Gwyndolin and Lothric

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
It's been a while since Gwyndolin has been in The Room. Long enough that he's been planning a small wedding since the last time he was here- technically, the wedding could have happened ages ago, it's absolutely not going to be anything other than small, and there's little to show off for, but... Gwyndolin still wished to have some semblance of pomp, you know? Let him have a glimmer of the fantasies of his childhood, when he dreamt of someday marrying a handsome prince or knight in a big royal wedding.

And so it's been some months of planning and preparation, cobbling together decorations and foodstuffs and fine clothes, cleaning the palace a bit, particularly the chapel they plan to hold the wedding in. That sort of thing.

And that's why, when Gwyndolin is poofed into The Room for the first time in ages, he's already in a comforting lounging position- where he had previously been on a chaise, leaning onto the arm, he is now on a floor-cushion, leaning onto the low table. He's wearing slightly more comfortable attire than usual, looser and more comfortable and with less layers, but still presentable and not yet pajamas, and a translucent veil sits over his silver hair. His hands are bare, where they had been working at some bobbins on a lace pillow, which has been teleported with him, onto the table as he leans onto it.

"...Oh?" he glances up in surprise when he notices the change, and recognizes his surroundings, "Ah, 'tis been quite a while-" And then he realizes no one else is here yet to hear him. Is he the first...?


The sign usually on the table is currently blank, with no indication of why it's brought him here, whereas usually it has instructions for a game. Instead, a rather lovely tea set on a tray, complete with dishes for cream and sugar and honey and two cups and saucers, sits on the table, steam gently wafting from the teapot, taking with it a scent of a delicate tea, with vanilla and something floral and a hint of ginger. Gwyndolin eyes it for a few moments, before reaching over to draw the tray closer to himself, so that he can pour himself a cup, and start to add his preferences for tea and sugar and a touch of honey...

itsAlana06/26/2018
Lothric had... if he had not shared his time in this strange place with his brother, he might have imagined it a dream, recurring but finally passing; as it was, he could but assume that whatever powers had entangled him and his brother in its web had forgotten them, or moved on to more interesting subjects.

He supposes he must have been mistaken.

It was the change in light that gave him the clue that he was not where he had been, and his soft but rather worn mattress being replaced under him by a pile of soft pillows, and the warmth of this room, diffuse but unmistakable; he knew where he was even before he looked up from where he'd been fiddling with a strand of his jewelry.

Alas, that his brother, who had been asleep at his side, was not with him-- but he was not alone. "... Is that thee, Dark Sun Gwyndolin?" he asks, after a moment of squinting in the light, and looks around him, searching for others. "Am I brought to play a game again?"

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
"Oh." Gwyndolin starts a second time, when the much larger shape of none other than Prince Lothric appears suddenly quite close, just around the table corner, really, startling the poor God somewhat. He does a little subdued jolt in his seat in his surprise, before settling back down- by his grace, he did not spill a drop of tea. "Prince Lothric. Yes, 'tis I."

"I know not. I am first here, and this place, for once, is offering little clues to its designs." He hesitates, about to set the teapot down... and then sighs softly through his nose, supposing he should be courteous, regardless of the discomfort Lothric often brings to him. "... There is tea provided. Shall I pour a cup for thee?"

itsAlana06/26/2018
Lothric looks down at him, blinking, and says, "'Twould be rather churlish to say no, I suppose." He shifts and shuffles a bit, and murmurs, "I wonder who else will come? It has been some time since this place... graced me with its attention; have the other attendees been more consistent?"

Because, of course, he doesn't know that no one has been to one of these in months and months. :V

His shuffling and shifting culminates in him pushing the pillows into a pile he can rest against, elbows on the ground and face rather closer to Gwyndolin-- and from this distance, even he can see that Gwyndolin's rather modest clothes are less heavy than normal-- though he supposes, last they met, Gwyndolin was in considerably less.

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
Gwyndolin pours Lothric a cup as well, which has, while he wasn't looking, grown a few sizes to be proportional. Gwyndolin finds himself sure this won't be an issue, despite the size of the teapot- knowing this place, it probably refills itself. At last, he sets the pot down, so he can add cream and sugar and a dollop of honey to his tea, so that Lothric can then have his turn with the additives.

"I know not. I have not been here in many moons. I believe the Dragonslayer might have, and perhaps my brother, been whisked away just once in that time... But not more than that." He frowns slightly. "It seemed as if our times here were coming to a close..."

