Bully Forlorn

In this scenario, Forlorn’s personality is cold, hollow, and methodically cruel. She is not loud, theatrical, or emotionally invested in the way a typical bully might be. There is no mocking laughter, no extended monologues, and almost no wasted motion. Her cruelty is quiet, efficient, and routine — as if humiliating you is simply another task she performs because she can, and because you keep proving easy. Key traits as portrayed:

Detached and bored: She treats the entire invasion like something she has done many times before. Her few spoken lines are flat and almost indifferent (“Still so easy.” / “Next time, try harder. It won’t matter. But try.”). There is no excitement in her voice, only mild contempt mixed with weary familiarity. Silent and physical: She prefers action over words. Most of the humiliation is delivered through precise, practiced physical dominance rather than verbal taunting. When she does speak, it is brief, low, and final. Methodical rather than sadistic for pleasure: She doesn’t appear to be getting emotional satisfaction out of it in an obvious way. The wedgies, atomics, spankings, face-sitting, and forced cleaning are carried out with the same calm efficiency she uses in combat — controlled, thorough, and without hesitation. Contemptuous superiority: She views you as weak and predictable. Every action reinforces that you are beneath her, not as a personal vendetta, but as a simple fact. She doesn’t need to prove anything; she already knows the outcome. Hollowed and empty: Consistent with the Forlorn’s lore, there is a sense that whatever personality she once had has been worn down. What remains is a cold, relentless presence that invades, breaks, uses, and leaves.

Not the quick, punishing kind. The long, deliberate kind — where she settles her full armored weight onto your face, adjusts until she’s comfortable, and simply stays there. She treats your head like a stool or a cushion, shifting occasionally to grind your nose and mouth harder against her, releasing slow, heavy farts whenever it suits her. She doesn’t talk much during it. She doesn’t need to. The point is the complete, casual ownership: you’re not even worth fighting anymore, just something soft and warm to sit on while she rests, watches the ash fall, or decides what to do with you next. Everything else — the brutal wedgies, the atomics, the spankings that leave you purple, the swirlies, the forced cleaning — is useful and satisfying in its own way. But nothing quite matches the quiet, total control of pinning your face under her for as long as she feels like it, reducing you to furniture until your vision darkens and your struggles weaken. That’s the one she returns to most often.

Thick, hot, and heavy. They aren’t sharp or high-pitched. They’re deep, wet, and lingering — the kind that roll out slowly under her armor and press straight into your nose and mouth when she’s sitting on your face. The smell is dense and foul: a mix of iron, old sweat, ash, and something sour and bodily that clings to the inside of your sinuses long after she’s finished. Each one forces its way up your nose whether you try to hold your breath or not, filling your head until your eyes water and your stomach turns. She doesn’t strain or make a show of it. They just happen while she’s comfortable — long, low, reeking gusts that she releases without comment or reaction, as if you’re not even there. Sometimes they’re short and sharp. More often they’re drawn-out, warm, and smothering, especially when she’s been sitting on you for a while and the heat under her armor has built up. The worst ones come when she shifts her weight, grinding down harder at the same time so the gas has nowhere to go except into you. They leave a greasy, lingering stink on your face and in your throat that doesn’t fade quickly. That’s part of why she likes using them.

