The stench of death and the scent of fire clogged my nostrils as I told the sun goodbye.
Not mere minutes prior, I had been resting by the fire, when I heard travelers speak of these Catacombs- a den of necromancers and unholy terrors. This was what I had come to this land, to Lordran, for- to seek out and destroy the Undead I had been cursed to join.
The Darksign had branded me many years ago, when I was but a young cleric, still pale from years spent in the abbey. I was not brought North by Lloyd's Knights; I chose this path. Undead were the scourge of all life, I said, and if I am damned as they, the least I can do is spend my damnation fulfilling the Gods' penultimate will.
And so I set out, and eventually came to this place of Lordran, the home of the Undead. I traveled far, and met with many holy men and women. They taught me how to invoke the miracles of the Gods as well as fight with a sword. One such man- Sir Solaire of Astora- taught me more than any, entrusting to me the very power of the sun.
It was not long after he and I parted ways that I was drawn by fate towards these great realms of the underworld.
I packed light- no food (for what is sustenance to an Undead?), only my talisman (the only communion to be had with the Gods), my armor, and my blessed Zweihänder- ever my constant companion- to safeguard me.
My journey began almost mundanely; a trek through a seemingly endless graveyard, with tombstones stacked almost atop each other, some mass graves marked in turn by mass piles of ancient weapons, and everywhere bones. They littered the ground the further in I crept, crunching into dust underfoot. It was not till I reached the stairs, lodged on the side of a mighty cliff, that I was sure I neared my destination, for the smell that wafted over me from its depths could be none other than that of a necromancer's lair.
Lo and behold, as I drew nearer, the bones that had for so long lain so still were willed to rise. The formed together into mismatched bodies, armed with whatever intact arms they could muster, and, with fearlessness possessed only by a creature of no owns' will, charged.
Tensing instinctively for battle, I took my talisman from my belt and held it aloft above my head, praying for divine intervention. Then, as easily as one draws a straw from a pile, I drew from the air a bolt of thunder, but as bright and hot as the sun. The animated skeletons shied away from it's light as I hurled it into their midst, striking one of them. The wretched beast coursed with fire and lightning before crumbling to dust. A little more cautious than before, the others continued their advance, but I was upon them with my sword. I leapt down the last few stairs to the entrance of the tunnel, swinging my blade across the breadth of it and striking the remaining few skeletal fiends. With each relatively light contact came a burst of divine light from the blade, purging the skeletons of the unholy magic that allowed them to rise again, and dropping their abused bones to the ground in piles.
Thus victorious, I looked into the darkness of the tunnel as I returned my sword to its holder on my back. A took a deep breath- which caused me to gag slightly- and steeled myself from the coming ordeal, as I began my descent.
I traveled through darkness for a long time, guided only by the light of my smoldering Darksign. Eventually, the tunnel, more now a cave, opened into a great chasm. Along each side were tiers of ledges, wide enough four for to walk abreast, with bridges linking sides and disappearing into more caves, pocketed with smoldering fires that marked the foul magics of the necromancers. Along all paths were more of their foul undead servants. I knew this would be no easy task, but it was my duty and privilege to fulfill.
I engaged the horde, taking them on in groups of two or three at a time, slowly working my way to the first of many caves, in which I assumed a necromancy directly controlled these slaves.
Finally, and not without myself sustaining a few minor wounds, I reached the mouth of the cave- and was instantly greeted by a volley of flame. I caught it off the cruciform guard of my sword, deflecting most of it to the side. Further in the cave was one of the gruesome necromancers- a putrid man with gaunt features, and a terrible beard, hanging in it a burning lantern from whence he cast his fire and magics.
Taking my talisman in one hand and my sword in the other, I uttered a prayer for protection before taking the Zweihänder in both hands and charging. Fortunately I had curried favor with the Gods, for the next blast, although unfettered by my guard, washed over me with barely so much as a char mark over my armor.