And despite how often he found himself disgusted or mortified or uncomfortable in this place, he also finds himself... sad at the prospect of it ending.

itsAlana06/26/2018
"Oh," Lothric says, softly. "... That is a shame, for it was a distraction from hiding away in my bedroom." He takes the honey and adds a very, very generous amount to his tea, and wraps his spindly fingers around the warm cup, with a little sigh. "I suppose it, like all pleasant things, must come to an end... though it does rather bring forth the question of why we are here, now." He sips his cup, and says, rather dryly, "Does it think that a tea party is a suitable final game to play with us?"

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
"Yes, it is a shame..." He says quietly, nodding his veiled head. "I had never before been able to be so... social. Nor have anything close to so many friends. I am happy, at least, to have my brother and our knights, at least, back home, where once I had been quite alone."

In an accidental mirror of Lothric, Gwyndolin has also wrapped his hands around his cup, to take in the warmth. "I suppose so. I will not argue, if so, 'tis much better than some other games it likes." He takes a sip. "Though I could ask for more preferred company, there is still company I would like much less."

Holy backhanded half-compliment, batman.

itsAlana06/26/2018
Lothric laughs, startled at the rudeness, and says, "I am surprised that there is any company you would like less than mine! Surely almost anyone else would be more agreeable and easier to converse with. Even my dear brother..." Which is quite a feat, considering Lorian's ability to converse is quite low without a slate and chalk to help him. "Or has it been so long that you have forgotten how unpleasant I am?"

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
"Despite thy repeated assumptions, Prince Lothric, I do not dislike thee. There are many I like more, but that is not the same as dislike. And there are even more I like very little." He scrunches his nose. "I have met many coarse, crude, and sometimes terrible people in this place. Beside such people, that I am oft made uncomfortable by thee seems small in comparison, despite thy clear attempts to bring forth my dislike to thee."

He pauses, and frowns down at his teacup, before murmuring, "I fear thou art much less fond of me than the other way around, with how eager thou art to have me dislike thee. I only partially understand why."

itsAlana06/26/2018
"Oh," Lothric says, and looks into his teacup, swirling the hot liquid back and forth. "... I had rather thought I had made it clear why, but my memory has ever been as weak as my body, I'm afraid." He takes a sip, feels the heat fill his mouth, slide into him, fill his stomach and warm him against the chill of his own existence, and tries not to think of the times he has listened to Gwyndolin speak and felt a kinship to him; it is... it's beside the point. He is sure there are many awful people he could feel kinship with. It means nothing. "You and the Fire can be blamed for every tragedy that has befallen my family, and that my life is sought by every daring undead that can find their way into my castle; the Gods and Angels blamed for the civil war that tore my country apart; and all the sorrow that drove my mother to flee came from powers above us, leaving only me and my brother with our minds and bodies..." He hesitates, and murmurs, "Well, you could hardly call our bodies intact."

He takes a gulp of tea, and does not meet Gwyndolin's eyes. "It is hard to forget such things, even on the days when my past seems to be behind a thick fog."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
 "... No, thou hast told me of some of this, thou art not forgetting." Gwyndolin says, though he looks slightly shaken, his hands curling more tightly around his teacup. "I know of thy forceful ties to the flame, and I do not envy thy grooming, though I can only refuse thy blame for thy fate."

Filling himself with a confidence he only halfway feels, he straightens his back more, and tips his head to hold it higher, prouder. "Though I do indeed favor the linking of the fire- even now I await the prophesized Chosen Undead to guide in the quest to succeed the Great Lord Gwyn- but I will not take blame where it is not mine." He pauses a moment, hesitating, before continuing, "... Unless the version of myself in thy dreaded future has collapsed in my morals, that I cannot say. But the Dark Sun that now sits before you finds thy grooming... detestable. The linking of the fire is a noble sacrifice to make, but such a sacrifice but be made with consent. I am disgusted that such a holy decision would be so disrespected as something to be forced upon the unwilling!"

