Those who aren't ken to fire cannot paint a world. Those who are consumed by fire, must not paint a world.
To paint a world - A Dark Souls and Worm Quest
- Thread starter Axolotlmann
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A Greeting
Axolotlmann
Ambyostoma sapiens
- Location
- Immer da wo der Fisch gewesen ist
Greetings. I am the Axolotlmann and this is a Dark Souls and Worm Fusion/ Crossover. As you all know that means that everything has gone to shit, nobody gets a happy ending and no one has a clue about whatever the Fuck is happening. I think this will be fun and I hope some people are interested in something like this.
I try to maintain a different narrative here than in Azula Quest, one more concerned with the little picture of the world instead of the broad description, one more focused on experience and description than on machinations. This quest will be about discovering who we are, who we were and who we want to be. I try to keep everything as confusing, strange and disturbing as this humble Salamander is able to. Is it really madness if you kknow the truth?
Now let us get on with it. We have a world to paint.
I try to maintain a different narrative here than in Azula Quest, one more concerned with the little picture of the world instead of the broad description, one more focused on experience and description than on machinations. This quest will be about discovering who we are, who we were and who we want to be. I try to keep everything as confusing, strange and disturbing as this humble Salamander is able to. Is it really madness if you kknow the truth?
Now let us get on with it. We have a world to paint.
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Character sheet
Axolotlmann
Ambyostoma sapiens
- Location
- Immer da wo der Fisch gewesen ist
Name:
Profession:
Titles:
Soul:
0: A rotten soul without memories, unfit to even be kindling. Incapable of understanding human speech and emotions. But given a purpose such a soul is maybe not lost to the rot, even if the body resembles those who are. Augmenting this soul with the essence of other, powerful souls, may save it from its terrible fate.
Profession:
Titles:
Soul:
0: A rotten soul without memories, unfit to even be kindling. Incapable of understanding human speech and emotions. But given a purpose such a soul is maybe not lost to the rot, even if the body resembles those who are. Augmenting this soul with the essence of other, powerful souls, may save it from its terrible fate.
None
None
Last edited:
The Atelier I
Axolotlmann
Ambyostoma sapiens
- Location
- Immer da wo der Fisch gewesen ist
Rot is not an inherently evil thing. Everything living rots with time, if it is not consumed by flame beforehand. That is just how this and every other world works. Or should work anyway. Despite its natural existence, rot is also an inherently terrifying thing. It is subtle, creeping into every corner of the world under the cover of darkness, unnoticed by light and flame. And there it stays, waiting for the light to fade, destroying and corrupting everything without mercy. What does not die, rots and this world is a truly rotten one indeed.
You can see it now. For a moment you are one with the world, one with the rot and you despair. Your soul, bright and burning starts to rot under your own eyes, your body following swiftly.
You try to hold onto something, on who you are, what you love, on where you are or at least onto this moment but it seems not possible as the uncaring darkness robs you of everything.
You are rotting at an even faster pace, your memories leaving first, rotting together with your body, so you do not know weather you are dead or alive for rot is a power that transcends things like life and death. In this moment you don't know who you are or what you did, but you know that you are nothing special, just another victim of a rotting world that should have died long ago. And you laugh in a last act of defiance against the ongoing rot as you see for but a moment the truth of the rotting world, its body riddled with parasites that keep it alive far beyond its due date. How wonderful would it be to see it all go up in flames you think, before that thought is gone too and only the rot threatens to destroy your mind completely after it already took your memories and your body. You feel it gnawing at your soul and a mindless howl is your last contribution to this world that yearns for flame.
And then there is fire.
Two beautiful, amber flames glowing down at you, keeping the rot in check and you are yourself again, yet not for you do not know who you are. There is a girl above you, small, very thin, looking almost malnourished. Her long reddish brown dress is stained with a lot of small impurities that smell of darkness and fate and it hangs down from her small form. Her hair is long, pooling on the floor even from her high position and an extremely cute beret sits, a bit tilted, on her, similarly tilted, head, from where these golden, fiery eyes look down on your beaten form.
She shakes her head slightly, while you struggle to seat yourself upright. You are sitting in a small chamber in what is probably a deserted house or something similar. There are no windows and the iron door to this place is shut and has been covered in strange writing that is almost impossible for you to decipher.
