A Sorcerer, in Exodus
The sorcerer sat in his cell, back pressed against the cold, dirty stone wall. The only sounds came from the quiet scurrying of mice and the occasional far off groan. The relative silence was broken by a sharp metallic grating noise from above the sorcerer's cell. He raised his head quickly enough to see a corpse fall from above, hitting the ground in front him with a thud. The sorcerer snapped his head up to the ceiling.
In the center of the ceiling was a large opening the sorcerer cynically thought of as a skylight, normally covered by a severely rusted metal grate. Now the grate was gone and an armored figure stared downward at him. He could bring himself to think anything of it. He just stared and the figure staring back, silhouetted against a gray sky.
Should he speak out to this mysterious individual? Request for aid? Or should he prepare to dodge an incoming arrow or firebomb? In his indecision the sorcerer ended up merely staring at the figure's faceless metal helm. The figure returned that stare for a few seconds before slowly rising and walking out of view and away from the skylight. The sorcerer dropped his gaze back to the floor. Alone again.
Momentarily the sorcerer mused on how he felt a sort of gravity, a weighty significance or purpose in that stranger's stare despite their features being utterly obscured by their helmet. That strange and illogical train of thought would have occupied the sorcerer's addled mind for much longer had something not glinted on the corpse.
Rising even slower than the departed stranger the sorcerer shuffled his way forward to the body, feeling slowly returning to his numb legs. For a split second he tried to recall how long he'd been sitting there, and was mildly disquieted at the realization that he couldn't remember.
Easing himself into a sitting position he began looking for anything that could have given off that glint of light. The body was identical to most every undead he'd seen here, dry wrinkled skin stretched across an emaciated frame. It wore nothing but a cloth shift and a pair of ancient, rusty metal bracelets. The sorcerer wondered if perhaps those bracelets were made of precious metals and, at a time before age and the elements had robbed them of their shine, and marked the owner as someone of import. On the other hand, he thought, they may have been the mark of a slave.
Shaking himself from his wandering thoughts he scanned the corpse for whatever gave off that glimmer of light. He was sure it hadn't been the bracelets, no, it had been something closer to the corpse's torso. He craned his head side to side, trying to see if he could get the right angle and catch the reflected light again. Nothing.
He'd originally hoped to keep the sex of this undead a mystery, but it seemed he'd need to thoroughly search the shift. He started at the torso, feeling around for anything out of place, any sort of shape or texture that didn't fit, while at the same time distantly wondering if perhaps his eyes weren't as reliable as he thought.
A few seconds later he lucked out, his hands coming into contact with a small piece of metal pressed against the body's side. Craning his neck the sorcerer could make out some sort of small object wedged halfway between the corpse and the ground. He slid it out from beneath the undead with little difficulty, thanks not only to the light weight of the hollowed undead but because the object was partially set into a gap between two stone tiles and so was not really being held down. Bringing it up to his face the sorcerer realized with some surprise that it was a rusty, grime covered key. And there, right near the last tooth of it was a small part relatively untouched by dirt or corrosion. That must be what reflected light, thought the sorcerer. He found it somewhat amusing that, had the key just been a little deeper in the space between the stones he'd have never seen the light reflect off of it and, even if he did inspect the body at a later date, would likely have never stumbled across it.
Stowing the odd little key in the small bag he kept at his waist he rose to his feet and started making his way back to his uncomfortable little corner, satisfaction at having solved the mystery of the reflected light lifting his spirits considerably. Part of him was a little annoyed at that actually; it just meant he'd have to suffer the journey back to down to soul numbing, resigned depression once again. He stopped in his tracks however, one hand supporting him against the wall, when a funny little idea wormed its way into his mind.
He'd thought of escape before of course, for a long while that was about all he thought of. He couldn't even begin to imagine how long he spent bashing his useless, emaciated hands against the iron bars of his cell, screaming for mercy, for justice, for relief. All the countless hours staring at those bars, drowning himself in memories of years and times long gone by. It was a natural response, he thought, once it became apparent he no longer had the future to look towards.
Pressing his free hand to the thin cloth pouch he felt the outline of the key. It would be worth trying, wouldn't it? Reaching in he pulled the key back out and held it in the palm of his hand. It was filthy, but still whole and intact.
Still bracing one hand against the wall he angled himself so that he faced the cell door. It was a very short ways away, only a few feet, but he'd been sitting for so long. And even now, he thought as he slowly hobbled his way across the cell, the feeling of the bones in his emaciated feet pressing against the stone made him grind his teeth. What he wouldn't give for thicker shoes!
Slowly and with great effort he eventually managed to reach the cell, both hands coming out to grasp the bars to help support himself. Judging from the stiffness in his knees he really had been sitting for a long time. As he lined the key up to the lock in the cell door he absentmindedly considered starting up an exercise routine he could do in his cell. Not to build muscle of course, that would be a fruitless effort. Rather he wanted to keep his joints loose and movable, scared that one day he might find his body stuck in a single position. An unlikely but disturbing prospect.
He was forced from his thoughts however when he realized the key was fitting into the lock like a glove. He tried to twist the key left to no avail. When he twisted it right though, the key turned. He stopped, the key a quarter of the way through its turn, his eyes wide. His breathing stopped, his heart thudded in his head, and all he could look at was the key, sitting there innocently in the lock. His grip tightened so much his hand shook.
Slowly the sorcerer finished turning the key. He heard something shift within the lock as the gate was released from its place on the wall, sliding forward slightly. The sorcerer pushed the cell door open all the way and stared out into the dark hallway.
