opportunity came to him, and he wasted it. 

Brienne. The Maiden Knight. She could have been his lady love and his brother-at-arms all at once. Would anything have been so perfectly suited to him as that? He will never find her like again, and even if he did he would not want it; he will only want her, for the rest of his life. 

Jaime muses over these memories through the hours. The journey, the past, the world around him. Time seems to settle into a hazy blur.

The sun rises slowly, impossibly slowly. He cannot see it past the trees, but the world gradually brightens, with gentle insistence. The greens grow ever more lush and verdant all around him. The wall where the Green Knight stands turns from grim grey to a lively grass color, the dark ivy wound around in loops that seem to form an altar of deep mossy overgrowth around the still and sleeping form of the Knight.

His hands worry at the hilt of the greatsword that he had come to return.  He might leave the blade on the altar and go. Would that fulfill his word? 

What did Jaime do with his famous sword, during the year he had it? Only held it aloft for others to see. Used it to threaten, and to cajole. Boasted of it to other lords. But the only time he had just cause to draw it he had chosen to retreat instead, and in doing lost the only thing of any value he had ever found. 

If only he had gone with her. Agreed right at the first, without hesitation. If he had stood at her side it might have ended differently. One had no chance, but two, perhaps, might have survived. He might have taken her with him to the Green Chapel. He might have taken her home to the King. He might have seen her made a knight, and stood proudly beside her at the king’s table. The tales he might have made with her, he would be proud to tell.

The Knight’s form comes into clearer and clearer relief: looming over him, impossibly tall, improbably wide. 

Jaime knows with cold certainty that the Knight is going to wake very soon. As the light grows stronger, the Green Chapel is waking around him with a thousand tiny movements. He can almost make out the subtle sound of leaves uncurling to the sun, and worms crawling in the earth.

The sword, Oathkeeper, quivers in his hands, as though outraged. How did he dare to carry that blade to this place intending to lie? To break his promise? More and more he thinks he did not. He came here for something else entirely. 

Jaime finds, for the first time that he can remember, his hands are trembling. It is one thing to go to battle, but another entirely to go to an execution. His heart beats in his ears with a deep drumbeat of doom... doom... doom...

He’s not here to fight a duel, is he? What, then, is he here for?

Glory? Judgement? Mercy? Absolution? 

Or only the cold, mechanical means of his inevitable end? 

Was all this journey only for that? Is he truly here only to get a blade through his chest? And if so, might it be worth his while? After all, is there any better way for a knight to die? Will it not be a fitting end to his legend?

But he isn’t ready to die. Not willingly. Not without redeeming his honor, making something of himself. If he had another year… but would he do any more with that than he had the last? Than he has with all of the years thus far? Is there any amount of time that would make any more of himself than he has already?

The time he needed was these weeks on the road with Brienne. That showed him what kind of man he’d like to be. But he failed her when it mattered most. Perhaps he should be judged for that. Not a year from now, nor twenty. Today.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and paints the Green Chapel gold. The air warms, and birdsong calls to him on the breeze. The day is relentlessly pleasant, with a promise of endless more such days to follow. A bittersweet longing fills him. It has never seemed half so lovely to be alive as it does in this beautiful place. If only he could have brought her here.

I will be brave, he says to himself. Like Brienne.

All at once there is a great creaking sound of wood bending and tearing, and when Jaime looks up the green altar is moving. Green leaves tremble and wave purposefully, and twigs and small branches snap and fall away to rest in the dirt below. The trunk of the altar pulls itself free, excavates itself from the enclosure in the leaves and branches. Limbs pull free, and something nearly human rises out of the green, the bark of its skin glistening, newborn.

The Green Knight is standing.

Jaime looks up, and up, and up, from where he sits on the mossy floor of the green chapel, and his hand grips the hilt of his sword.

He is ready to fight, by instinct, and to flee, by sudden impulse. He is afraid, he realizes, afraid in a way he has never been before. There is more than a blow to the heart to fear here. There is the fate of his soul, which is suddenly entirely in question. Before his journey he had no doubt of his own worth as a knight, and now he is just as certain in the opposite direction. Is he worthy? He is not. He is not. 

