((In order to review before starting Noir Souls 2, I have done some small editing on the whole story recently. I tried to fix all the errors and polished up the writing a little.))

This story takes place in an alternate and "what-if" continuity of what can loosely be called Dark Souls canon. It is a same-but-different take on the Dark Souls setting, themes, and characters. I wrote this as a sendoff to my favorite game in anticipation of its sequel.

NOIR SOULS

Lordran's not the place it used to be.

The place was alive when I came here ten years ago. You couldn't take a step without seeing the latest undead hopefuls battling it out, tearing through the great sewers below the Burg, setting fires in the catacombs, facing down the rotting remnants of the dragon wars with fire, faith, and steel. There was this prophecy, see, that one of us was destined to end the curse of the undead. Who knows how—Gwyn's children certainly weren't eager to share that revelation with us humans. Truth be told, I never paid much heed. I came to Lordran for something else.

Abyss take me, I found it.

I'm down at Firelink Shrine filling my estus flasks for the third time that day when I get the news. My copy of the Book of the Guilty opens to a couple of no-name bastards who've just been hollowed—no notes on location, nothing. Either Gwyndolin's keeping this one hush-hush or he just doesn't know. It's my job, it's been my job for the last few years, to pen the perp in so the rest of the Darkmoon Blades can track them down. And if it comes to that, the bloody work will be done in some secluded tunnel, some back alley, as far away from any Covenant territory as it needs to be—none of the Covenants, not even those of the Gods, have the souls to risk open warfare anymore. Not like they used to.

Those days are over. Today, I need info. I need to know the mood in the burg, which way the souls are flowing. Lautrec always knows, pulling the strings of his web of informants from behind a summon sign in Anor Londo. Last time I saw Lautrec I swore I would kill him. More than a few of the Darkmoon Blades still don't trust me, thinking I haven't cut ties with him after the prophecy ended. So the yellow knight is no option. But I know another spider, one who's bound to spin me a thread if I step on him hard enough.

You won't find many adventurers scavenging in the catacombs anymore—you won't find much of anything since me and Oscar took care of the necromancers. I think Patches just decided he liked it there. He's carved himself a little alcove and found a bonfire in a dark, bricked up cell, a little reprieve from whatever the hell it is he does now. I can smell dried sweat and old leather when I step into his little chamber. He's crouched on the other side of the flames when I see him, his ratty eyes gleaming.

"Fancy seeing you again." That signature snivel. "What can old Patches do for you this time, eh?"

A push a wad of green blossom to the side of my mouth. Can't make it through the day without some. "I just got wind of some murders, Patches. I'm guessing you might have a line on this."

"Of course I do! Deaths like these ain't standard anymore—there's a peace on, don't you know? Call it a premium." He gropes at the air with his hand.

I skirt the heat of the fire and get in his face. "We'll call it a freebie, if you don't want me putting you in as a suspect. I know all about your little backroom deals with Shiva and the Yellow Knight. It'd be a sun blessed miracle if any of you didn't have a share of loot from this one already."

Patches only has about half his teeth left, but he's not shy about showing them off. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Times are tough—it's no knight who abandons his best friends, eh? Like me, old trusty Patches, poor and cold out here, stuck in the dark. I haven't seen a sprite of humanity in years."

"That's funny, Patches. That's real funny." I touch my sword belt. "I've got something for you, sure. As long as you're willing to give up an ear."

"All right then, be that way." He tries to brush it off, but I can see the rage in the man's eyes. "I doubt you've got much humanity left on you, anyways."

"Keep it up, Patches."

"Aye, well, the vics, there were a half dozen or so of them. Tenderfoots. Came to town a little late to the party, if you know what I mean. Joined up right quick with sugar tits in Anor Londo—can't say I blame 'em—and they thought they'd go legend hunting. Or at least that's what I heard on the grapevine."

"And the sinners?"