She herself sits upon a simple stool made of wood, one that is quite high, in front of an enormous, empty canvas that looks a bit dirty but is otherwise untouched. Looking comically serious she struggles down from her high perch, obviously trying to look regal and intimidating, but because of her extremely long hair and oversized clothes, she is struggling to keep herself upright, while she closes the distance between the two of you.
Now you can see the scales that are present on her neck and above her brows, violet, red and glistening in a light you cannot make out the source from. There is something important about that, something that you should not know but can't remember anyway. She looks down on you with that passionless gaze, that holds neither contempt nor pity.
As she speaks, her voice is equally devoid of emotion, but soft and gentle, caressing your martyred soul like a soft breeze and soothing the disgusting wetness of the rot for but a moment with dry, warm flame.
"Avert your eyes, rotten one. My canvas is not for the likes of you to see."
Her words are harsh and her gaze still without any passion as she looks down at your rotten and you struggle to find a memory, an action in yourself, something that makes you more than the mindless victim of an uncaring rot, coming here out of pure chance.
She furrows her brow, still staring at you. "What is your purpose in coming here to my atelier, rotten one? If you are seeking my death, then I fear that I cannot indulge your desire. I have a world to paint."
She rights herself and spreads her arms, gesturing towards the canvas behind her.
"If your purpose is a higher one, state it, so I may continue to paint." With something like a shrug she adds again: "I have a world to paint after all."
You want to answer. You cannot. Your soul is fragmented, destroyed, rotten and you know, that you exist on borrowed time, already it is no longer you, just yours and you despise this exhilarating state of having your soul quite literally in your hands. The white flame, streaked with the thousand moving infections of the rot seeps out of your hands as you desperately try to hold it from being lost forever.
What is the nature of the soul you so desperately try to keep?
[] Rotten Soul of a martyred Victim
This soul belonged to a foolish girl who endured terrible tortures at the hands of a friend. The faint whispers of loneliness and desperation are still buried within this soul, but also the potential that is granted to those who endure hardships and survive.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten Soul of a tainted Saint
This soul belonged to a sainted maiden, who did not measure up to the expectations. Is a Saint that isn't pure of heart already a failure? One has to wonder if the darkness in this soul comes from nature or nurture. Be that as it may, it is this darkness, that invited the rot.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
This soul belonged to a murderous artist, whose medium were the bodies of her victims. Even in its state this soul radiates a madness that has nothing to do with the rot, but with the dark abyss of human nature. Pulsating with the echoes of despair and bloodthirst, maybe this innocent monsters soul is the most human of them all.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten soul of a Soldier Girl
This soul belonged to a little girl that became a dutiful soldier. Is Power really an excuse to send a child to war? Even with the power over time and space, a child soldier is still a child and when it is nothing more than a rotten corpse, maybe guilt will destroy those who sent her to war in the first place. Even more so, when that corpse still moves.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten Soul of a blooddrunk huntress
This soul belonged to a huntress who believed herself a predator. But as all predators do, the owner of this soul went after the weak always fearful of those, who hunt the hunters. Rot takes all manners of beasts and humans, no matter their power and what remains is the rotten shell of a huntress who was never as mighty as she would have wished.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
You can see it now. For a moment you are one with the world, one with the rot and you despair. Your soul, bright and burning starts to rot under your own eyes, your body following swiftly.
You try to hold onto something, on who you are, what you love, on where you are or at least onto this moment but it seems not possible as the uncaring darkness robs you of everything.
You are rotting at an even faster pace, your memories leaving first, rotting together with your body, so you do not know weather you are dead or alive for rot is a power that transcends things like life and death. In this moment you don't know who you are or what you did, but you know that you are nothing special, just another victim of a rotting world that should have died long ago. And you laugh in a last act of defiance against the ongoing rot as you see for but a moment the truth of the rotting world, its body riddled with parasites that keep it alive far beyond its due date. How wonderful would it be to see it all go up in flames you think, before that thought is gone too and only the rot threatens to destroy your mind completely after it already took your memories and your body. You feel it gnawing at your soul and a mindless howl is your last contribution to this world that yearns for flame.
And then there is fire.
Two beautiful, amber flames glowing down at you, keeping the rot in check and you are yourself again, yet not for you do not know who you are. There is a girl above you, small, very thin, looking almost malnourished. Her long reddish brown dress is stained with a lot of small impurities that smell of darkness and fate and it hangs down from her small form. Her hair is long, pooling on the floor even from her high position and an extremely cute beret sits, a bit tilted, on her, similarly tilted, head, from where these golden, fiery eyes look down on your beaten form.