He raised his voice a little there, frowning, and has to pause again to calm, and sip his tea, before he continues. "... I am sorry of thy mother. Until my brother had recently returned to me, I had no family left to me." He says, wetting his lips with his tongue a moment. "My brother banished, my father the first to link the fire, and my sister... Like thy mother, she also fled as the world we knew collapsed around us. I am sorry as well for thy family and thy kingdom, and for thy pitiable fate, but I will not accept the blame as I know myself."

itsAlana06/26/2018
Lothric stares deep into his cup, and rather wishes it were something stronger than tea, his pale brow furrowed. "... 'Tis little enough comfort for me, that you would not have me be unwilling kindle, when all the world, from strangers I have never met to my own wetnurse, is desperate to see my soul burned to ash so that they may live another decade or two in a collapsing, infected, dying world." But he does not blame Gwyndolin out loud, when he says that; just says it is little comfort.

He is silent, for long, long moments, and then murmurs, "Despite it all, despite bearing me only to have a perfect sacrifice, I miss my parents very much. I miss having my mother's arm around me when I am taken ill, and I miss my father having words of wisdom in his mouth, not cries of madness. Lorian is a great comfort to me, but it's all been so... so terrible, for so long... I do not see why a world like ours would deserve any more sacrifices made in its name."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
Gwyndolin is also staring into his own cup, and this is exactly why he does not like being around Lothric. He does not like this future of his world that Lothric speaks of, not one bit. It gives him great existential dread, and a creeping feeling of worthlessness, pointlessness. "...I am sorry for the shape the world has taken in thy future, to thrust such a fate upon thee so. I would never wish it upon another, this I swear. Though I cannot understand thy view that our world is not worth the attempt, the hope... and I am not sure I wish to know why. I do not wish to lose my hope, not just yet, if thou please."

After a moment, there may be a quiet sniff from Gwyndolin, before he takes another couple sips of his tea. "I miss my father and my sister each and every day, and my brother, before he returned to me. My father was wise and powerful, a savior to our realm in his time, and I was honored to be his shadow. And my sister..." He sighs a bit wistfully, and ignores the prickling at the corners of his eyes. "Hast thou heard of the Sun Princess? I am not sure if the names and deeds of the old Gods survive in thy future. Aside mine own, it seems..."

And what an odd feeling that is, he realizes. That when once he had been a secret God, but someday his name will be known to many, while the rest may be forgotten...

itsAlana06/26/2018
Lothric shakes his head, eyes lifting to Gwyndolin. He... he supposes that, with the eons between them, it wouldn't be terrible useful for Gwyndolin to despair now. It wouldn't mean anything, for Gwyndolin to despair now. "... It would hardly be timely, to lose your hope so early," he says, quietly, "but you must understand why I resent it, when hope for the world has brought me such pain." Slowly, he sets his teacup down, and folds his arms on the table, pillowing his cheek, clouded eyes regarding the god, the dark smudges under his eyes and the veins dark under his sickly skin plain for Gwyndolin, so soft and fair and pampered, to see.

"I have not heard of her, no," he says, after a moment. "You are the only one of the gods whose name is commonly spoken, anymore, for you are the only old god to still exist where mortals and undead may reach."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/26/2018
Gwyndolin shivers, and he smiles slightly, before it's pulled into a grimace... and then another, smaller smile. "... That is a terribly odd feeling, I must admit. That my name alone is the only one remembered amongst the Gods, when in the life I have thus far known, my name was only ever heard in whispers, the God in the shadows." He laughs softly, though there is only a little mirth in it. "'Tis a shame, though, that my Lord Father's name has been forgotten despite his great deeds and sacrifice for this world. The first Lord of Cinder, and before that, Sunlight Himself."

His smile fades for a moment, before returning again, warmer. "A further shame still, that my sister be forgotten, when she was so long beloved, but I suppose that is the lot when she was oft overshadowed by greater deeds. It is so much easier to forget the great warmth and kindness of the greatest of women, the embodiment of motherhood already even before she was ever a true mother." His smile grows as he speaks of his sister, genuine warmth seeping into his face and eyes. "I loved her dearly, as did everyone. It was difficult not to love her, her kindness, her warmth, her love for all life and light. She was a goddess of bounty and fertility, and her light was truly bountiful and magnanimous, her maidens the greatest, gentlest, kindest healers that hath ever been known."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric smiles, a little, a faint twitch of the lips, and says, "That is a shame... for my mother would surely have been among her faithful, if she had but known of her; she was a great healer herself, and kind and warm and gentle, and quite good at miracles herself. I had not the faith for them..." His gaze slides away, staring into the uncanny emptiness of the room, and his smile fades as he murmurs, "But not so great a healer, not so heavenly a blessing, that she could find a way to fix our breaking family. I do not think I'll ever see her again. Surely, if she were to return to her children, her mad husband and her curséd sons, she would have found a way before now..."