Slowly, he stands. The sun shines down on him through the same corridor in the trees where he had watched the stars the night previous, and its warmth is a rebuke; why should the sun shine upon one such as him? He is the golden knight no more. He is only a man, a man with a sword that does not belong to him. 

His eyes raise last of all. 

Jaime finds through the golden light the Green Knight’s face. The eyes first, through a thin bloom of leaves and moss, and then the nose, the jawline. He has never seen it so clearly before, not even when he had stabbed her through the heart. With slow realization his eyes travel down and up again, taking in the shape of his host, and her nature.

The Green Knight is a woman? Why didn’t he realize it before?

It seems only too clear now. The slight narrowing of the waist and wrists, and in the face… not a pretty face, but undeniably feminine. Full lips, round cheeks, and the eyes...

Blue eyes. Beautiful blue, sad blue, noble and sorry. The lost blue of long-forgotten clear skies. 

When he sees them his hands stop shaking. All is well. His grand sword slips from his fingers and settles softly in the grass, sinks gently into the ground, is welcomed.

“It’s you,” he says. “I’m glad it’s you.”

The girl from the Crossroads is standing before him. 

He doesn’t understand how it is possible. Was she always the Knight? Was all an illusion? Was the Knight in disguise when he met her, or was the Knight once that girl? But it doesn’t matter. Whoever she is, she is here now, and it is good and right that this happen to him. 

Her voice is low and rusty, like a hinge that has not moved in many years, and slow in its opening.

“You... kept... our appointment,” the Knight creaks.

His mouth is gone dry. “One year hence. You gave me time enough. And so I am here.” 

He thinks he sees her smile, faintly. With the crackling sound of breaking branches, the Knight gestures to his feet.

“You... dropped your sword... my Lord.” Ser Jaime glances down at Oathkeeper, already disappearing beneath the twining vines on the forest floor. “Is it not time... for our blades to cross? A duel to make your legend?”

“I made you a promise,” he says faintly, and puts a hand over his unguarded heart. “It seems my word is all I have, and if it means nothing to anyone else, it means something to me.”

She smiles. An oaken hand reaches out and touches him on the face, gently. “My brave knight.”

Her eyes are the bluest skies he has ever seen. He is not afraid. Not anymore.

“Are you ready?” she asks him, still stroking his cheek.

“Yes.” He is eager for it now. “Strike your blow.”

“Straight through the heart,” she agrees. Then she reaches out with her other hand to touch the other side of his face.

She kisses him.

[souls-gone]

farron greatsword gf and dual wield zweihander & cathedral knight greatsword bf

[buns-with-a-book]

The Night of the Long Vigil

For Day Three of DMCWeek2020, the prompt filled this time was Fight! And there is a fight here alright! Just thrown waaaay in the past.

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: OC, Kyrie, Vergil, Kyle, Julio, Carlo (mentioned) Dante (cameo), Nero (cameo), Sparda (flashback) Tags: @furyeclipse @nimnox @i-write-fanfics-to-procrastinate @queenmuzz @astral-space-dragon

Summary: One Christmas Eve, Cassandra tells the tale of the Midnight Vigil to Cordelia, Julio, Kyle, and Carlo (with the rest of the crew listening in)

Cassandra would never get tired of Christmas celebrations. And this Christmas Eve was looking to be the best one yet. The cool winter nights of Fortuna was a far cry from Red Grave City, blanketed by snow. Cassandra watched as the three boys, Julio, Kyle, and Carlo, ran around Dante and Nero with their limitless energy. Cordelia was helping Kyrie with making the cake for dessert. Cassandra knew Cordelia was easily overwhelmed by too much energy and the three boys Kyrie and Nero were fostering were nothing but high energy.

“Dove? Is it done now?” Cordelia asked, looking to Kyrie. On the counter was the cake tin, full of chocolate cake batter and ready to be cooked. Kyrie smiled and nodded.

“It’s ready to go into the oven.” She hummed. She pulled on oven mitts and carefully took the cake tin to place in the oven. Cordelia stared out the kitchen window, watching Dante and Nero play with the boys.

“They’re a bit much…” Cordelia murmured. Kyrie gently stroked her hair.