For a moment all he could do was stand there at the threshold. He didn't really think, hadn't dared to think, that the key might actually work. But here he was, quite literally standing at the threshold of freedom. He could actually leave that fucking cell! He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life curled up in the corner of that room after all! Granted, he was still stuck in an Undead Asylum, but now he had the freedom to roam the whole building rather than go stir crazy in a tiny room. His decomposed face hurt when he smiled, the skin stretched too tight across the bone, but damn it he just couldn't contain it. He took his first step out of the cell, quietly vowing to himself to never, ever return there, and looked on to what lay before him.
The hallway was a wreck, albeit a very well lit one. The torches were still lit, indicating that it hadn't been too long since the cleric knights last shipment of undead, revealing a long, thin passageway with multiple cells lining the left side, all broken into or out of, and a wall of iron bars to his right. The wall of bars didn't start until a few feet ahead of him, so the sorcerer couldn't see what lay on the other side, though he could make out a muffled shuffling noise emanating from that way, as if someone were dragging large stones across the ground from a considerable distance. And there at the other end was what appeared to be the threshold of another room, beyond the reach of the light from the torches and pitch dark inside. It was likely that would be his way out of the cell block. The sorcerer gave that comparatively little thought however and instead focused at the figure standing just a few feet away from said exit.
It was clearly a hollow, that much was certain. The creature was practically naked, with only a few bits of cloth here and there, and simply stood facing the wall to its right, unmoving. It reminded the sorcerer of a young student being told to sit in the corner for a time out.
The sorcerer wondered if the patchwork cloth worn by the hollow had ever been coherent clothing. He wondered how long the hollow had been in the Asylum, and how he got out of his cell. Had the decay of the Asylum released him, or had it been some sort of strange happenstance of fate as in the case of the sorcerer himself? And had he been released before or after he'd lost his mind?
The sorcerer looked down at his own garb. As a student, and later an apprentice, he'd despised the mandatory dress code at the Dragon School. The outfit, while steeped in history and tradition at the School, nonetheless looked positively ridiculous on him. After he'd turned undead however he became quite fond of the garb, curved shoes and all. It had been one of his only sources of normalcy and familiarity as he fled through the countryside, and the often undeserved respect the garment gave to the wearer within the towns and hamlets surrounding Vinheim, regardless of the skill of its wearer, was infinitely helpful while he'd been on the run. There was always work for a true wizard of the Dragon School, a discrimination against lay and foreign practitioners he'd once abhorred but came to depend on as he fled the cleric knights.
He wondered when his clothing would deteriorate to such a state, and whether he would keep his sanity long enough to see it. A sobering thought indeed. Bending down the sorcerer slowly, quietly, sorted through the various shards and scraps of old iron that littered the ground. Once he located a shard of metal with the right proportions and relatively little rust he took a small strip of fine cloth from his bag and wrapped it tightly around the base. Makeshift dagger in hand, he slowly crept down the hall.
Most sources, such as church canon and academic literature, claimed that the undead could not be truly killed by anything other than grevious, maiming wounds or beheading. Other sources claimed even that couldn't stop an undead. For the sorcerer, actually becoming undead had done little to settle the debate. He was certainly more durable, the months he'd spent lashed to the side of a carriage as he was carted to the Asylum could attest to that, but he had no way of knowing himself exactly how durable. And he had no intention to find out, either. But what were his options? Like hell was he going to stay hidden at the end of the hall forever. No, the mysterious knight had kick started his brain, and he couldn't bear the thought of stagnating back there like he had in the cell. Death would be better than that.
His back and thighs ached from crouching, but fear was a powerful motivator. He stayed pressed up against the wall to his right, opposite of where the Hollow was facing, and slowly inched his way forward. Once he reached the section of the wall made of iron bars he could clearly make out the noise he detected earlier; something big was moving on the other side of those bars. Craning his neck, he struggled to make out anything in the darkness. The torches alongside the far wall in the hallway illuminated very little however, though the sorcerer could tell from the way the sound was carrying that the room on the other side of the bars was quite large. He realized with some unease that, to anything in the gloom, the torches in the hallway were the only visible sources of light. He suddenly felt very vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, he continued down the hallway.
He eventually reached a point where he was silently crouch-walking directly behind the hollows back, all the while praying the hollow would stay turned away long enough for him to reach the end of the hallway. Clutching his makeshift knife, which brought little comfort, he pictured several dozen ways the hollow could be alerted to his presence at this point, and several ways it could kill him. The knife felt foreign and unwieldy in his hand and he knew if I came down to it his fear and inexperience would render the sad little makeshift weapon useless. He suddenly wished desperately to be in some other space, a smaller, more confined space that would be mobile and yet shield him from the gaze of the hollow should it turn to face him. Some sort of box perhaps. Yes, truly such a device would not only lead him safely out of this wretched hallway but provide him inner peace and psychological protection from his dangerous surroundings.
And the next thing he knew he was standing at the edge of the next room. He did a quick double take, shocked that his musings of the wonders of boxes had actually lasted that long. And that the hollow hadn't torn out his throat. Stepping further into the room the sorcerer finally relaxed himself and stood up straight, confident he was far enough into the un-illuminated room to be hidden from the gaze of the hollow.
He stared forward into the dark room, fear of the hollow behind him the only thing propelling him into the gloom. For a moment he simply stood there, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. He was half mad from starvation and decomposition when he'd been brought to the Asylum, and so could remember only bits and pieces of the ordeal. And of course none of those bits and pieces had anything to do with the layout of the Asylum. Under normal circumstances he would have memorized every detail of every corridor and hallway he was dragged through, but insanity and fatalism had taken its toll.
He reached out with his left hand, pressing it against the wall. Using the wall to keep himself straight he began slowly making his way through the dark, ears straining to make out any noise. He thought he heard water dripping somewhere, and then immediately pitched forward, his foot meeting air rather than stone. For a second he thought he was about to fall to his death, but then his foot met cold, icy water, soaking through his shoe and filling him with relief.