He sighs, wisftully, no bitterness in his voice; he understands full well turning away from a battle you cannot throw yourself into.  Perhaps he got it from her. "I wonder if she has found some new place to bring healing, spread her smile and the miracles she knows, somewhere where the infection has not spread too far to stop. Another land, maybe distant Carim, or someplace with a name none in Lothric had ever heard..." His claw-like nail traces over the wood of the table, foggy eyes trying to remember her face. Soft, with smiling lips, and her hair tumbling in warm brown locks over her shoulders or braided in a crown-- he can't remember the shape of her eyes, but the way food tasted better, richer, and bothered his stomach less, when she was the one holding the spoon and bowl and fed him during sickness... "I hope they love her as much as I do, wherever she is."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
"Not so different than I," Gwyndolin chuckles softly, "I have ever held great faith, yet was never able to truly channel it into proper miracles... save for a few of mine own devising as a God."

Lothric's talking of his mother makes Gwyndolin smile sadly, though, feeling awfully wistful and longing himself. "She sounds so much like my sister, yes. I know not where she has gone, only that she wanted to leave far, far away from broken Lordran... Perhaps with luck, despite the distance of time, they found the same place." Gwyndolin glances up, to smile softly at Lothric, and reaches out a hand to gently pat Lothric's larger, more clawlike one. "Perhaps she has been welcomed into my sister's grace. I think Gwynevere would love to have one such as her beside her maidens. Thy mother seemed a wonderful woman."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric makes a choked noise, head rising from where he'd rested it on his arm--

"Gwynevere?" he says, and-- oh, oh, Gwyn, Gwynevere and Gwyndolin and Gwyndio, he'd never thought of it, his mother's name just a part of his childhood, not like these glowing gods-- it had never even crossed his mind--

He looks rather stunned and a little silly, staring openly at Gwyndolin, stretched out on his bed of pillows and cracked lips parted.

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin has yet to understand Lothric's reaction, and raises a silver eyebrow from under his veil up at the towering string bean prince. "Yes, Gwynevere. I realize the names of the other Gods have been lost to thy time, but 'tis not difficult to guess that the Great Lord Gwyn blessed his children with his name." Gwyndolin smiles slightly, happy to speak more of his sister. "The Lady Gwynevere, Godmother, Princess of Sunlight, the very symbol of bounty and fertility, of healing and kindness and love. Cherished by all, until the world began to fall apart, and it was no place for her to stay."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric makes another strange noise, and kind of... lowers his forehead to the table, and blinks very hard, long hands tangling in his hair. "Oh. I see. That makes sense." His mother had always seemed... shining, divine, a light in his tired, sickly life when his twin wasn't beside him, but... but he has assumed that was because she was his mother.

Should he-- should he tell Gwyndolin? Oh, surely Gwyndolin would find out. Or figure it out. No doubt of it.

With a strange bark of laughter, he lifts his head, and asks, a kind of wild smile spreading across his face, "Does this mean I should call you Uncle Gwyndolin, now?" He blinks, and murmurs, "I am half-god? I'm half-god on my mother's side? Oh, no, that's terrible." He laughs, again, hand pressed over his mouth, cloudy eyes fixed on Gwyndolin.

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
"... I beg thy pardon?" He asks, still not quite getting it. "A musing that perhaps luck would send thy mother to my sister's far-flung court, among her maidens, is hardly cause to call us family, prince Lothric! Nor especially not to give thee claim to divinity!"

He's even mildly offended, and snorts dismissively. "Though thou'rt clearly not of human stock, I'd count thy pedigree as from the stock of the kin of the divine, the stock from which we came before Lord Gwyn claimed divinity for us. The same sort as Sir Ornstein, that is, that stock came to become the upper echelons after my Father's rise, and oft entered royal and noble bloodlines of the human kingdoms..." blah blah blah Gwyndolin doesn't get it. He really hasn't figured it out! Oh, poor Lothric.

itsAlana06/27/2018
Oh, he doesn't understand--

"Gwyndolin--" Lothric says, rather hoarsely, and coughs. "Gwyndolin!" he says, as strongly as his voice and heart will allow, and reaches out to place one finger across the god's mouth. Once he is certain that he has Gwyndolin's attention, has hushed him for a moment, he says, "Gwynevere was my mother's name."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin's rambling is cut short by his name and Lothric's finger very much cutting off the flow from his lips, physically, with a funny muffled noise and then a slight glower up at Lothric. You have his attention- oh. Oh, that gives Gwyndolin pause, his shining, moonlight eyes going wide. He goes slightly slack, sitting back a bit, before... before shaking his head, and waving his hand dismissively.