She shakes her head slightly, while you struggle to seat yourself upright. You are sitting in a small chamber in what is probably a deserted house or something similar. There are no windows and the iron door to this place is shut and has been covered in strange writing that is almost impossible for you to decipher.
She herself sits upon a simple stool made of wood, one that is quite high, in front of an enormous, empty canvas that looks a bit dirty but is otherwise untouched. Looking comically serious she struggles down from her high perch, obviously trying to look regal and intimidating, but because of her extremely long hair and oversized clothes, she is struggling to keep herself upright, while she closes the distance between the two of you.
Now you can see the scales that are present on her neck and above her brows, violet, red and glistening in a light you cannot make out the source from. There is something important about that, something that you should not know but can't remember anyway. She looks down on you with that passionless gaze, that holds neither contempt nor pity.
As she speaks, her voice is equally devoid of emotion, but soft and gentle, caressing your martyred soul like a soft breeze and soothing the disgusting wetness of the rot for but a moment with dry, warm flame.
"Avert your eyes, rotten one. My canvas is not for the likes of you to see."
Her words are harsh and her gaze still without any passion as she looks down at your rotten and you struggle to find a memory, an action in yourself, something that makes you more than the mindless victim of an uncaring rot, coming here out of pure chance.
She furrows her brow, still staring at you. "What is your purpose in coming here to my atelier, rotten one? If you are seeking my death, then I fear that I cannot indulge your desire. I have a world to paint."
She rights herself and spreads her arms, gesturing towards the canvas behind her.
"If your purpose is a higher one, state it, so I may continue to paint." With something like a shrug she adds again: "I have a world to paint after all."
You want to answer. You cannot. Your soul is fragmented, destroyed, rotten and you know, that you exist on borrowed time, already it is no longer you, just yours and you despise this exhilarating state of having your soul quite literally in your hands. The white flame, streaked with the thousand moving infections of the rot seeps out of your hands as you desperately try to hold it from being lost forever.
What is the nature of the soul you so desperately try to keep?
[] Rotten Soul of a martyred Victim
This soul belonged to a foolish girl who endured terrible tortures at the hands of a friend. The faint whispers of loneliness and desperation are still buried within this soul, but also the potential that is granted to those who endure hardships and survive.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten Soul of a tainted Saint
This soul belonged to a sainted maiden, who did not measure up to the expectations. Is a Saint that isn't pure of heart already a failure? One has to wonder if the darkness in this soul comes from nature or nurture. Be that as it may, it is this darkness, that invited the rot.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
This soul belonged to a murderous artist, whose medium were the bodies of her victims. Even in its state this soul radiates a madness that has nothing to do with the rot, but with the dark abyss of human nature. Pulsating with the echoes of despair and bloodthirst, maybe this innocent monsters soul is the most human of them all.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten soul of a Soldier Girl
This soul belonged to a little girl that became a dutiful soldier. Is Power really an excuse to send a child to war? Even with the power over time and space, a child soldier is still a child and when it is nothing more than a rotten corpse, maybe guilt will destroy those who sent her to war in the first place. Even more so, when that corpse still moves.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
[] Rotten Soul of a blooddrunk huntress
This soul belonged to a huntress who believed herself a predator. But as all predators do, the owner of this soul went after the weak always fearful of those, who hunt the hunters. Rot takes all manners of beasts and humans, no matter their power and what remains is the rotten shell of a huntress who was never as mighty as she would have wished.
This soul is rotten and offers very little, if any, in terms of memory but it stills holds a sense of identity and maybe that is the most important thing.
Dromeosaur
Feathery Raptor of snowy planes and frozen sea
- Location
- The land of Trees and Squirrels
[X] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
Not enough Bonesaw quests.
Not enough Bonesaw quests.
- Location
- France
If one wanted fire, then perhaps Burnscar would be sought out. Ah, if only we knew more about her backstory in general. Oh well.
[X] Rotten Soul of a tainted Saint
First choice though Bonesaw is tempting. I don't think she's a good person even without Jack, but she's always interesting. Vista could also be neat.
[X] Rotten Soul of a tainted Saint
First choice though Bonesaw is tempting. I don't think she's a good person even without Jack, but she's always interesting. Vista could also be neat.