The immediate entrance to the room had been on a raised platform, and the rest was flooded. Apparently the monks in charge of maintaining the Asylum had been slacking off. He brought his foot out of the water and back onto the raised platform. He wanted to remove the damp article of clothing and let it dry out in the air, but the nagging feeling that something was going to jump out of the darkness and attack him prevented the sorcerer from diverting any of his concentration.
He was at a bit of a loss at what to do. Well no, he knew precisely what to do; he'd need to continue through the flooded room. He just really didn't want to, and so was stalling by trying to come up with any alternative. Oh, if only he had a catalyst! He could just levitate across the water, and better yet, he could create some light so he could see.
But no, his catalyst was long gone, dropped on the forest floor as cleric knights circled him. He wondered if it had been confiscated, or destroyed, or just left there to rot. He'd been given that catalyst when he'd enrolled in the Dragon School and while it was far from a masterwork he'd grown attached to it over the years and missed its reassuring weight. He felt naked, incomplete, without the means to work magic.
Bracing himself, the sorcerer stepped down into the shin high water, slowly so as to not make any splashing noises and attract the hollow still lurking behind him. Feeling his way along he eventually lined up at the right angle to see a faint gleam of pale light at the far right corner. Stepping forward a bit more he could see it was a short tunnel leading out of the room, with what looked to be a ladder at the end.
Heartened by the presence of an exit he left his place by the wall and made his way across the dark room. Stepping up to a platform at the base of the tunnel he continued forward a few feet before freezing in his tracks, his blood running cold as he realized the sound of footsteps in the water hadn't stopped.
Starting forward so quickly he almost fell on his face he desperately grabbed at the ladder, forcing his aching joints to move and practically pulling himself up to the outside. As he finally reached the top he immediately turned and looked down the hole, searching for whatever was chasing him. For five minute he stared down the hole, barely breathing. No noise. No movement. Slowly he backed away from it before getting a look at his surroundings.
This courtyard was actually one of the only places he had any recollection of from when he'd been brought in, doubtless due to the presence of a bonfire. He'd heard the rumors of the bonfire hidden away in the deepest chamber of the Dragon School, and researched them extensively, but to actually see the fabled languid flames live and up close was something he'd never forget. That, along with the stonework fit for a Wizard's Tower and the imposing presence of the warrior monks had made for a memorable scene. But time had not been kind.
The stone was chipped, worn, and covered in some sort of soot-like grime. The floor, previously kept clean by various attendants had been overtaken by what sparse grasses could grow in the frigid climate. And the fire was out. All that stood there now was a strange, rusted sword atop a pile of ashes. The custodians of the Asylum where nowhere to be seen.
Walking over to the now defunct bonfire the sorcerer reached out towards the handle of the strange blade. At least he could arm himself, he thought. But as his hand wrapped around the handle a strange feeling shot through his body, a sort of numb contentedness. He found he couldn't tense his muscles, that the hand gripping the blade was dropping lifelessly back to his side. Somewhere of it the distance he heard a fire roar. The world tilted on its side, and then everything went black.
lll
The sorcerer awoke to fragrant sunset colored smoke clouding his vision. For a brief moment he thought he was back in the Tap n' Tack, celebrating with all the other discipulumover their upcoming graduation. With an earth-shattering jolt clarity rushed back into his mind, and he remembered everything.
Pulling himself up to a sitting position, he took stock of his surroundings. It was clear to him now what happened; the undead monks and caretakers had finally gone hollow themselves, and for whatever reason no one was sent from Astora to replace them. The Asylum had been abandoned.
Rising to his feet, pleased to find the sluggish ache that had been plaguing his joints gone, he breathed in the sweet smoke and smiled at the sensation of sanity returning to him. He knew, now, that he had been going through the early stages of true hollowification. As he dipped in and out of mindless stupor the Asylum had fallen apart. And during one of those bouts of semi-sanity he'd gotten a lucky break, an armored knight, probably Astoran from what he remembered of the knight's surcoat, dropped a slain hollow holding a cell key into his cell.
Rubbing his temples he tried to recall any details regarding the layout of the Asylum. It was no use. Even with his mind restored to full functionality so much of his memory was still clouded. No matter though, that a knight was in the Asylum suggested that even in its state of disrepair there remained an intact entrance, and therefore an exit, somewhere. It was just a matter of finding it. For the meanwhile however, he thought it best he get out of the open. Though he was grateful for the knight's serendipitous rescue he knew it was probably not intentional and that the knight would most likely kill him if they ran into each other.
Directly across from him was a large, heavy looking wooden double door, proportioned as though made for small giant. Deciding such a door was unlikely to be opened by a lone emaciated hollow like him the sorcerer scanned the rest of the courtyard, looking for any alternate pathways.
To the right of the bonfire he saw a door of metal bars. Walking over to it, he craned his neck to see past the bars, spotting what appeared to be a staircase leading into an upper hallway built into the upper parts of the courtyard walls. Unfortunately, he also noted the thick metal bar preventing the door from being opened on his side. Once again he cursed his lack of a catalyst; he could simply blast the door off its hinges had he his magic.
Feeling vulnerable, with only a small rusted shard of metal to protect himself from both the hollows and the knight roaming the Asylum, the sorcerer walked back to the large door and observed. He thought that perhaps it was one of those trick doors, like in master Draylas's tower, where the humungous door was in fact disguising a much smaller door built into the corner. No such luck though, it was all solid wood. Good quality wood as well, he noted with admiration to the builders of the place, to have lasted time and the elements so well.