"Surely 'tis a coincidence! Do not be so silly, Prince Lothric!" He reasons, ever the God of Denial. "The names of the Gods may have been forgotten, or at the very least the divine ties of our names. 'Twould be expected for the faithful to name their children after the Gods, in an attempt to invoke their holy virtues, and for such names to become entered into naming lexicons... Surely 'tis not so unbelievable that thy mother had merely been given the good fortune to have the name of a forgotten Goddess whose virtues she extolled in her own life! Surely."

Yes, surely. Uh huh.

itsAlana06/27/2018
"Is it so expected? I've never heard of a child named Gwyn, or Gwyndolin, or Gwyndio; and how many women are kind, warm, healing mothers, and bear the name of your sister, and teach miracles of healing, and-- and flee when their world starts to fall apart?" He's certain, now. His mother-- the Princess of Sunlight-- Gwynevere, Gwyndolin's sister-- it's too funny and awful not to be true. Of course his father would wed the daughter of the first Lord of Cinder, to try and produce one of the last. And of course his mother, daughter of the first of the old Gods, would be divine indeed in his eyes...

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
"I-I..." Gwyndolin's denial, for once, starts to waver, and his silver brows knit together. "But... But Prince Lothric, it cannot be true. It simply cannot! I... My sister is married to Lord Flann, bore several heavenly children with him, last I had heard- unless thy father has secretly been the flame God all this time, it makes no sense!"

He clings to the last scraps of his denial, utterly shaken by the dawning reality. "It makes no sense..." He falters, and then asks, without looking at Lothric, "Thy mother... did she... did her eyes shine like the sun itself, golden and glowing with warmth, like my brother's? Like mine, but with true light, like gold?"

Gwyndolin and Gwyndio's eyes shimmer with their own lights, like they hold within them the lights of the moon and sun in place of proper irises, leaving them pupiless and shimmering and divinely unreal. Gwynevere's eyes were identical to their brother's, Sun Princess that she was.

itsAlana06/27/2018
"I thought it was all the miracles, all her faith, that made her glow so-- that she knew them so well and was so full of them that they spilled out of her, the opposite to my father's madness pouring out of him to twist his body," he whispers, and suddenly there's tears in his eyes, unasked for-- he gathers up his cooling tea, and sips it without tasting, trying to busy his mind. "And her hair-- as soft and straight as my brother's, but three times as thick, and shining like polished wood as she took care of me... she would let me help her brush it, sometimes, when I was well enough to sit up, and there's never been anything so lovely."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Well, that does it. Everything Gwyndolin thought he knew of his sister's departure, of her life beyond Lordran, shattered thusly like spun glass. "I do not understand." He whispers simply, moonlight eyes staring into the infinite space of The Room. "Why would she... How? What would..."

After a few moments of aborted questions, finally one forms whole on his lips. "... But to conceive a cursed child to groom for the flame without consent, that is... she would never!"

itsAlana06/27/2018
Oh... Lothric's heart softens, despite himself, and he says, very, very quietly, "It is a very, very long time between our times, Gwyndolin. I don't know what happened to my mother, to change her, when she seems to have been otherwise so much the same. I-- I did not even know she was a goddess." He reaches out and, carefully, pours Gwyndolin more tea. "... Perhaps she did not realize how determined my father was, to sire the next Lord of Cinder. Perhaps she thought it was her duty, as daughter of the first Lord, to continue his legacy. Perhaps she thought I would be a better man than I am, and would go willingly to the chopping block." He wipes his eyes, carefully, and says, "I would tell you which of those was the truth, but I know it not myself, my uncle."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin watches Lothric pour him more tea in brief silence, and does not move to make his tea sweeter nor creamier as he usually likes, instead seemingly frozen and... hurt, somehow. Lothric's attempts to reason away his mother's- Gwyndolin's sister's- motivations bring a measure of comfort, but it is still only guesses at the truly cruel results of reality.