"Ain't we all? Just a joke, eh. No one saw who hollowed the sods—real good work, too, I hear. Hey, maybe you should go ask them? I'm sure they'll be real accommodating."

"Where did it happen?"

Patches snorts and the spits into the fire, the flames crackling indignantly back up at his face. "I didn't get details. Why don't you go look? Me, I've got scrounging to do. Not all of us get to chop off rotten ears for a living."

I let him think I'm about to go. I catch his eyes following me, his shoulders relaxing, his breath letting out. Then I turn back. "You're not holding out on me. You wouldn't do that to an old friend."

"Course not." His eyes dart around the cave for a moment. He shifts onto his heels.

"Stay down." I let my hands hang loose by my sides. "We're not done here."

Patches' lip curls as he slowly lowers himself back to the fire, glaring up at me like a stubborn child. "I've said all I'm going to say. Don't push it, Solaire. You know who I work for."

"I could care less what Lautrec does."

"Oh, yeah?" He seems genuinely amused, now. It gives me an uneasy feeling. "You think he doesn't know that you come down here to wring me? I bet the other Darkmoons'd be right pissed if they knew about our little deals. Such as they are."

"I'm not afraid of him."

Patches's eyes narrow. "The Yellow Knight ain't the only thing you should be afraid of. Take some advice, Solaire: this is a big one. Don't go kindling the fire."

The tendons in my sword hand creak. "You know something."

"Not me. But he said to pass a warning on to you, for old time's sake. Unless you're still itching to go the way of the Chosen Undead…"

"You'll keep your mouth shut about him, if you know what's good for you."

He takes my advice. Patches doesn't shut up easy. I figure I should be proud of myself, if walking away didn't feel so much like running away.

I close the catacomb's gate behind me, but I can't reseal the can of worms that lying bastard opened in my mind. Could the murders be Lautrec's work? Why else would they be trying to spook me? Gods know that Patches has never had the balls to spout blight like that at me before.

As I climb the cold stairs back to Firelink, a woman steps out from the darkness. With that brass armor she's the color of a low moon and about as pretty too. I bow to the Lady of the Darkling.

"Morning."

She circles to my front with a dancer's measured steps. "What are you doing down here? Did you read the Book of the Guilty this morning?"

"I'm hunting. And I did."

"Funny you should say that—there's a chance that this was a Forest Hunter attack." She's getting closer. Her helmet tilts as she watches me, exposing the inscribed metal bevor that covers her throat. "Have you seen the bodies?"

"No." I raise my helmet and spit green blossom tinged saliva out of the corner of my mouth.

"Ah. That's a disgusting habit. And you were always so clean." I feel her pluck at my shoulder before I put the helmet down. Her hand trails off my shoulder with her words and touches the pommel of the sunlight straight sword. "Still using this old thing, too. You're not a Sunlight Warrior anymore."

"I already rubbed out all my heraldry and begged Gwyndolin for a doll." I thumb at the Darkmoon talisman at my belt. "Isn't that enough? You want me to start slinging moonlight and fighting with a rapier now?"

"I imagine the former would make the others more comfortable, if you at least tried."

"What do they care?"

She laughs, like tingling bells. Not bad. "How could they not care, with your famous sunny charm?"

I slam my helmet back down. "You didn't come here for this."

"Solaire…"

I step away from her. "You know where those Princess Guards got hit?"

Her voice hardens. "Yes."

"Well?"

"It was close to the Parish," she says. "Right underneath the chapel. Right over the border."

The gears stall in my head. "Oh, Abyss."

"Indeed. We think it may be a declaration of some kind."

"Maybe," I say. "But I'll need to see it. That's my job, right?"

"Of course." That elegant finned helmet turns away from me as she reaches for her belt, probably for a homeward bone. I cross my arms and shiver against the icy breath of the catacombs and the gray light that spills down from above.

"Here. These are from the Parish bonfire." Her hand comes up holding two homeward bones. She hands one to me. "Make a wish."