“I understand. But I care about them deeply. I wouldn’t give up their energy for the world.” Kyrie smiled to Cordelia.

“And their energy can tire out Dante and Nero. I’ll take sleepy Dante anyday.” Cassandra joked. “Hmm...man, this brings back memories.” She murmured.

“Memories of what?” Kyrie asked. Cassandra blinked.

“Er...well…” She looked to Cordelia. “It’s a tradition from Eternis Brillia.” She began. Cordelia looked at her in confusion. Relaxing, Cassandra continued. “In Eternis Brillia, the concept of Christmas being all holly jolly isn’t a thing. Christmas Eve is known as The Night of the Midnight Vigil while Christmas Day is known as Dawning Day. It’s to celebrate the founding of the city, the day where the titular saints defended what would become the city from the Prince of Darkness and his armies.”

“Oh my…” Kyrie murmured in awe.

“Well, I should add an ‘allegedly’ to that. The only primary source of that time is an epic poem, The Night of the Midnight Vigil. Whether that poem is a legitimate primary source or propaganda is anyone’s guess.” Cassandra shrugged. “Regardless, the whole event is somber to remember those who died to help found the city. It’s also to ‘keep vigil’ for an incoming army of demons, just like the first watchers did long ago.”

"Demons like me and our family?" Cordelia asked sadly. Cassandra grimaced before looking out the window.

“...yes. But! They believe so fervently that everything outside of their walls is evil that they don’t even think about stepping foot outside. I doubt they’ll come all the way to Red Grave City or Fortuna.” Cassandra smiled at Cordelia. She knew that the people of Eternis Brillia never dreamed of stepping outside their walls, content with their lives behind them. “We’ll be just fine.”

“Okie.” She nodded. Cassandra looked out the window, watching as the boys stumbled on in, tired from their roughhousing. Dante and Nero flopped down on the couch, flanking Vergil (who had been quietly sipping tea Kyrie offered him). The three boys ran to the kitchen for water to rehydrate. Cordelia got off the stepstool she used to help Kyrie make the cake and ran over to Dante, curling up in his lap. Dante let out a pleased hum, holding the spirit child close and purring happily.

“Cassandra?” Vergil asked. She perked up, walking over to him. “Perhaps you can regale us with more of Dawning Day. I have never heard of such a celebration before.”

“Makes sense.” Cassandra said, making a cup of warm tea. “It’s basically Christmas but somber and serious. As Dante would so eloquently put it, boring. It’s all ritual, Latin songs that are older than all of us combined, and all in a freezing cold cathedral with no heating.”

“It sounds much like the Winter Solstice celebration.” Kyrie added. “But now that Fortuna has opened up to the world, that includes the Christmas traditions. I vastly prefer being here than at the church.”

“I think you mentioned that you had to sing for the ceremonies?” Cassandra asked. Kyrie nodded. “I can see how Nero would come and attend, just to hear you sing.” She ignored the awkward squawk she got from her adopted son. Kyrie laughed and nodded.

“I remember Nero always giving me a chocolate orange after my performances.” Kyrie hummed nostalgically. “He’s so sweet.”

“I know right?” Cassandra chuckled, taking the warm mug of tea. She walked over to the plush chair, ruffling Nero’s silver hair as she went. Taking a seat, she let out a sigh.

“I’m more interested in this epic poem you spoke of.” Vergil spoke up again. Cassandra raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose you would, considering it deals with the defeat of the Prince of Darkness.” She looked to Dante, knowing full well his inner devil revealed her saying his true name. “The Tale of the Midnight Vigil is basically the Anead of Eternis Brillia. Allegedly, it comes before the Legendary Dark Knight awoke to justice. I know some even say that this moment was when that awakening happened but…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know the tale…”

Demons and humans screamed out their battle cries, rain pouring around the armored saint. Mud splattered from the combat around them, tainted red and black from blood.