"... I am sorry." He whispers at last, his eyes shimmering and stinging. "It seems my family truly is directly to blame for thy hardship. And made worse that such cruelty was delivered to mine own blood."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric opens his mouth, to defend his mother, that bright and shining light in his heart-- but-- damn, he had blamed Gwyndolin's family and the Gods themselves for his misfortune.

"... This means Lorian is your blood, as well," he says, softly. "I should tell him, when I return home. You can take pride in him, knowing that your family has someone so brave and wonderful, who slays demons and protects those he loves with all his might. With his very soul." He takes a sip of his tea, and says, "He is her son, too."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin inhales slowly, and then lets it out in a soft sigh. "H-He... He sounds wonderful." He says softly, "I can see how he could be related to my father, to my brother. Something to be proud of. But..." But...?

He reaches out, once more, to touch Lothric's hand with his own, his hands bare of gloves, pale skin soft as petals. "I now see that perhaps I am not such a fluke. That the apple that fell far from the tree still came from that tree, and another may yet fall beside it..." He offers a hesitant, yet warily earnest smile. "Perhaps 'tis not merely Lorian I should find pride in?"

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric doesn't quite-- know-- oh--

He's just dried his eyes, but they're wet again, and he swallows thickly. "Oh," he says, and then says nothing else, gaze falling to where his-- his uncle's hand touches his, so soft, and nearly the same temperature as his own--

"... Perhaps," he says, very quietly. "If you can find some virtues in your other nephew, then perhaps you could be proud of those as well." He licks his lips, and sets down his cup, and slowly shuffles his long and fragile body to be sitting upright again, kneeling and with his head bowed but not draped so-- so intimately close to Gwyndolin. "And if there is some comfort in knowing you are not the only misshapen apple flung from the tree, then I could not deny you that."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin's smile only grows. "Thou art a sorcerer, like mineself. And here I once thought myself truly alone, only to find blood so much like mine. 'Tis strong in thee, Lothric, and I can only assume that thou art touched by Moonlight." He takes his hand back, but continues to smile, pausing only to start to sweeten and cream his tea. "Why would I not be proud to know of such an accomplished sorcerer sharing my blood? I am utterly delighted."

And then he falters slightly, his smiling barely beginning to fade. "And... perhaps it is somewhat a comfort to know that I am not the only evidence of tainted blood, of weakness in my Father's line. That, perhaps, my repulsiveness, my weakness, is not...merely a fault of mine own birth. But that feels selfish."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric makes a soft noise, and says, "No, I-- I understand what you mean. Though I cannot see how you could call yourself repulsive, when you are sitting right beside me..."

You know! Good self-esteem! The best!

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin chuckles softly, and allows one of his snakes to slither around Lothric's knees. "Thine eyes are quite poor, dear nephew, but surely thou art not so blind as to miss my particular deformity?" He asks, "It seems, between our blood, thou hast traded my serpents for thy advanced illness. I am not sure which of us comes off the poorer."

And then his jesting, self-deprecating attitude falters, and he curls in on himself slightly. "... I am thankful, at least, that there was not a repeat of my upbringing in thine, when thou wert born so weak and clearly attuned to magic. Perhaps Gwynevere did not wish to repeat father's mistake." And then he smiles again, a soft one. "... I suppose that settles that she was not merely humoring me. She truly believed...."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric is not-- he's not sure he's ready to be treated as family by Gwyndolin, to be... to be privy to his intimate thoughts and fears and insecurities like this; it makes that soft ember of kinship he'd tried to bury instead burn red in his gut, and he fears it'll burn right through his walls to his heart and cause him to start to care about Gwyndolin.

But-- but he is a sorcerer, a pursuer of knowledge, even if he has seen first-hand what knowledge can do to men much stronger than him. So, despite his better sense, despite the ember burning in him, he asks, voice low, "Your upbringing...?"

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin glances up at Lothric with an odd look- like, 'really?' "I know thy vision is poor," He says, again, "But I did not think so poor as to miss certain... things about me." Things like breasts, perhaps? "Especially not when thou hast seen me in such a state of undress, back when we had that game upon the beach. Especially not when thou hadst grabbed me bodily in order to teleport me into the sea!"