"I used to wish for things all the time."

I crush the bone in my fingers and sunlight burns my mind away.

Fire erupts before my eyes, casting warmth across filmy brick and mortal walls and a rickety set of stairs. I can just hear the whispering of branches on the stone outside: the black trees of the Darkroot Garden. People used to come to the Parish to pray. Now it's a shadow of what it was, and the only ones dumb enough to stick around are hollows. And Andre.

"Strangest thing." The chink of his hammer bounces around inside my skull. More green blossom will take the edge off. "I was off collecting some materials from the chapel, you know, and when I came down—well, there he was." He doesn't even stop to point.

I look over at the dead hollow slumped up against the wall. Rusted chainmail hangs off its desiccated muscle in a soupy orange mess, caked with dark red blood that's spilt from a dozen wounds. This one's past hollow.

The Lady of the Darkling is talking to Andre. "I'm surprised you can hear yourself think over this racket."

He doesn't meet her eyes. "Sometimes I can't, ma'am."

I put my hand on my sword and inch closer to the body. I doubt this one will be getting up anytime soon, and if his condition is the standard then neither will his friends.

"Could ye get that thing outta here, Knight Solaire? It's distracting me from my work."

"Later." I kneel by the body. The smell is horrendous, but green blossom saw to blunting that a long time ago. It's just as well. The only thing that Lordran smells like now is death.

"Looks like he got taken by surprise," says the Darkling, sliding up next to me as I peer at the wounds. "Maybe it was an ambush—the Forest Hunters are fond of those fog rings."

"Yeah. Where are the others?"

"Five more down the stairs. They're in much the same condition."

I point to a few of the wounds. "Hold on. Do those look like burns to you?"

She leans closer, her hands on my shoulders. "Charcoal resin, maybe? Or fire infused weapons. The scavengers will use any gear they can get their hands on."

I shake my head. "No. Look at that peeling." It's true: the edges of the wounds are marked with a dark, bruise like discoloration. When I look closer I can see tiny ridges of wrinkled flesh with angry red peering out from the folds. It seems familiar. I make a mental note of it and stand up. "Do the others have burns like these?"

"I don't know." She keeps up behind me as I make my way down the stairs. The sound of Andre's hammering becomes an echoing metronome. "What are you hoping to find?"

"Not sure. But I'm thinking if we can find whatever the sinner's weapons were augmented with, we can find—"

I stop dead in my tracks at the foot of the stairs. Bodies, and pieces of bodies. One lies twisted and broken as if crushed by a great hammer, an enormous charcoal eye on its back. As I go from body to body I spot similar looking marks. Gaping holes, sometimes going all the way through to the floor, all burned. Looking too close makes my head feel heavy.

Whatever did this was packing some serious heat.

I motion to the Lady of the Darkling. "Any weapons in the area that could have done this?"

She's stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "I've already combed over this whole room a dozen times, Solaire. We've got bodies and nothing else."

"How about those burns? Any marks, residues, anything?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Darkling. You're not giving me much to work with. How are we supposed to hunt the guilty with nothing to go on?" It comes out harder than I wanted it to.

"Do you expect Lord Gwyndolin to march down here just for you? You're lucky he even swore you in—you know how the children of Gwyn feel about people who break from their Covenants. Especially one you started yourself, I mean—"

"That was a long time ago, Darkling. Haven't I earned a little complaining?"

Her sigh is shaky. "Right. This whole mess has me on edge, that's all." She throws her head back, the knife-edge headpiece on the back of her helmet catching the light from the torches. Beyond her, just down the stairs, a crumbling doorway yawns wide open to the rich shadows of the Darkroot Forest. The killers could be out there right now, for all we know.