Poliamida
(Verified Heavy Molecule)
- Location
- Beyond the Stars
Ridli isnt just a good person, she is an amazing person. The moment Jack was out of the picture the entire persona of Bonesaw started falling apart. She was so consumed by guilt that she started performing surgeries on herself without anesthetics as a form of atonement.
Please no, I have grown sick of Taylor fics.
- Location
- How should I know!?
@Axolotlmann Can we aproval vote? Cause I can't decide.
Axolotlmann
Ambyostoma sapiens
- Location
- Immer da wo der Fisch gewesen ist
If you really can't decide than you may, but there is something to be said about voting for your favorite soul You will be able to modify it later, I promise.
[X] Rotten soul of a Soldier Girl
[X] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
[X] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
- Location
- United States
[X] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
I like the art connection, although I'd be interested in any aside from more Taylor.
I like the art connection, although I'd be interested in any aside from more Taylor.
- Location
- Postcard from the Root
[X] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
Axolotlmann
Ambyostoma sapiens
- Location
- Immer da wo der Fisch gewesen ist
Inserted tally
The Atelier II
Axolotlmann
Ambyostoma sapiens
- Location
- Immer da wo der Fisch gewesen ist
[X] Rotten Soul of a monstrous artist
The girl knees before your quivering form and takes your hand in hers, still holding that rapidly fading soul to your chest. You know that it once had been yours but you cannot remember what it was like to be the soul, to hold to your heart what others take for granted every day. And as your soul fades it looses that shine, that flame and that darkness that makes it human and you cry out for yourself, as a last salute to the fading identity you still have.
And then it stops.
The slender hand of the girl are cold against your rotting skin as the soul stabilises itself, still pulsating but no longer rapidly rotting in your hands.
You shudder as the flames of your soul stabilize under the strange girls gaze. There are no real memories, just flashes, understanding of the parodied person this soul once belonged too, but trying to hold onto them is like holding water in your fingers. It slips away from your, the warmth of having a soul replaced by the emptiness of the rot. You have a vague understanding of who you were, but you do not know who you are or what you did.
She shakes her head. "The dark soul of man is still as wondrous and terrible as it was, when I set it free for the first time, as a pigment for my painting. This world, 'tis one I painted in another time, with paint extracted from the dark soul of man. Man's soul is scattered over the world, expressed in the souls of men and monsters. It was thinned before, but now..." She sighs. "I need to find a new pigment for my painting."
She is stroking the back of your hands, softly, almost lovingly while she is speaking and though you do not understand what exactly she is saying, she is a soothing presence, something that calms the monstrous hunger that seems to arise in the corners of your being that your soul has vacated.
"What a strange soul", she whispers, caressing the soul in both of your hands in such an intimate way that you cannot help but shudder. The truth of your existence, lost as it may be is bared before her and yet she is not judging, only looking curiously. "Innocent, yet cruel, terrible yet playful. I see. I must thank you. I have an inkling what kind of world I should paint but there is so much to humanity and its dark soul that I still cannot understand."
She turns her golden eyes to the soul again.
"Rotten one, I see now that you have no purpose. How could one such as you?", she says. "I suppose it matters not, where you came from. All that matters is that your bare self lies here before me. As a brave Ash once did, in another painting so long ago."
She raises her hand and there is an enormous relief upon your soul, the rot, screaming and scratching at its cage seems to be held back from your soul. The faint flames of the destroyed soul come together again and try to keep themselves together, without quite managing it.
She shakes her head. "There is naught I am able to do for this soul, poor rotten one. 'Tis too damaged, rotten and eaten by parasites as it is."
Then she raises her brows and though her face remains mostly impassive, there is a hint of eagerness to her voice. "I admit, 'tis not without selfish desire, that I ask this of you, rotten one, but would you be interested in keeping this soul away from the rot?"
She looks down upon you, as if she was expecting an answer, that you are still unable to give.
She seems almost sheepish as she makes a noise, somewhere between a hum and a giggle.
"Of course. Forgive this humble painter. I aught to explain myself better."
She turns around and stretches her arms towards the painting canvas behind her.
"This is my canvas. Behold its size. 'Tis here where I will paint a new world, again. But I have no idea, what kind of place I want this new world to be."
She gestures all around her. "Long ago, a brave Ash, helped me paint this world. Twas supposed to be a cold, dark and very gentle place." She sighs, now seemingly speaking more for herself than for your benefit, even if you are not in pain anymore and, left without purpose and knowledge, you are listening quite intensely.