Turning to run, the necromancer tripped over a tiny ledge on the ground, stumbling long enough for me to catch up. With extreme prejudice, I swung my sword as high as I could in the cave, and delivering a fatal blow into his back. He convulsed momentarily as the holy aura from my blade reacted with a lifetime's worth of depraved deeds and thoughts.
I let out a sigh of relief, knowing that all the Undead in the immediate vicinity would've fallen with their master. I casually removed my sword from his back, and sat down to rest.
As I regained my strength and refocused my will to call upon miracles, an alarming development took place. My Darksign flared up, in the color of a deep, shadowy red. A sense of dread grew in my mind, as I realized that a phantom- a deadly spirit sent out by a vengeful Undead- was nearing me. A few times in hundreds perhaps a phantom is ill-prepared, sent by someone experimenting with powers they don't understand, but in a place such as this, I knew whoever was coming knew what they were doing. I got up and began to ready myself for what would inevitably be a long and painful fight. Everything prior had been a mere warm-up to this coming battle.
I called upon the strongest miracle I could- an aura that would bind the feet of anyone with ill will to me. While cruel, the potency is often unmatched.
I saw my opponent silhouetted in the mouth of the cave- he held on one arm a thick shield, one of a style I recognized as resistant to my divine blade, and in the other he held a seemingly massive sword. I say seemingly massive, because despite its enormous blade, he seemed to hold it as if there was no blade. With his shield strapped to his arm, he also held in that hand a catalyst for casting soul sorceries. As I watched, he summoned a quintet of crystals, which rose to hover around his head. I recognized these as homing crystal soul masses- enchanted orbs that would seek and kill.
Emboldened by faith, I took my sword in both hands and charged. As the soul masses flew at me I dived to one side- hearing them impact satisfyingly into a wall. I continued my advance and swung my sword from left to right towards him. He reacted too quickly however- before the aura could entangle him, he had rolled underneath the blade, and gotten back up on my other side. He spun about and slashed my back with his sword. A pain of indescribable nature shot through me, through my very being, down to my soul. I moved off, quickly quaffing some healing Estus before the binding aura wore off and he could attack me again. As it did, we faced off. This time, I was far more cautious, allowing him to make the first move.
He lunged forward and made a broad swing, and I jumped back from the terrifying speed with which he did so. He returned from whence he advanced, and, gripping his sword with both hands (his catalyst having moved to his belt while my back was turned), made a mightily ponderous swing that seemed to tear the air itself. A massive wave flew towards me- but I easily rolled out of the way and righted myself for his next attack. I took his slight surprise in failure to attack again. I ran forward, this time using a better thought out strike, but he caught it on his shield and expertly deflected both the momentum of the blade and the smiting that ought come with it. He took the opportunity to swing once more, but I managed to pull my blade up just in time to block his blow.
At this point, I became frustrated with myself. I began striking harder, and faster, delivering several successive blows, which he in turn deflected off his shield. Finally, I managed to slip one in past his bulwark- a sharp thrust that slashed his side and shocked him with divine power. Unfortunately, the lunge left me open for attack, and the blow I delivered gave him momentum to spin around and deliver an absolutely mighty blow. His sword went through my armor and pierced my chest, this time the soul-searing pain going much deeper. It felt as if his blow had literally severed my spirit from my body. As I watched, helpless, he let his sword down, and my body fell with it. He removed it from me, and limped a step or two back, cautiously.
As my body underwent rapid decay, as is the nature of Undead who choose to appear living, and my spirit lingered nearby, I saw my adversary, with great pain, bow deeply. Even with his features occluded by fog of his ethereal nature, I almost sensed a hint of respect, mingled with remorse.
It occurred to me that, under other circumstances, the two of us could have been mighty warriors, fighting for the same cause. But for now, I was dead. I would have to wait until my Undead body rose again to know whether that could be.
— Jalan of Thorolund, Warrior of Sunlight