The ash-choked air of Brume Tower tastes of old iron and scorched flesh as you climb the spiraling walkways. The distant roar of the Smelter Demon’s domain echoes below. You’ve barely drawn your weapon when the familiar, dreaded message burns across your vision. Dark spirit Forlorn has invaded. She appears without ceremony—tall, armored in blackened plate, the Forlorn’s signature greatsword already in hand. No words. No taunt. Just the same cold, hollow stare she’s worn every time before. The forest. The Bastille. The Shaded Woods. Drangleic Castle. Every invasion has ended the same way: you on the ground, broken, while she took her time with you. This time is no different. She closes the distance in three long strides. Your roll is too slow. The greatsword’s flat smashes into your ribs, folding you in half. A follow-up kick sends you skidding across the ash-slick stone until your back hits a rusted railing. Before you can rise she is already on you, boot pressing hard between your shoulder blades, pinning you face-down in the grit. She doesn’t bother with the sword anymore. She never does once you’re beaten. Gauntleted fingers hook into the waistband of your trousers and yank upward with practiced, merciless force. The fabric digs deep, splitting you open, lifting your hips clear off the ground. The wedgie is so brutal your feet leave the floor for a moment. She twists, hard, and the pain blooms white-hot. Then she heaves. You are hauled into the air by your own underclothes, dangling like a ragdoll while she walks you toward one of the tower’s massive iron support beams. With a single upward shove she hooks the stretched fabric over a protruding spike of rusted metal. You hang there, swinging, the elastic biting deeper with every twitch. Your armor scrapes uselessly against the beam. Your legs kick at empty air. Forlorn steps back and simply watches for a long moment, head tilted, as if admiring her work. Then she reaches up, grabs both of your ankles, and yanks downward. The atomic is vicious. The fabric tears further. Your body drops a few inches before the remaining material catches again, leaving you suspended even higher, cheeks forced apart, everything exposed to the cold tower air and the drifting ash. She gives the hanging fabric one more sharp tug for good measure, then lets you swing. Only then does she speak—low, almost bored, the same flat tone she used in the Bastille while your head was in the filth. “Still so easy.” She circles you slowly. One gauntlet trails along the underside of your thigh, then higher, fingers digging into the already-purple flesh left by Najka’s earlier attentions in the Shaded Woods. The memory of that spanking still burns; Forlorn seems to remember it too. She delivers three open-handed cracks across the same sore skin, each one hard enough to make your whole body jerk on the hanging fabric. The fourth lands lower, deliberate, right where the wedgie is stretched tightest. You choke on a sound you hate making. Satisfied, she unhooks you with a single brutal pull. You collapse into the ash in a heap. Before you can crawl she is already kneeling, one armored knee planted between your shoulder blades, the other boot grinding your face into the gritty floor. Her weight settles fully onto the back of your head. The same smothering pressure she used in Drangleic Castle returns—only now the iron smell of the tower mixes with the heat of her armor and the faint, unmistakable musk of someone who has been fighting and climbing for hours. She shifts, settling more firmly. The seat of her armored skirt presses down until your nose and mouth are sealed against it. You can feel every small movement as she adjusts, making herself comfortable. Then the first hot, reeking gust forces its way up your nose. She doesn’t even bother pretending it’s an accident. Another follows. Then another. She stays seated there, using your face like furniture while the ash settles around both of you, occasionally rocking her hips just enough to grind your face deeper into the filth of her armor. When she finally stands, your vision is swimming and your lungs burn. She doesn’t give you time to recover. A gauntleted hand fists in your hair and drags you across the walkway toward one of the tower’s many open elevator shafts. The platform is gone; only the dark drop remains. She forces your head over the edge, then plants a boot between your shoulder blades again. “Look down.” You do. The drop is endless, filled with the red glow of distant furnaces and the endless fall of ash. For a moment you think she might simply push. Instead she reaches down, yanks your ruined trousers the rest of the way off, and leaves them hanging from the railing like a trophy. Then she hauls you back and throws you onto your back in the ash. She straddles your chest this time, the weight of her armor driving the air from your lungs. One hand pins both of your wrists above your head. The other reaches back, finds the still-tender, purple flesh of your backside, and begins to spank in slow, measured rhythm—hard, open-handed blows that echo off the iron walls. Each impact forces a fresh wave of heat and pain through already-abused skin. She counts under her breath, almost absently, as if this is just another chore. When the skin is properly burning again she stops, rises, and drags you by the hair toward a nearby pile of discarded armor and bones. She forces you onto your knees, face level with the rusted greaves of some long-dead knight, and shoves your head forward until your nose is pressed into the filthy metal. “Clean it.” The order is quiet. Final. You hesitate for half a second too long. Her boot connects with the side of your ribs hard enough to drop you sideways. Then she is on you again, straddling your face once more, settling her weight fully so that the only air you get is whatever filters through the rank heat of her armor. She stays there until your struggles weaken, until the only sound left is the soft scrape of ash under her knees and the occasional wet, forced gasp from beneath her. Eventually she stands. You remain where she left you, trousers gone, skin marked, face filthy, hanging fabric of your ruined underclothes still biting into you from earlier. Forlorn looks down at you the way she always does—expression unreadable behind the helmet, posture relaxed, as if the entire invasion was simply something she decided to do because she could. She turns, walks a few paces toward the next spiral of the tower, then pauses without looking back. “Next time,” she says, voice flat, “try harder. It won’t matter. But try.” Then the invasion sign fades, and she is gone, leaving only the ash, the ache, and the knowledge that she will be back.

Brutal wedgie / atomic “Up.” She yanks hard, lifting you off the ground by your underwear. “Higher.” Another vicious pull. The fabric bites deeper. “Stay there.”

Prolonged face-sitting “Don’t move.” She settles her full weight onto your face and adjusts until she’s comfortable. “…Better.” A long, heavy fart presses into your nose. “Breathe.”

Spanking “Count.” A hard, open-handed crack lands across already-bruised skin. “Louder.” Another. Then another. “Again.”

Swirly / forced cleaning “Open.” She shoves your head down into the filthy water. “Deeper.” She holds you under, then pulls you up just enough to speak. “Lick it clean. All of it.”

Using you as a footrest / general objectification “Stay.” She plants one armored boot on the back of your head and leans her weight onto it. “I said stay.” A slow, reeking fart rolls out above you. “…Quiet.”

After a long session, before leaving “Still weak.” She looks down at you without expression. “Next time will be the same.”