Leaning forward against the door he despaired at the realization that he was trapped, that he'd traded one cell for another. There was no way out of the courtyard except for the tunnel back down into the darkness of his cell, and he'd sooner face death than return there. As he put his weight against the door however, he was shocked to find that it moved. Experimentally pressing his palms against it revealed the he could indeed move the door. The insides must be all but rotted out! Thank the gods for poor caretaking!
Though it took a little effort to get both doors all the way open, due to what he assumed were some severely rusted hinges, not to mention his muscle-less frame, the undead sorcerer eventually managed to free himself from the courtyard.
Looking beyond the threshold the sorcerer observed a room even bigger than the courtyard, lined by cracked, chipped stone pillars. Between the pillars sat dozens upon dozens of urns, each about as tall as himself, and littering the floor where numerous stray bricks. The sorcerer could not for the life of him imagine what the room could have been used for.
The sorcerer raised his gaze to observe a massive hole in the center of the roof, and locked eyes with an equally massive demon.
Gurz'Grogal locked eyes with the hollow intruding upon his den. Food had been plentiful these past few years as his captors slowly went hollow one by one and ceased being able to prevent him from feasting on the prisoners. But lately the knights bringing in new shipments had begun to get sparse, and the Asylum had slowly emptied. The demon was, at this moment, absolutely famished.
Rearing up, still furious about the knight who'd escaped his wrath earlier, Gurz'Grogal flexed his tattered stunted wings before he launched himself from his perch down towards the Hollow, his hammer coming down on the creature with enough force to shake the room. A bit much just to kill a Hollow, but not having to hold back his strength pleased the demon. The magic keeping his brother imprisoned made the floor near indestructible, so he could hit as hard as he damn well pleased within that room without fear of obliterating his own territory.
Bringing his hammer back up, Gurz'Grogal brought one end up to his face to lick off the remains of the undead. A small treat, like all humans, but very tasty. He was confused then, when he couldn't find any bits of Hollow stuck to his hammer. Looking back to the floor he became even more confused by the lack of any bloody, tasty crushed pulp. He heard an urn off to his right fall over and break.
Whirling around, the demon just barely saw the little pest of a Hollow scurrying away from the fallen urn and behind a pillar. Thinking itself hid no doubt, thought the demon. This was not the behavior of a Hollow, no, this one still had its mind intact, and that infuriated Gurz'Grogal even more than the trespassing of the knight!
To him the sanity of the hollow made it human, and oh how he hated humans. He couldn't stand the thought of this weak, pathetic creature looking down on him as some sort of mindless beast, which he knew, just knew, was exactly what it was doing. Even as they cowered in fear of his might, humans would always believe in their heart of hearts in their own superiority. Such arrogance from something so weak! He would silence the thoughts of this cowering fool, he would drown its insults in terror! It death would be so satisfyingly slow.
Roaring as loud as he could he swiped his hammer horizontally across the pillar, just above where he estimated the human would be. The magic imprisoning his sibling did not extend to the pillars, and sure enough just as it collapsed the little rat went scurrying away from where he hid, desperately looking for cover or a way out. Were he capable of facial expressions Gurz'Grogal would've grinned. He was going to have some fun with this one, if only to make up for his failure to catch the knight earlier.
Ignoring his prey for now, Gurz'Grogal lifted a relatively intact section of the destroyed pillar with his free hand and made his way towards the door the hollow came in through. Pushing the small door shut with the end of his hammer he then sat the pillar down in front of it, sealing the hollow in with him.
Turning back around he watched with some amusement as the hollow struggled to push open the door at the opposite end of the room. Though the door wasn't heavy, it was locked, and the only key was tied to a rope Gurz'Grogal wore around his neck.
The demon took one loud, exaggerated step forward and watched with delight as the human jumped in shock. The human spun around, back pressed against the door and shaking with fear, looking desperately all around the room. Gurz'Grogal took another step and the human jumped as though he had been struck, his eyes now fixed solely on the approaching demon.
Suddenly the human's gaze shifted to the right, and he bolted in that direction. This pleased Gurz'Grogal, a chase would be more fun than just crushing him as he stood paralyzed with fear. When the demon saw where the human was headed however he roared with fury and charged forward as fast as he could. The gate had been opened somehow! His quarry had an exit! But no, he swore on the name of his brothers he would not let this bastard creature escape, not another one, not again. They had to suffer, and they would suffer, just as his brother suffered trapped within this accursed Asylum!
The demon was like something out of a nightmare. Sneering face, long tangled horns, massively corpulent and wielding a hammer the size of a tree; the sorcerer felt like he was about to wet himself, backed up against the locked door with the sneering beast drawing nearer. An eternity in the Asylum wasn't something he looked forward to, but it would be better than dying here, like this. Were he not terrified beyond all imagination he would have found that amusing, an Undead afraid to die.
His eyes darted around the room again. Though he'd given up finding a way out, he found he just couldn't hold the demons stare. He felt as though his knees were about to give out. Right as he was about to collapse and surrender to death however he spied motion on the wall to his right. There, behind some urns, was a gate blocking a side path out of the room. And it was lifting up!
Throwing himself from his place against the door he made a mad dash for the exit, his trembling legs threatening to topple him. He felt the ground quake as the demon shot after him, letting out a roar that almost knocked him flat on his face. He was just a few feet away from the urns blocking the way out when he heard the demon stop and draw in breath; it was going to crush him!
In desperation he launched himself forward as hard as he could. He barreled through the fragile urns just as a deafening blow sounded out from behind him, the ground shaking beneath his feet. The force of it knocked him forward, air hitting him the back hard enough to throw him off his feet and onto the ground. Gasping, ears ringing, he landed on his hands and knees just inside the small hallway leading out of the demon's room. Another loud boom, this time making the walls of the hallway rattle and small bits of stone fall from the roof, along with another blood curdling roar got him to crawl on hands and knees further down the hallway.
