Basics

About

Ashamed, crushed by regrets and guilt, still he remains passive, swept by the current.

A silent outcast, once ignored and despised, but now he is being counted on. He is used to being used, so as disingenuous as the attention may be, as much of a heartless aberration people think he is, it is better than indifference. He cannot choose for himself - being told what to do, or what to think, is infinitely more comfortable, less dreadful. He stays a passive actor, a hollow puppet that follows orders with no questions asked. There are a few things that warm his heart, though. Birds, beautiful creatures, oh so free and carefree. His idyllic love, now only a memory. A forgotten friend.

I do not think, for it is painful. Instead I do what is expected of me, and I respect orders without question. It is easier on the heart and on the spirit. My mind does not wander too far away; I keep it in the confines of my shackled garden. Lately, the chains have been loosened, for a reason I am not aware of, and I fear they are soon to shatter in the endless space beyond my peaceful little plot. My garden is unkept, a sorrowful wasteland of withered weeds and stenching stillwater. It is haughty of me to call it a garden. Backhouse junkyard, that is more fitting. I do not know why I am so adamant about keeping these shackles around the junkyard. Maybe I dread the foul, wretched roots of my existence expanding beyond myself, corrupting the whole. No, this would be lying to myself. Who am I to even pretend I can leave a mark — no, not even a mark, a tickle, on this world? The insignificance of my life is soothing; with its cold embrace, the universe cradles me in its tender indifference, it sings me a nursery rhyme of death with its silent voice. I am comforted in the choices that my environment makes for me; my spine has been ripped from my body, still, I stand straight.

The anchor by my side is heavy. Heavy with the blood it drank, with the innards it shredded, the bones it crushed and shattered. It smells of rotten flesh and rusted metal. It smells like me. I do not recall why I chose the anchor; though rather it chose me more than anything. The anchor is a trap that gnaws at my feet to retain me in the same place for eternity. It preserves me from change and holds me chained in the past, a reassuring familiarity; the water stays still.

Design

Combat

Trivia

• Marius is originally an oc I created for a comic one-shot which you can read here.
• He exists accross multiple settings, like most of my OCs — a former NCorp citizen in the City of Project Moon (wip); a cyborg, loyal to the status quo and the corporate powers in Thousand Winds. As the Guardian, though, he is the protagonist within Foghorn's setting.
• He's FRENCH......
• Whenever I play a Fromsoft game he is my PC, he's my hunter, my chosen undead and my tarnished (he'll be my botc and my ashen one whenever i come around to play DSII and III)