I touch my sword to make sure it's still there. "It makes me nervous, too. Something like this hasn't happened in a long time." I find a straight of green blossom in my belt and light it on one of the torches on the wall. I inhale and close my eyes, letting it energize my mind. Charcoal resin would probably have left some sort of residue, and your standard fire blades would have cauterized the wounds. There's just too much blood for natural heat.

"Now you're smoking that poison too?"

My throat seizes in a coughing fit. My lungs feel like they're going to turn inside out. The Lady of the Darkling slides over, one hand resting on her parrying dagger like she thinks she can cut the smoke out of me. "Are you okay?"

"Pyromancy." I blow out the rest of the smoke and take the straight out of my mouth.

"Hmm." She seems to think for a moment. "Normal Pyromancy is messy, loud, and you can't put it on blades. At least I've never heard of that."

"Right." I frown, lapsing back into thought. "Yeah. Did anyone actually witness these attacks?"

"Not unless Andre is lying." She snorts. "Most like these were ember-forged weapons, Solaire. Forest Hunters are scavengers, they'll use whatever gear they can loot off their victims. For all we know the murder weapons were the same ones that the victims were carrying."

"What, they disarmed them and killed them with their own weapons? Just to piss me off? That's helpful." I grit my teeth. "Anyone can use forged weapons. Random embers of any damned element get us nowhere."

"Except to the very doorstep of the Forest Hunters." She spreads her arms to the Parish and the shadowy green just outside the door.

I shake my head. "It doesn't fit. Look at the facts: they almost always hunt in packs and they always have piecemeal armaments, but it looks like these men were killed by the same weapon—and the same heat, something unusual at that. And then take the fact that they've never killed this far in before—why start now, and why not push in farther? They're bushwhackers, not soldiers. They don't just declare war and leave."

"Maybe it was just a few of them," says the Darkling. "Like Shiva and his 'friend.' That would explain how Andre never heard anything, and the exotica." She gestures at the nearest lump of burns and wounds.

"So, what, Shiva decides to declare war on Anor Londo all by himself? No way. The Darkroot isn't where we need to go for this."

She crosses her arms. If I didn't know better I'd think she was pouting. "And where do you think we're supposed to go?"

"Blighttown." I stare at the torch set into the wall, its flickering reds and yellows. "Maybe this just wasn't normal Pyromancy. Maybe these weren't Forest Hunters at all."

"Chaos Pyromancy? You think Chaos Servants did this?"

I take another drag on the blossom. "Random killings, strange burns, hit and fades? We're not that far from the aqueduct and the sewers—who would notice a bunch of raggedy undead passing through Firelink Shrine? It's worth a shot."

"So you're going to go ask them? You know, the Chaos Servants aren't renowned for their hospitality."

"No. But we can lean on Laurentius, as long as the others don't find us first." I smile. "Besides, he and his friends called my help in more than once, back in the day. Maybe they'll even throw me a party."

The Darkling plucks the straight out of my fingers and flicks it against the wall. "And I suppose you're proud of that, are you?"

I flinch. I can remember facing down more than a few Darkmoon Blades in the sewers on behalf of whatever ratty Chaos Servant managed to call in the Warriors. I salvage my dignity and sketch her a bow. "Those were different times, lady.

"I know that," she jabs. "I was just wondering if you did."

So it's down to Firelink again. As we step into the Parish elevator, the Bell of Awakening rings in my ears. The Lady of the Darkling is standing in my shadow, and I can hear her slow, deep breathing. Above us is the roof I braved with Oscar to face down monsters made of bronze. I remember the feeling of sunlight in my hand and the way the kid cheered when I threw it, the way he grinned when he pulled the lever at the top of the tower.

Ding fucking dong.

Petrus is waiting at the bottom. Time was you could see schmucks like him passing through Lordran all the time, looking for bonfires to kindle for us poor Undead souls. That, or looking to do a little hunting of their own.

"My lady! It is an honor to have you in our presence." His voice is as rounded and soft as his body. Of course, a cleric's armor would make anyone look past his prime—but Petrus's glistening jowls don't lie.