He couldn't see anything ahead of him, nor hear anything other than the roars of the demon, but he had to get further down the hallway. He had to get away from that monster. He kept on crawling until one of his hands met empty air instead of the ground and he went hurdling into the darkness.
He opened his mouth to scream, but that was stopped in its tracks as his jaw made contact with the edge of a stair. Panicking the sorcerer tried to right himself, but the stairs were slick with water and he'd had too much momentum when he'd hit the top step. He plummeted down the staircase, the pain in his jaw the only thing keeping him from screaming out as the edges of the stairs tore into his skeletal body.
A blinding, explosive pain wracked his right shoulder as he finally came to a stop at the base of the staircase. He thought he was moaning in pain, but couldn't be sure. His mouth was definitely moving, but that along with other large sections of his body had gone numb. His shoulder however was filled with a deep burning throb. Probably dislocated. Great.
He struggled to bring his uninjured arm up under him so as to lift himself up, but a sharp pain in his chest stopped that plan in its tracks. And broken ribs too now, apparently. Slowly easing his arm back down to the ground he flexed his fingers, glad to at least have some dexterity left somewhere. It didn't look like he'd be moving anything else for a while.
He felt his fingers moving through something. He couldn't be sure, his gloves may be threadbare and tattered but they covered enough, but it felt like some sort of tightly packed, fine powdery material. Ash, maybe?
With what felt like a herculean effort, the sorcerer raised his head. There, not two feet away sat a rusted, spiraling sword atop a pile of ashes. He reached out as far as he could, fingers grasping at the blade, but he couldn't quite reach it. Digging his fingers onto the grooves of the stone floor and pushing against the ground with his knee the sorcerer pushed himself forward a few inches, just enough for his fingers to brush the edge the blade before he blacked out from the pain.
lll
The sorcerer awoke feeling refreshed. His were wounds healed, broken bones knitted back and cuts closed, and that fragrant orange smoke was blurring his vision and filling his head with a pleasant numbness. He was warm. He was content. He rolled over to his side, inadvertently putting himself too far from the bonfire. Reality came rushing back.
He gasped as cold, dusty air filled his lungs. Pushing himself up to relieve the stress of his bones resting on the cold stone floor the sorcerer looked around, blinking, confused, trying to get his bearings straight. He remembered the demon, and fear, and falling and pain. That's right, he mangled himself trying to get away from the demon, falling down a flight of stairs.
The sorcerer shook his head and rubbed at his temples, trying in vain to ease the sudden ache in his skull while pointedly not looking over at the inviting, languid flame of the bonfire. It reminded him far too much of a drug now, the way it had not only eased his pains but numbed his thoughts. His very nature rejected such a thing. Or at least, it used to. Perhaps when there were more than a few feet of stone separating him from a bloodthirsty demon he'd experiment more with the effects of these bonfires.
It was odd, thought the sorcerer, that the demon hadn't simply smashed his way into the room, but like hell was he going to stay and mull over it. Making his way across the room, careful not to slip on the stone floor, which he assumed was kept moist by melting snow dripping in from somewhere, the sorcerer managed to reach an opening on the opposite side of the room.
He walked out into what was once a cell lined hallway. The roof was long gone now however, the cells busted open or caved in, and the stone floor was coated with large patches of pale green moss punctuated by small streams of water, melted snow most likely, rolling down the slight incline of the hall. The sorcerer had to squint his eyes as he stepped out under the open sky, despite the grey clouds obscuring the sun. Movement caught his attention.
Something shifted at the end of the hall way. Pressing his hand to his brow, the sorcerer was able to open his eyes fully just in time to see a lone hollow at the opposite end of the hall release an arrow in his direction.
The sorcerer blindly threw himself into an open cell on his left, dodging the arrow by only a few seconds. He landed hard on his side, sliding on the slick stone floor. Pushing himself up the sorcerer hurriedly crawled on hands and knees to peer around the corner of the cell door.
At the far end stood an Undead. His armor may very well have been that of the warrior-monks who guarded the asylum, but time and the elements had eroded it to rags and errant strips of rusted iron. The bow it held however was clearly still functional, and the creature had plenty of arrows jutting out of the quiver on its back. Already it was drawing another arrow and slowly shambling down the hallway, inching towards the sorcerers cover.
He was trapped. At one end was the armed hollow, and the other a demon. His only option was to wait outside the door and attempt to jump the hollow as it entered the threshold of the cell. He had been rejuvenated by the bonfire after all, while this hollow had stood beneath the open sky for gods know how long, wasting away. But then, the sorcerer had no clue how to fight. Not without his staff, his sorceries. What choice did he have though?
Shaking, he pressed himself up against the wall next to the entrance of the cell, listening to the shuffling of the hollows feet as it struggled to make it way down the hall. It was then that he noticed the corpse lying on the ground by his feet, half submerged in the water. The dried out body was missing its head and an arm, but on the opposite arm was strapped a small, rounded leather shield.
Hesitantly the sorcerer bent down and pulled the shield from the corpses arm, inspecting it. The leather was cracked and soaked, the wooden back and handle full of rot, and the metal half ball in its center covered in rust. But it was something at least. Gripping it with both hand the sorcerer brought it up to his chest and flattened himself back against the wall, thinking he could use the ruin of a shield as some sort of bludgeon. He vaguely recalled a knight doing something similar to someone, somewhere…
Strange. He felt that the knight striking the man was supposed to be a memory of great import to him, something he was supposed to remember. He felt strangely guilty about the fog that had settled over that portion of his mind.
He was shaken from his reverie by the hollow turning the corner. He brought the rim of the shield to the side of the hollows jaw with all the strength he could muster. Which, as it turns out, was not much. The hollow released its bow and arrow and tore the shield from the sorcerers arm, flinging across the room before giving a loud guttural moan and charging.