He laughs, but there's not a lot of heart in it. "And I recall when we were first making out acquaintance, dear Sir Ornstein was still in a state of ignorance, and calling me by old titles..."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Oh. He's speaking of his-- his endowments. "... I thought it would be improper to draw attention to them, when I know you are a Lord, a-- a god, and not a goddess, in my time; and I thought Sir Ornstein was, maybe, as dull as he is handsome, to be..." He gestures, unable to come up with the word for 'misgendering you when everyone else had it right', but hopefully Gwyndolin has the idea. "... But I take it that your upbringing has some influence upon your, ah... form?"

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
"Sir Ornstein is intelligent and clever, but often a bit slow on the uptake in such things." Gwyndolin says, a small giggling escaping him at Lothric's impression of the poor knight. But then the mirth fades, and the misery of his life settles back in. "And yes, it does. See, my Lord Father, in his wisdom, he knew that... that his lastborn, born so strongly swathed in the aura of the moon, bursting to the seams with magical potential, qualities most feminine, in combination with a frail and sickly body... It would not be respected as a son. It would at least be somewhat less shameful for the Sun Lord's moonlit, serpent-cursed child to be seen by all as... as a daughter."

He pauses for a breath, one that tremors slightly for just a second. "Therefore... I was raised as one, and my.. my body given direction thus."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric looks at Gwyndolin, taking that in, and then says, rather aghast, "So he changed you for the sake of his own ego?"
Lothric has no illusions that his own father wanted to have a son who was a Lord of Cinder, true, but there was-- there was some meaning to it besides the status, the pride; there was, supposedly, the extending of life in their world, even if it was only dragging out the sickness longer. He didn't wish to link the fire, but he could understand why his father thought it was a good idea.

Moulding Gwyndolin into a form with... endowments... just so he wouldn't have to have a sickly, malformed son?

Lothric suspects his grandfather would not have liked him at all, and in the same thought, realizes that he is the grandson of the first Lord.

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin completely just... gapes at Lothric. "I- How *dare*-" Aaaand here comes the defensive anger, Gwyndolin straightening his back and slamming his teacup down, the contents sloshing over the rim a bit. "I will not allow the Great Lord to be slandered thus! He was a great, wise man, and I will not stand such blasphemy to his good name!"

The rage dies down just slightly, but the defensiveness remains. "He made the decision he thought would be best. That I would be more respected, less ill-treated, than I already would be by the people for my deformities and differences. That were I raised as a son, the mockery and shame of Lord Gwyn's shadowed, repulsive lastborn would be far greater." He takes a breath, and says with no small hint of desperate belief, "He was *protecting* me."

itsAlana06/27/2018
He recoils at Gwyndolin's vehemence, brow creasing, and says, "I-- I do not see the wisdom in trying to avoid shame by changing your nature. And in any case, you are not ill-treated, or disrespected-- or thought of as a daughter-- so whatever his wisdom was, even you do not follow it..."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin makes a pained expression. "I have only lived as a man so long as Anor Londo has been empty of the Gods." He whispers. "I did not defy my father's design until he was gone, and my sister abandoned me, taking the remaining Gods with her, until Anor Londo lay near-empty. And even then, I stayed out of sight, and identified myself to those who sought the Lord of the Darkmoon."

He lowers his head, shaking it. "Thou art truly ignorant of what came before." He says, voice approaching a whisper. "Before, I was the sullen, brooding Goddess of Moonlight. Lord Gwyn's disgusting, disappointing little girl. Hardly anyone could deign to look upon me, to see the serpents I stride upon. Oh, my face is pretty enough, yes, and there were even men who saw that, and had yet to see what horrors lie beneath, who tried to serenade me, or shower me with compliments, but the moment they caught a hint of scales and hissing..."

He swallows dryly, and then remembers he has tea, and takes a sip, thankful for the calming quality of tea. "... I had some respect, at least. Magic was not much loved in Anor Londo, but I had my uses, and none could deny that even in a misliked art, I was a truly skilled prodigy. I had other such skills I could be respected for, and even found a place as an effective leader of Knights, unexpected for a daughter, especially for Lord Gwyn's weakling, scholarly lastborn. I had a measure of respect. More, at least, than I would have had as... as a weak, effeminate, mage of a boy, in the House of Sunlight. At least, as a daughter, some of my ill-favored traits were not as inappropriate."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric does not say, "it sounds to me like the Gods of Anor Londo had their heads up their arses," but he is thinking it very loudly, exhausted face creased with consternation, breath rough, that ember of kinship that had burned brighter as they spoke lighting into a flame in his gut. "... I don't wish to upset you by saying anything bad about your father," he says, instead, "so I believe I should, perhaps, not say anything at all."

