I played DS3. I speculated on DS3. Then The Ringed City came out. This is a rant taken from a chat with @heliicon and posted with slight modifications for @bellringerkat‘s amusement.

Ok so, first of all, lemme reiterate for anybody who hasn’t been subjected to my rants yet, the Gods and all connected directly to them are fucking liars.

The Royal Everloving Fuck is up with Midir ? Another dragon up and about that works for the Gods ? Get off my dick. What on earth was Gwyn doing during the war, pulling favoritisms left and right for anybody who was gracious enough to give their ass out ? Wouldn’t surprise me anymore considering how many half dragon children are apparently on the Gods’ bloodline. And speaking of which, who the hell is Shira ? “Daughter of the Duke”, what Duke, Seath ? Tseldora from DS2 ? Another totally unrelated dude that just spawned out of nowhere ? Bull shit.

The Church of Filianore makes no sense. She would have had to be there for fucking forever, even before Gwyndolin probably, so that “youngest daughter” thing is literally meaningless. Why is she sleeping ? Why is that a problem ? Nothing changes if you wake her up ! You get transported to a totally different time and place, in which she’s dead like no one ever woke her up in the first place, so what is the difference ?? Plus that is clearly an alternate dimension just like the Untended Graves, and even if it wasn’t- the “real world” is ALREADY in ruin ! “Her slumber is for the sake of others”, her slumber is an ass pull that stinks of callback.

How the hell are the paintings even supposed to be made without the Dark Soul, which, would you look at that, is kept locked away in a place that would be impossible to access unless Filianore was awakened, only that’s a lie too cause Shira does it, and she’s a fucking liar as well because she said she was a “captive” and yet she just waltzes out like it’s nobody’s fucking business and goes to mope in the little chapel next to Gael’s murder ground, AND WHERE WERE YOU FOR THAT ONE BATTLE, BITCH ? Oh, and how did Gael even get there before us if we had to wake Filianore up for him ? He couldn’t do it himself, otherwise why help the Ashen One all the way down ?? And if he could, it just proves my point that her sleep is totally useless.

Also the more I think about the “King’s Decree” and more it stinks. Is Gwyn the King ? Would make sense, and yet. Why not the God’s Decree. Shira calls him God, the pygmy bitch at the start calls him God. Meanwhile an entire gathering of pygmy royalty is having a picnic in the next dimension. Even Shira’s weapon mentions a “mad king” born of the pygmies. Something’s fishy and it’s not Kos this time. THE FUCKING PURIFICATION MONUMENT CAN REINSTATE THE DECREE. WHAT DOES IT DO, WIPE OUT THE MEMORY OF THE ASHEN ONE CLEANING THE FLOOR WITH HALFLIGHT’S SCRAWNY ASS ?

Londor culture thrives on the Ringed City’s simbolism and yet not one pilgrim made it there, they just all decided to digievolve into Screaming Holy Gatlings just before the drop. Good fucking work, everyone, Yuria would be proud. What the hell happened to the Sable Church anyway ? Wasn’t Friede’s presence kind of a big plot point ? Wasn’t there supposed to be a third sister ? We don’t know. The devs don’t know.

And we haven’t even touched the subject of how it all just Looks Like Oolacile, statues of suspicious Gwyndolin-looking figures, birch trees and Humanity Juice Pool included. Or how the Judicators drop holy water grenades blessed by the Queen of Lothric, yet we still have no idea who she’s supposed to be. And don’t give me that “it’s Gwynevere !!” bullshit, because if you were Gwynevere you wouldn’t escape from a self-centered royal bastard connected to Seath who abuses his children just to come back ages later to have kids with a self-centered royal bastard connected to Seath who abuses his children. What about Rosaria, or Gertude ? Lost to time, but hey, sexy outfits.

This DLC is a mess. This lore is a mess. The Deep is coming. Get your tickets and have a good run, I’ll be back in Anor Londo cutting the dick off of every Gwyn’s statue with my teeth.


He was supposed to wear a loincloth(Actually Fundoshi it is, lol) for bottoms according to the illustration of the Artwork Book and I wonder why From changed it to comfy pants instead.

Fundoshi is still better than that weird bra of Desert Sorceress’ set when a male character wears it! My character once wore it with Fundoshi and Preacher’s head then people suddenly got very unfriendly to him =(

(Yes, I know why lollll)

… Anyway, Halflight is hot.

While I’m atheist in the sense that no matter what manifest in front of my face, I’m not gonna trust that f*cker, I think maybe it time for me to try the good old method of “If you pray enough, the gods will acknowledge that“. From today till E3, I would try to produce a Soulborne content each day, whether texture or smut or whatever…so please, Ebrietas, Rom, Moon Presence, Kosm……whoever whatever listening, please, all I ever ask for is Bloodborne 2

Henryk throwing knife and Poison Knife: next in line
Filianore and Shira: Maybe, since the concept book gave me a clearer view on those tiny flower petal.

Cainhurst Texture | Executioner Texture | Basic Hunter

Side by side comparison and ongoing texture patch

Halflight | Fillianore
Cainhurst texture (Helmet)| Cainhurst Texture (Female Knight)| Ludwig’s Swords

Can’t believe he wasn’t even voiced.