The terrified sorcerer raised his hand, desperate to keep the hollows teeth away from him. The hollow barreled into him, slamming him against the wall. Dry, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. His vision was beginning to fade. Desperately he clawed against the hollows hands and face to no avail.
The hollow stepped on a patch of moss beneath the water, slipped, and cracked its head open against the stone. Arrows fell from their quiver, spilling into the water behind it. The sorcerer, gasping for breath and clutching at his throat, simply stood in shock before coming to his senses and running up to the downed hollow. The sorcerer grabbed up an arrow from beneath the water, still in comparatively good shape and with a wicked iron tip, just as the hollow was beginning to rise. Grimacing, he plunged the arrow into the hollows eye.
The hollow screamed, black blood spurting from its pierced eye. The sorcerer jumped back, startled, and fought with himself over whether he should make a break for it or stay to make sure the hollow died. Before he could decide the hollow suddenly grew silent and fell slack, it's skin rapidly cracking and turning a light, soft grey. Curious, the sorcerer reached out to examine the corpse only to have it crumble at his slightest touch. Ash, he realized. The body had turned to ash. Rising, the sorcerer stumbled out of the flooded cell and made his way down the hallway.
lll
He was led to a gated terrace, wrapped around the perimeter of the bonfire courtyard. To either side were staircases, leading up to even higher levels of the Asylum. Part of the sorcerer wanted to stay right where he was, terrified of what danger may befall him should he continue on. But his rational side knew it was only a matter of time before another hollow wandered in on him, or the demon eventually tracked him down. He need to explore further, needed to find someplace truly safe. Or, preferably, the exit.
Steeling himself the sorcerer made his way to the staircase, halting momentarily to observe the flickering of the bonfire down in the courtyard. He was leaning against the bars, standing right next to the staircase, absentmindedly wondering what properties made the flame move so with such languor when the ground beneath him began to shake and a fierce rumbling started to reverberate from atop the stairs. The sorcerer turned to see a truly massive ball of iron come barreling down the steps.
He was in absolutely no danger of being hit. All the same, the sorcerer jumped back in fright, losing his footing and falling on his backside. The iron ball slammed through the wall opposite the stairs, ancient brick and decaying mortar flying apart. He heard another loud bang as another wall, sturdier apparently, deflected the ball, which he could hear skidding across the ground before coming to a rest.
Nervously, the sorcerer peered around the corner and up the stairs. Searching for someone or something that could have pushed the massive sphere down at him, the sorcerer paid little attention to the room said sphere had just opened up.
Until the man inside the room began to moan.
lll
Oscar thought it would be the last time he closed his eyes as a man. The fight with the demon had left him battered and broken, unable to even reach the estus flask at his hip. The curse fed off the despair following his defeat, running rampant throughout his body. He didn't even want to imagine what he must look like now. There was so much more room in his armor than he remembered there being.
So as he laid upon the rubble, light from the hole in the roof shining down on him, he closed his eyes in defeat. When next he awoke Oscar, knight of Astora would surely be gone, a mad hollow taken his place. He was proven wrong when his eyes shot open at the sound of a huge metal ball crashing through the wall to his right.
The shock made him flinch, and by the gods did it hurt. His ribs pushed in direction they weren't meant to push and his shoulder, long since dislocated, shifted in his armor. He wanted to scream, but all he could manage was a low, pained moan.
Judging by the sharp gasp and shuffling footsteps from the other side of the wall, something heard him.
A hollow peeked it's head around the corner at him. Through the slits in his helmet he could make the faded uniform of the Vinheim Dragon School. Odd, he thought, that a hollowed Vinheim sorcerer would've been sent here of all places. It was common knowledge the Lords of the Dragon School liked to keep such 'valuable subjects' to themselves.
But wait, something was wrong. That clothing. He'd seen a Vinheim sorcerer here hadn't he? When he'd been fighting the hollow on the roof, that's right. The damned creature had fallen down a hole and when Oscar peeked in to ensure his blessed sword had done its job a hollowed sorcerer had been sitting there in the room. Just staring back at him.
But how had it gotten all the way over here? And more importantly why was it just standing there gaping like a fool? A hollow should have attacked him by now.
Unless…Could it be?
With some great effort Oscar drew in breath, wincing as pain wracked his body, and spoke to the sorcerer.
"You're no hollow, are you?"
The hollow jumped when he spoke. By the gods, the poor thing looked like a startled rabbit. It, or he rather, looked like he was torn between running for his life and throwing himself to the ground and crying. Oscar could guess why. Even in great Astora undead hunts had become an increasingly popular activity among landed knights. The stories of those hunts had spread far and wide and were quite…gruesome.
"Wait, please don't run. We are both undead here. Please, come closer, I have pressing need to speak with you."
The sorcerer was still tense, muscles tightened like a spring, ready to sprint away at the first sign of trouble. Thankfully though he stepped forward.
"Is that cloak your own? Are you truly a sorcerer of the School?"
The Undead nodded. " Thank the gods then. I was no match for the demon, but perhaps magic can do what steel could. I was sent here, on an Undead Mission at the behest of the royal family. My quest was to ring the fabled Bell of Awakening, and in doing so discover the true fate of the Undead who plague the world. I have failed, and will soon go hollow. Please, you may be my last hope, the world's last hope. I beg of you, carry on in my stead."
The undead sorcerer opened his mouth to speak. Instead he broke into a coughing fit, clutching at his throat. It must have been a long time since he'd spoken. Slowly however he calmed down and, in a voice like sandpaper on tree bark, said two words.
"No staff."