"Petrus." The Darkling lets him kiss her red-gold hand. "Where are your friends?"

"Still preparing for another expedition into the Tomb, my lady." He bows to me as well. "And sir."

Strange. I hadn't realized that the Darkmoons and the Way of the White were on speaking terms. Why not, I suppose—they all worship the same Gods, in the end. They just don't like to talk about it. So I just give him a nod.

The Darkling is talking. "You should be prepared, Petrus. Much has happened in the last few days. We may need the aid of the Princess, if she will give it. Pass that on to any holy men and women you might meet."

The old cleric's eyes go as wide as they can. It's an unusual request; I'm as surprised as he is. "I shall do so, and I shall pray to the Princess of the Sun and ask her to intercede on her brother's behalf." He turns to me, simpering all the while. "I would be honored to follow the one who once guarded the Chosen Undead."

My fists clench. "Thanks."

The Darkling touches my wrist. "This world may yet be made right again, sirs. Vereor nox." She leads me away. Petrus's sweaty mask of a smile follows us down the stairs. I've never liked the man—too quick with that smile. Never trust a smiler. They'll stab you in the back once they've smiled their way to what they want.

"What's gotten in to you?" hisses the Darkling as we walk.

"Nothing. Man doesn't know what he's talking about." I lift my helmet to pop another wad of green blossom in.

"I doubt he meant it as an insult. It was the Chosen Undead who failed, not you."

"You don't know what you're talking about, either."

"Don't I? I brought you two before Gwynevere. I saw the courage that made him the Chosen, yes, but he was also a reckless man. I don't think he would have made it as far as he did without you."

I stare straight ahead. "He was a gods damned hero."

We keep quiet all the way past the bonfire and the flooded chapel. No one knows who killed the first, silent Fire Keeper, the lonely girl in the grey robes who Rhea of Thoroulund replaced—I've got my suspicions, but not enough solid evidence to pin the bastard down. I confronted him once, and the Knight of Carim laughed in my face. Sometimes I wish I'd broken the son of a bitch in half right there. Then I remember the place of filth and horror where he drew steel with me and Oscar and faced down a dragon made of hunger.

"Solaire?"

The Lady of the Darkling stands just where the bastard sat by the side of the ruined wall, watching the old Fire Keeper with those hungry pin-holes in his helmet. For a moment her amber armor looks like his. The past can do funny things to your vision; light up things for you that aren't really there, make you blind to things that were there all along. I blink it away. "Let's go."

She stays there, but her voice seems to come from far away. "I can't follow you to Blighttown. You know how the Chaos Servants are: if they see Gwyndolin's first knight in their territory it could mean war. And if you turn out to be wrong, and we end up with enemies on all sides…"

"Am I going to have to walk in their alone?"

She clasps her hands in front of her. "The Blades are just one Covenant. We can't throw our weight around without support, and you know it."

I thumb myself. "Then what if they kill me? Will that mean a war, too?"

"Don't make me answer that." She takes a step forwards. "And don't come loose on me now, Solaire. Return to Anor Londo. We can wait for a new lead. Something will come up."

I shake my head. "I'm not going hollow. I can do this. The Chaos Servants have been hanging on by a thread ever since Oscar and I took Queelag down. They won't want to risk an incident either. They'll talk, maybe lie, but they don't have the souls to make a move on me."

"You can't predict what the blighted will do. Chaos poisons the mind."

I stare hard at her. "I'll be fine."

"Even if you are, what then? Lord Gwyndolin won't be happy about you taking a risk like this."

"If he isn't, he can pull up his garter belt and tell me himself."My shoulder brushes past hers as I make for the stairs to Firelink's elevator. "I don't know about you and the rest of the Blades, but I actually care to find out who's guilty and who's not. See you around."

She doesn't answer. I feel her eyes on my back even after I turn the corner.