"But no world can endure forever", she continues. "Everything must, at one time, die and give birth to something new. This world, 'tis no exception. It should have died quite some time ago. And yet its corpse continues to move, riddled with parasites that feasts on the canvas beneath the paint. There is no fire, to burn it and start anew, so again this humble painter needs to paint a new world."
Your soul is glowing brightly beneath the both of you as she takes it into her hands and brings it up to your chest, where your heart would beat, should beat but doesn't.
You realize now, that you are even smaller than her, a tiny thing, with thin limbs, your skin dirty and covered in the black blisters of rot. And as your soul returns to your being, the blisters are getting smaller the pus, seeping out of open wounds flows slower. Your body remains rotten but you take a breath again. And another. And the stale air around you is like a Winter's breeze, the very essence of your life.
And the girl smiles sadly at you.
"I cannot return your life to you, rotten one. Your soul is already dead and what is dead rots. I only staved of the worst for a short time until it rots again. And so I would make a bargain with you, rotten one."
She slowly runs her finger trough your dirty and disheveled hair, that was once bright blonde, but so matted and dirty, that it is difficult to see.
"Bring me the bright souls that live in this world. Bring me their experiences, their loves, their lights and their shadows, that I may include them in my painting and create a new world from all of humanity. The dark soul of man alone is twisted, spurned by the desire of jealous gods. But the bright soul of man should have remained pure, for its existence is not known,even to me. The experience of mankind, the darkest and the brightest of souls will uncover it. For my painting I need their souls, living or dead it does not matter."
You want to speak and still can't and so you just tilt your head and gesture to yourself, the tiny, pitiful form that does not remember what it is or does.
The Painter tilts her head in the opposite direction of yours.
"Ah I see. You are in fear of your weakness. I am no Firekeeper, but if you would be willing I can give you the strength of the dead souls that you can gather, augment your soul with theirs. I have no use for it. I only need their experiences for my painting."
She holds her hands out to you, looking you straight in the eyes.
"Would you help me, with painting a new world and burning the rot away that has taken hold of this one?"
[] Accept the Painter's offer
A new world must be painted and the old one given to flame. You don't know why, but this sounds clear and true to your ears and resonates within your soul. An image of a red hood and a broken sword, dripping with black blood, this is the path you need to take, therein lies the way to repairing your soul
[] Decline the Painter's offer
Heavy chains, dripping black blood and an undead Slave. This is not the path for you. You will refuse the Painters offer and seek another Path for the future. Repairing this world or embracing the rot, but the truth cannot lie in the Path of a Slave Knight, the path of discarding this rotten world.
The girl knees before your quivering form and takes your hand in hers, still holding that rapidly fading soul to your chest. You know that it once had been yours but you cannot remember what it was like to be the soul, to hold to your heart what others take for granted every day. And as your soul fades it looses that shine, that flame and that darkness that makes it human and you cry out for yourself, as a last salute to the fading identity you still have.
And then it stops.
The slender hand of the girl are cold against your rotting skin as the soul stabilises itself, still pulsating but no longer rapidly rotting in your hands.
You shudder as the flames of your soul stabilize under the strange girls gaze. There are no real memories, just flashes, understanding of the parodied person this soul once belonged too, but trying to hold onto them is like holding water in your fingers. It slips away from your, the warmth of having a soul replaced by the emptiness of the rot. You have a vague understanding of who you were, but you do not know who you are or what you did.
She shakes her head. "The dark soul of man is still as wondrous and terrible as it was, when I set it free for the first time, as a pigment for my painting. This world, 'tis one I painted in another time, with paint extracted from the dark soul of man. Man's soul is scattered over the world, expressed in the souls of men and monsters. It was thinned before, but now..." She sighs. "I need to find a new pigment for my painting."
She is stroking the back of your hands, softly, almost lovingly while she is speaking and though you do not understand what exactly she is saying, she is a soothing presence, something that calms the monstrous hunger that seems to arise in the corners of your being that your soul has vacated.
"What a strange soul", she whispers, caressing the soul in both of your hands in such an intimate way that you cannot help but shudder. The truth of your existence, lost as it may be is bared before her and yet she is not judging, only looking curiously. "Innocent, yet cruel, terrible yet playful. I see. I must thank you. I have an inkling what kind of world I should paint but there is so much to humanity and its dark soul that I still cannot understand."