Oscar tried to point, but even that much movement was beyond him. "Up there stairs there, behind you. It will lead to a balcony with an undead hanging off the side to your left. He has a catalyst…as well as one of my daggers sticking out of his skull."
The sorcerer visibly brightened at the mention of a catalyst. That was good, it meant he still had a little spirit left in him. "Take them both if you like. I have an estus flask and another dagger on my belt here, you will need them."
The sorcerer came knelt next to him and pulled both items from the knight, gripping the dagger awkwardly while gazing in awe at the pale green flask and what little sunset colored liquid remained. Even in those dead eyes, Oscar could see a thousand questions waiting to be asked. Typical sorcerer. But there was no time.
"The key in my pouch, take that as well. Good, I know you must have many questions but there is simply no time. That key will open the door to the balcony. Lock the door behind you. It is only a matter of time before I succumb to the curse. You must regain your power before then."
The undead sorcerer had to clear his throat and swallow several times before he could speak. "Your name… what is your name?"
His vision was beginning to tunnel. "I am Oscar, knight of Astora."
"I will accept you quest, Oscar of Astora."
Oscar smiled behind his helm, the burden of his failure lifted by the sorcerers agreement to carry on the torch. As the world began to grow dark he forced himself to speak one last time to this strange undead. He wished he could have learned his name.
"Thank you… and farewell."
lll
The sorcerer, of course, had no intention of accepting any quests. He did however feel that the knight, for his assistance, should at least die with a little hope inn his heart, and so lied through his teeth until he was sure the knight had drifted off into what would likely be his last bout of unconsciousness before true hollowification.
The truth was that he planned on retrieving this catalyst, if was truly there, and then getting the hell away from this accursed asylum. Arguably the only upside to his becoming undead was that he could now travel with impunity. No need to worry about food or weather or inconvenient bodily functions. And once he had his magic in hand he would be safe from anything that wished him harm. But first he needed to get away from the knight. He would be slaughtered in an instant were the knight to rise while he was still near.
Clutching the dagger so hard his fingers hurt, he slowly made his way up the stairs. There, standing right before the door which would take him out to the balcony stood a hollow. It was probably a sorry sight to anyone else, naked, emaciated and unarmed. But the sorcerer's legs were shaking. Had he a functioning digestive system he'd be, once again, fighting the urge to wet himself.
He'd never used a weapon against another living being. He'd used magic for such a purpose once before, and there was that one fencing lesson when he was still a disciple, but neither of those events counted to him. This would be a first.
The hollow saw him and rushed. Spreading his feet and blading his body, the sorcerer thrust forward with the dagger. The dagger sunk to the hilt in the hollows stomach. It didn't seem to notice. Teeth clenched down on his shoulder with a sickening crunch. The sorcerer screamed. Hands clamped down on his face and arm, so hard he feared they'd snap bone. In desperation the sorcerer shoved forward with what strength he had. The hollow, feather light, was forced back a few steps before receiving a punch in the face. Already off balance, the hollow fell flat on its back.
The sorcerer, wild eyed from fear and pain, pounced down on the hollow, pinning it, and with a shrill yell raised the dagger above his head and plunged it into the hollow's eye. That did the trick.
For a long time, the only information anyone had on estus flasks was that found within the forbidden Dark Tales. The massive collection of profane writings were, officially, to burnt or handed over to the nearest church authority for burning. The practice fell out of fashion as the years went by and more and more copies seemed to appear to the point when confiscating works from the Tales had become more of a formality than anything else.
It was common knowledge that deep within the bowels of the Vinheim Dragon School rested the most complete version of the work, though most considered it a curiosity among curiosities and even the few with the authority to view the Dark Tales never bothered to give it any consideration. Strange, but harmless fiction it was called. Then estus flasks began to pour into the city.
The curse of the Undead began to appear in the hamlets and countrysides of the great cities, and with the Undead appeared the innocuous pale green flasks. Undead hunts once again became a fashionable pastime among landed knights, who gave reports that Undead could drink a strange liquid found within some of the flasks to heal any injury. Intrepid business men sold innumerable flasks to students and teachers alike, and the entire School was overtaken with a craze for unlocking the mysteries of the emerald flasks. Alas, none of the recovered flasks still contained the fabled sunset ichor that could heal injury, though many a sellsword was sent at the behest of wealthy lords to find just such a prize.
The sorcerer, upon his graduation from the school and his acceptance of an apprenticeship under Master Draylas, contributed a section of his first book to the references to the flasks found within the Dark Tales, and on the possibility that so much of the material that had long been considered fanciful fiction ought to be given a second look. Personally, he considered it all a load of horseshit but, as his Master predicted, the book sold quite well, enough to fund his much more productive studies into the properties of cat oil when applied to certain inert herbs. In the Asylum however he discovered, to his great surprise, that it was not a load of horseshit at all.
The sorcerer had been sitting up against the wall a few feet away from the slain hollow and in incredible agony from his wounds. Terrified that, were he to take the time to return to the bonfire to heal, the knight would fully hollow and hunt him down he decided to find out once and for all the validity of those ridiculous rumors which, apparently, the knight had put stock in. The knight, it turned out, had been far wiser than himself.
It was strikingly comparable to the effects he felt when near a bonfire. A quick flash of warmth and contentment and then poof, he felt all better. Better than better, actually, he go as far to say he felt more substantial. More whole. This would warrant a great deal of study if ever again he found himself in a laboratory. But, for the time being, he supposed he had other priorities.
Bouncing up from his place by the wall, feeling good as new, he fished the key the knight had given him from his bag and all but threw open the door. Sure enough it opened up into a balcony overlooking a graveyard and the edge of the mountain. And there, hanging precariously from the side of the ledge, was a slain hollow with one dagger sticking out from the back of its skull and one wooden staff secured tightly to it back.