But for Deirdre, armored in silver and white silken filaments, her golden hair braided with silk and silver spikes, there was only one object between her and the Prince of Darkness: Sparda, the prince’s favored general. Infernal simmering red met calm determined blue. Deirdre tightened her grip on the divine rapier Astra, faintly glowing with the power of the Earthmother. Sparda let out a low growl, tightening his grip on his eponymous sword. The world seemed to freeze around them, as if demons and mortal affairs mattered little to the two warriors, trying to intimidate the other into stepping down, into giving up and letting the demons rip apart the last bastion of humanity in the Highlands.

Then, a booming voice behind Sparda, speaking in the demonic tongue. Deirdre glanced up to the demon prince, his stone form reaching over and uttering a command to his general. Sparda charged forward, Deirdre deflecting the greatsword with Astra. The two blades strained against each other before Deirdre thrust her shield forward, breaking the stalemate between them before she thrust Astra forward. Sparda deflected the thrust and countered with his own thrust, to which Deirdre dodged by jumping to the side. Sparda swiped his blade to her, deflected once again by Deirdre’s Astra.

‘There’s no way I can defeat Sparda! Unless…’ She glanced back before smirking. She let Sparda push her back, flipping backward. Sparda thrust forward with his blade. She leapt up, landing on the edge of the blade before using it as a springboard. She turned, facing Mundus, before blazing blue stars hovered next to her hand. She threw the stars forward, striking Mundus’ wings with force. The prince roared in indignation, his wings cracking and visibly breaking off. Deirdre fell, her bloodied Clydesdale Fionn leaping out from the mass of demons to break her fall. She clung onto his bloodied mane as he rode through the demon masses and trampling them underfoot. Mundus roared out some sort of command. Whatever it was, the demons began to retreat enmasse. The soldiers of Eternis Brillia followed, slaying the stragglers.

Deirdre watched as Sparda looked back at her, still standing, still strong as ever. She felt the rain wash the sweat off her, her chest heaving. She patted Fionn’s neck with a tired smile.

“Good boy. You did well.”

“And thus, the demonic armies were sent away and Eternis Brillia lived to see another sunrise.” She finished the tale. She looked down at the three boys, eyes wide at the tale. “Of course, that’s just an epic poem. Who knows if the battle happened as it was written? That poem was written down centuries after the battle.” Cassandra rubbed the scar on her hand, the scar of Astra’s shattering.

“Wooow...that was so cool!” Julio said.

“What happened to Miss Deirdre?” Kyle asked.

“She became the first Archbishop of the Earthfaith. She ruled Eternis Brillia with her fellow Maidens: Eirika, Sigrun, Leanne, and Julia. She became a saint-like figure in the mythology of the Earthfaith.” She explained.

“Do you think she’s proud of you?” Julio asked. Cassandra made a face. She hadn’t even considered that sort of possibility, even when they met in the Green Fields. She was quiet from the question. “Miss Cassandra?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to vy for her pride. The choices I made were all mine and I’m not going to apologize for them.” Her eyes caught Vergil’s, who she noted was staring quite intently at her. The oven suddenly rang out, earning a cheer from the three boys.

“Cake’s ready!” Kyrie called, leaning down to take the cake out of the oven. Dante let out a whoop, lifting up Cordelia in his arms. Nero followed the boys into the kitchen, leaving her and Vergil where they sat.

“Vergil?” Cassandra asked, standing up. Vergil did the same and walked over to her, giving her a hug. “What’s with the sudden affection?”

“Do you ever regret anything you did?” He asked softly. Cassandra lowered her head.

“Well...probably that I didn’t see Cordelia sooner. That’s the only thing I really feel sorry for. Perhaps she would’ve been less lonely if I had seen her before...you know, everything.” He hummed, lowering his head to rest his lips against her head.

“There are many things I regret in my life…” He admitted, so soft she could barely hear him. “Key among them being absent for Nero. Your bravery still inspires me.”

“Bravery?” Cassandra asked, a smile on her lips. “Well, you can’t change the past unless you wanna fuck up the future, so I said to myself ‘make the most out of every day, because you can’t change what you’ve done’. I can’t change the fact I ran away from home for the unknown so I made the best of each day I had out here.” She explained. “You just...have to keep going. No matter what happens. Because when it’s out there, you can’t take it back. Words and actions.” Vergil nodded.

“I see.” He looked up. “Shall we go have cake?”

“Before the boys eat it all? Yes.”