She turns her golden eyes to the soul again.
"Rotten one, I see now that you have no purpose. How could one such as you?", she says. "I suppose it matters not, where you came from. All that matters is that your bare self lies here before me. As a brave Ash once did, in another painting so long ago."
She raises her hand and there is an enormous relief upon your soul, the rot, screaming and scratching at its cage seems to be held back from your soul. The faint flames of the destroyed soul come together again and try to keep themselves together, without quite managing it.
She shakes her head. "There is naught I am able to do for this soul, poor rotten one. 'Tis too damaged, rotten and eaten by parasites as it is."
Then she raises her brows and though her face remains mostly impassive, there is a hint of eagerness to her voice. "I admit, 'tis not without selfish desire, that I ask this of you, rotten one, but would you be interested in keeping this soul away from the rot?"
She looks down upon you, as if she was expecting an answer, that you are still unable to give.
She seems almost sheepish as she makes a noise, somewhere between a hum and a giggle.
"Of course. Forgive this humble painter. I aught to explain myself better."
She turns around and stretches her arms towards the painting canvas behind her.
"This is my canvas. Behold its size. 'Tis here where I will paint a new world, again. But I have no idea, what kind of place I want this new world to be."
She gestures all around her. "Long ago, a brave Ash, helped me paint this world. Twas supposed to be a cold, dark and very gentle place." She sighs, now seemingly speaking more for herself than for your benefit, even if you are not in pain anymore and, left without purpose and knowledge, you are listening quite intensely.
"But no world can endure forever", she continues. "Everything must, at one time, die and give birth to something new. This world, 'tis no exception. It should have died quite some time ago. And yet its corpse continues to move, riddled with parasites that feasts on the canvas beneath the paint. There is no fire, to burn it and start anew, so again this humble painter needs to paint a new world."
Your soul is glowing brightly beneath the both of you as she takes it into her hands and brings it up to your chest, where your heart would beat, should beat but doesn't.
You realize now, that you are even smaller than her, a tiny thing, with thin limbs, your skin dirty and covered in the black blisters of rot. And as your soul returns to your being, the blisters are getting smaller the pus, seeping out of open wounds flows slower. Your body remains rotten but you take a breath again. And another. And the stale air around you is like a Winter's breeze, the very essence of your life.
And the girl smiles sadly at you.
"I cannot return your life to you, rotten one. Your soul is already dead and what is dead rots. I only staved of the worst for a short time until it rots again. And so I would make a bargain with you, rotten one."
She slowly runs her finger trough your dirty and disheveled hair, that was once bright blonde, but so matted and dirty, that it is difficult to see.
"Bring me the bright souls that live in this world. Bring me their experiences, their loves, their lights and their shadows, that I may include them in my painting and create a new world from all of humanity. The dark soul of man alone is twisted, spurned by the desire of jealous gods. But the bright soul of man should have remained pure, for its existence is not known,even to me. The experience of mankind, the darkest and the brightest of souls will uncover it. For my painting I need their souls, living or dead it does not matter."
You want to speak and still can't and so you just tilt your head and gesture to yourself, the tiny, pitiful form that does not remember what it is or does.
The Painter tilts her head in the opposite direction of yours.
"Ah I see. You are in fear of your weakness. I am no Firekeeper, but if you would be willing I can give you the strength of the dead souls that you can gather, augment your soul with theirs. I have no use for it. I only need their experiences for my painting."
She holds her hands out to you, looking you straight in the eyes.
"Would you help me, with painting a new world and burning the rot away that has taken hold of this one?"
[] Accept the Painter's offer
A new world must be painted and the old one given to flame. You don't know why, but this sounds clear and true to your ears and resonates within your soul. An image of a red hood and a broken sword, dripping with black blood, this is the path you need to take, therein lies the way to repairing your soul
[] Decline the Painter's offer
Heavy chains, dripping black blood and an undead Slave. This is not the path for you. You will refuse the Painters offer and seek another Path for the future. Repairing this world or embracing the rot, but the truth cannot lie in the Path of a Slave Knight, the path of discarding this rotten world.
- Location
- How should I know!?
In many things there is a choice, in this there isn't. We know what happens to the fools like the first king who tried to prolong the age of fire.
"When the world rots, we set it afire. For the sake of the next world. It's the one thing we do right, unlike those fools on the outside."
We must.
[X] Accept the Painter's offer
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