The sorcerer almost ran towards the corpse before catching himself. Quickly he closed the door shut behind him and locked it back up, pocketing the key. He could in all fairness probably take a lone knight with his sorcery, but there was no point in risking it. That taken care of, he all but sprinted to the corpse before carefully undoing the straps on the catalyst.
He could tell just by looking that this was not the tool of some hedge-wizard. No, this beauty was of Vinheim make, smoothly carved and radiating magic. It's power was fairly mild, he could feel that in his skin even as he undid the straps, meaning it hadn't been used often, but it was of no consequence. Even an aged and under-utilized Vinheim catalyst was far stronger than anything made from outside sources. And it would only get stronger with use.
Almost reverently he took the catalyst in his left hand and raised to the sky in the casting stance taught by the School. The bonfire and Estus had given him contentment, but this? This was euphoria. For the first time in ages, the sorcerer felt complete. A groan emanated from somewhere behind him.
Whirling around he caught sight of three hollows, two standing in the middle of the balcony and a third, armed with a bow and arrow, off on the opposite end. The sorcerer ducked, an arrow flying over his head and off the side of the mountain.
Dropping the shield the sorcerer raised his catalyst and assumed the stance. The telltale sting of magic began crawling through his arm, slower than he'd like but faster than the hollows were moving. The magic pooled in the palm of his hand before jumping into the conductive catalyst, manifesting as a pale blue light emanating from where he gripped the catalyst. The light traveled up the catalyst until it reached the very top. The sorcerer grinned as the condensed magic was released.
The Soul Arrow tore through the two advancing hollows, beheading one and tearing a significant chunk out the one behind it. A second soul arrow finished it off, followed by a third to take care of the archer. A familiar dull ache began to settle in his arm; the air began to fill with the smell of exposed magic, a sharp acidic odor. It reminded him of home.
He knew the smart thing to do would be to drop down into the graveyard, using magic to cushion his fall of course, and the begin searching for a way down the mountain. Hell, worst case scenario he could just levitate his way down, pathway or no. It would be painful, and extremely taxing, but he was eager to see the last of the Asylum. But there was a doorway behind him.
Judging from the barely audible heavy breathing, and what little of the layout he'd managed to figure during the last few hours, the doorway would open into an upper level of the room the demon resided in. The sorcerer knew he ought to simply leave. Regaining his magic made him confident however. The demon had terrorized him when he'd been at his weakest, and now that he was strong he wanted revenge. It was petty and prideful, he knew, but that knowledge didn't lessen his desire one bit.
His last thoughts before entering the doorway and looking down upon the hulking beast were of the knight. The knight had saved him. And the demon killed the knight.
Gurz'Grogal smelled his prey the moment it entered the room. He would waste no time terrorizing the cretin, not after that last mess. He was going to kill this little fucker. Whirling around to face the small terrace his prey stood upon the demon squatted down and flexed what remained of his wings. But before he could launch himself up and crush the abomination however, he saw it. The light.
A pale blue light radiated from something in the hollows hand. Gurz'Grogal was bombarded with memories of the ancient past, of a battle long since done. He could smell the stink of rotting and burning flesh, feel the heat of the lava pouring from the wounds of the twisted one, washing harmlessly over his brothers as it incinerated their enemies. He heard the screams of his mother as she urged him on, all of them, to kill and maim and destroy. And he remembered the light.
Foul creatures in six eyed helms, the man-puppets of a great pale monster. Their appearance brought ruin to innumerable demons, their foul magic imbuing the knights of the sun lord with strength and speed far beyond anything mere humans should possess. And then they joined the fray themselves, spewing the pale light of death onto hordes of his brothers. He charged one that strayed too close, felt the stare of the cold beast hiding behind the six eyes, saw the blue light. And then there was darkness. Darkness and pain.
With great effort he pulled himself from the memory of the ancient battle. It was too late. The light rushed forward towards him, and once again there was pain and darkness as the magic tore through his eyes. Roaring and screaming he rushed forward and desperately beat against the wall in front of him with his hammer. If he could just break the wall then surely the fall would kill the hollow. He could still save himself.
In his pain and terror Gurz'Grogal had forgotten the enchantment placed on the walls. The walls imprisoning his brother, and any walls connecting, where utterly indestructible. He remembered too late. More pained blossomed all over his exposed back and shoulders. And then the pain was gone, and only darkness remained.
The sorcerer knew that the god-like euphoria he felt was an illusion. It was the almost orgasmic feeling of releasing magic that had remained pent up within the body for years and years, a common affliction many young discipulum experienced when they finally qualified to be given their first catalyst. He knew that, in a few hours, he would look back in shame and embarrassment how he reveled in it. But revel he did, grinning like an idiot as he cast Fall Control and slowly began floating down into the graveyard.
In retrospect he would realize that slaughtering a demon with such ease did him little favor as far as self-control was concerned. It was only through a great force a will and his years of experience as a senior apprentice that he resisted the urge to jump off the edge then and there and Fall Control his way to the base of the mountain. That would be stupid and dangerous. He needed to meditate and regenerate the magic he'd expended fighting the demon.
The sorcerer decided the raised section of the far end of the graveyard, which as far as he could tell was the natural peak of the mountain, looked like a prime spot. Sitting down and crossing his legs the sorcerer slowly worked himself into a trance that would speed the recovery of his magic. It would take some time, but he wanted to be at full strength when he began his descent. He anticipated it being quite the ordeal.
Nonetheless, on the whole his thoughts were quite optimistic. He had his magic back, and soon he would be making his escape. It would be a long journey, but he could now return to the South, to the lands he called home.
Hundreds of feet below him, in a nest carved into the side of the mountain itself, the Great Crow awoke.