Maybe he rather enjoyed listening to others than speaking. I just imagined Judicator Argo speaking how bored he was to stand in the Church like forever and Halflight listening to him quietly and it was kinda cute.

Yes, I feel sorry I did beat him with a strong bald friend…lol

redstained paws of the
white wolf          mauling
   stars into collapse

on their way down from
the scythe that is heaven

moving smokily through
the halflight of evening

in the murderous
of earth

grows the crepe myrtle
and you wonder

what did it cost - of the
arms       -      to breath

windless, listing

all that the sea rejects

within me

dark as the frontier
between inconsolable
space and earth, rival

divinities, most dismal
and infinite

one must leave the
idea of wholeness

to the bloodless gods


This morning the sun rose upon the three waters. Expectation, a woven memory of solitude and calm, I walked through the remnants of the place I’d known, towards the ghats. Stumbling through the first stirrings of stallkeepers around the market, only half aware of them as past and present become a fluid thing; a plasma mixing and merging the senses until there was no difference to be felt. Unless it be on the periphery.

Down to the harbour, through the bleary halflight of the alleys. Down to the harbour, through the temple. Fifteen years ago I made the same journey: another self, drifting uncharted between the tidepools of some hippy dream.

The last light of a different era had floated upon the beaches of Goa, diffused through change’s prism, casting the shadows of a harder day. I thought of a scene from another age, Kerouac sitting amidst the Pranksters, a shadow of another time, transposed onto the beach. The return had held slight traces of what had been, a few familiar faces, but the dilution of something, a desperation in the dance. 

Sitting, adrift upon a place of distance, we watched the approaching tides, the changing of the guard. From a distance we danced solemnly upon their borders, felt the landscape change, watched the undertow darken in proximity. Beneath a waning moon nightwinds whispered of a need to move, to leave the madness of the hour, to begin, again, at an ending point. And here, an unexpected crossroads led elsewhere, solitude and silence upon an unplanned route. 

Somewhere on the way, on a night train between forgotten points, a conversation - you know Kanyakumari? There are ghats there, a sacred place. Good karma if you swim, a place to cleanse both skin and soul. And so I’d arrived in this place surfing on an ebbing tide of liquid acid and opium, wholly deranged, to swim.

And, here, I had thought of Pancho. A friendship woven of stories and impossible plans; where a restlessness of hours haunted the defiant longing for distant waters, where, krakens hide from the cartographer’s pen. And he had sought new maps his whole life, an atlas of wonders and dockside bars etched upon a weathered face, behind a whitening beard. Even his name was picked up upon his travels, a tale where, jumping ship in Mexico, he spent a year working on a ranch before his next ship departed. Later, the same in tactics in Japan allowed guerrilla massage at a whim. But, always, there was the sea, always the ocean whispered, calling him back. Here, at this meeting place of the three oceans, a place that he would, surely, have delighted in. Here at this place I thought of him.

Buying a bag of sands: three pouches from other beaches touched by one of the three waters, one from Kanyakumari itself and one of driftwood pencils. Four pouches of dreams, echoing the mountains they once formed. A gift, a tale maybe, placed safe in my rucksack for the next months carried in the certainty that the thoughts behind them would amuse him. Five pouches of dreams, the essence of our shared landscapes.

And dreams they remained. Death found him before I did, before I could offer him my tales and gift. I found, instead, that his pouches of sand were contained in a more ephemeral pouch, that of memory and regret. In this way Pancho and Kanyakumari became intertwined; the waters still called but, now, sang a tune of pilgrimage. The water’s song became a lullaby for letting go, a place for ghosts to dream. And I made a promise to the emptiness, I would return and, next time, swim once for Pancho and once for me. It never occurred that the road back would be such a long one.

Half awake early, woken by a temple soundtrack which ushered in the promise of daybreak, I left my room, entered the heat of the brightening world. Outside, stumbling through the remnants of expectant memory, lost, straggling between the tidal surges of the crowd, I wove my way through the first light of a promised dawn, surrounded by ghosts and imaginings. To the ghats.

This morning the sun rose, once again, upon Kanyakumari, I removed my raggedy hat and my lungi and, naked, swam my farewells to my friend and looked north.

A pouch of dreaming,
sands echoing mountains - tales
found upon the way. 

The best way to cope up with defeat is buried your self in work….
After second row in Cainhurst, I realize there are tons of texture I have yet to handle, so….

Finished Set:

Cainhurst Texture | Executioner Texture | Basic Hunter

Side by side comparison and ongoing

Halflight | Fillianore
Cainhurst texture (Helmet)| Cainhurst Texture (Female Knight)| Ludwig’s Swords

Church’s Spear|Henryk’s|Poison Knife | Pthumerian Daggers and Drake sword|Plain Doll’s Shawn

But since now I have some of misc texture that imo not enough for a Brush Set as the previous three, should I post them along with Cainhurst stufsf after I finish this, or should I keep them as two separate Set?

[…] I seemed to be lying neither asleep nor awake looking down a long corridor of gray halflight where all stable things had become shadowy paradoxical all I had done shadows all I had felt suffered taking visible form antic and perverse mocking without relevance inherent themselves with the denial of the significance they should have affirmed thinking I was I was not who was not was not who.
—  William Faulkner, from The Sound and the Fury (Vintage Digital, 2013)