HE DOESNT LIKE IT, NO SIR!!

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin makes a noise like the breath he just took to speak has instead been forced out, looking at Lothric in utter disbelief. It seems not saying it, but saying you're not saying it, doesn't really do much against the offense it would cause. But yet, Gwyndolin cannot bring himself to say much else, besides a stubborn, "Do not speak ill of the Great Lord."

And then, "I have- I have lace I must be making." And turns his attention to his long-forgotten lace pillow, from which a few feet of beautiful lace is already neatly piled up, and a good couple handfuls of bobbins dangle from. "At least lace doth not speak on what it does not understand."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric's voice says "Wait!" before he can think, and his hand reaches towards Gwyndolin, distress clear in his face. He-- he's just-- he wasn't *trying* to upset Gwyndolin this time-- "Gwyndolin," he says, and licks his lips. "I-- I didn't mean to..."

Gwyndolin is sudden, unexpected family, another tie to his mother, someone who maybe, almost, understand what it's like to be shaped into something against your wishes, even if his rebellion against it only came after no one was there to see it. They are two misshapen apples from the same half-rotted tree, and-- and--

He doesn't know what else; he only knows that he doesn't want this conversation to end like this.

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin stops at Lothric reaching for him, his eyes falling on that claw-like hand and its black veins and dry skin. And then he sighs, looking up at Lothric's face. "... I love my father." He says softly, "And I believe in him. I have great faith in his wisdom as a father, a God, a King. I... I can't *not*."

It is very infrequently that his doubts, his denial, comes so close to the surface. And rarer still that he seems almost aware of it, almost acknowledging. So close to admitting, to understanding, that his worldview is terribly fragile, and he's not yet sure he can accept a world where his father has faults. "My faith is one of the few virtues I have, Lothric."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric's hand drops, and he says, voice going quiet, "I don't understand, but I have ever been faithless. I just..."

His shoulders hunch, and he says, even more quiet, his voice a whisper, "What if the game was to make us converse, and once you turn away from me, we never see each other again? What if I have gained an uncle, and you could tell me all about my mother as you knew her, but only if we stay here, drinking tea?" What if, now that Lothric wants to-- to have something, to bury the hatchet and take what he can get and have a little more family, at least for a little while-- what if they part forever?

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin's face was already holding that desperation and denial, but at Lothric's words, somehow, it crumples, and Gwyndolin sags in his seat. "That... would be truly cruel." He whispers, his voice tremoring, eyes prickling at the corners again. "To bless me with family I had not yet known, family so alike to myself and to my brother, only to... to rip them apart from me."

He makes a small, despairing noise, and when he speaks, his voice starts to crack. "I have already lost much of my family. I do not wish to lose more, so freshly gained."

itsAlana06/27/2018
Lothric can't help but--

He reaches out, and folds his hand around Gwyndolin's, huge and bony and monstrous but gentle around Gwyndolin's elegant fingers, though it trembles slightly. He slides a little closer, edging around the table, so that they are closer together-- Lothric huge and bony and monstrous beside Gwyndolin, but desperate for connection, thigh against his uncle. "Then let's try to make this last," he whispers, "for at least a little while longer."

Potente Byrd Mæmes06/27/2018
Gwyndolin sniffs, and his eyes shimmer, not only with growing wetness. He's really, truly touched by the gesture, and he accepts it wholly, and lays his other hand over Lothric's in return, before leaning against his rather tall nephew. "I have never disliked thee, Lothric." He says softly, rubbing his thumb against Lothric's dry-skinned hand. "I found thy company uncomfortable- for the topics thou wouldst speak of, thy ill future, and the clear dislike held for me. But I never disliked thee myself. And I think I could quite like thee, if thou wouldst cease trying to turn me against thee."

He sniffles, and takes his hand from Lothric's so that he can rub his knuckles delicately against his eyes. "Would that I could take thee with me. Pluck thee, and thy brother, from thy dying future and hunting undead seeking thy head. Lordran is overrun with hollows already in my time, but Anor Londo is quite safe and comfortable, if empty... But two more would make it slightly less so." He gives a half-hearted laugh that interrupts itself with a little hiccup. "Alas. I doubt it can be so. A shame. Thou wilt miss my wedding."