A/N: Welcome to the edited and revised version of "In All The Wrong Places." It's been a rocky time in my life and I had some issues writing recreationally, as I found that it stopped being fun for a while. I've come full circle again, and my drive to write is back. I've reread my reviews and taken some criticisms to heart and felt that there were some definite issues with pacing, so I've gone through and done some work. I hope you enjoy reading or re-reading it, and I hope to see your responses in the reviews.
(01)
Stale. If one word could be used to describe what life was like right now, Patches would use that one. "Why that word in particular though..." He was talking to himself again, probably not healthy. He knew developing mannerisms like that was a sign that the ever-creeping insanity undead were endangered by was starting to take root.
He gazed around the nameless, dilapidated open-air shrine and its other denizens, making sure none of them were wise to his vulnerability.
None seemed to be, they themselves were all probably just as busy with their own thoughts and personal devices as he was. With a grumble, he stuffed his thoughts back where they belonged.
'I know why I think "stale." It's because we're all sittin' around this damned glorified campfire and doing nothing with ourselves, just rotting away…'
He got up from his characteristic squat and approached the object in question, a bonfire. A magical thing, forever fueled by the lady firekeeper trapped down below. The strange warmth these things emitted soothed and healed the wounds of undead, and the last one they rested at also spat them back out if they died.
Reasons like those are why undead are always drawn to bonfires, so scenes like this were actually somewhat common across the land; a small group of still-lucid undead gathered around a bonfire like a kind of hub, with its members occasionally leaving to explore the ruins of the kingdom. However, no one in his little group ever seemed to do that anymore. He wondered if any sane undead bothered anymore.
'Nothing exciting happens anymore. Seems like it's all winding down, and we've all settled with staying here, just waiting for the end of the world...whenever that'll be.'
He stopped staring into the bonfire and brushed a hand across the top of his bald head, ambling away from the fire to his usual little spot with his weapons and things, then dropped back into a squat. Right as he did so, the bonfire began to brighten significantly.
'Course, there is an exception…'
A figure began manifesting in a sitting position next to the flame, and when their appearance finished the flames dimmed and they stood up. 'This one never seems to be able to stay in one spot, then again, they might be mad… but that drive to wander is probably what staves off the insanity, now that I think about it. Gotta have a goal, keeps you lucid for longer.'
"They" are the person now standing and staring at the bonfire. The undead in question was clad in an incredibly thick suit of steel armor, barring the matching helmet. In place of a helmet, they wore an unsettling metal mask shaped like a child's smiling face, with pitch black behind its eyeholes and open mouth. On the undead's left hip was a claymore in its matching sheath strapped to a belt with other various things tied to it, and a shield bearing a grasslike crest sat hooked to the back of their armor.
Why does he call this undead "they?" Well, he's never seen them outside of some kind of metallic armor with that mask on, and he's never heard them speak. Sure, he's talked at them, but they never answer. They've always just stared blankly at him through that mask, listening. He knows they listen because they usually act accordingly, so they're definitely coherent enough to understand things.
'Still probably not sane though, muteness like that is a sure sign… also a kleptomaniac, but then again, so am I.' Of course, he's a kleptomaniac for different reasons, but kleptomania is a common issue with mentally degrading undead. The more an undead dies and gets resurrected at a bonfire, the more of themselves they lose. Bits and pieces of their memories simply vanish, and they try to find physical anchors or reminders to remember what's been lost. Most of the time it's entirely futile, and they eventually lose their drive and succumb to Hollowing.
The masked undead shifted their gaze away from the bonfire and set it on Patches himself, and began walking over to him. Patches cracked a smirk at them, keeping up his friendly facade. He often posited to this undead that they were friends even though many of their encounters- including their first- involved him hoodwinking the silent undead somehow. Despite all of that, the undead never seemed to take umbrage with Patches and his tricks, seemingly acting as if none of the attempts on their life had happened at all. He was actually rather glad about that, he'd seen that claymore in action.
"G'day." Nothing but silence in response, as usual. "Well, how about it friend? Bring me anything interesting?"
The undead silently reached for something attached to the back of their belt, a bottomless box. They popped the lid open and stuffed their gauntleted hand in, pulling out and setting a number of items in front of Patches. He figured that they'd recently raided a Hollow camp, considering most of the things in front of him were an assortment of weapons and armor, all in various conditions. Nothing really interested him other than a large partizan polearm which seemed serviceable in quality. He was rather a fan of spears and the like, they complemented his fighting style.
Patches pointed to the long, spear-like weapon. "Give ya a hundred souls for that. The rest I'm not too tickled by."
As usual, no response as he held his hand in the vague direction of the undead, willing an amount of his free absorbed soul power to them, then took up the partizan in his hands to inspect it. "Now this is a right good weapon! In good condition and everything, thank you kindly, friend."
Of course, his fellow undead was totally silent, but that's not what made him glance up at them. They were still just standing there, they usually pick up their unsold things and wander off again.
"What, still around?"
The undead seemed to be staring past him, their gaze raised just above his head. Looking behind himself, Patches could see the vast kingdom outstretched beneath them from the high vantage point of the shrine, but the undead seemed to be staring towards the horizon, possibly at the Sun stuck in its never-ending sunset position in the West, just above a mountain.
"Staring at the Sun? Can't be good for your eyes." Surprisingly, the undead made a gesture in response. They shook their head and pointed a finger just below the Sun, at the mountain.
"Wot, Mount Ebott? Want to go for a hike or something? It's a long ways away from here, friend. Besides, don't you remember all those tales? Ah, well maybe you don't, but I certainly do, so let me remind you. Back when people used to say things instead of trying to stab you, they said that if you went there… you wouldn't come back!" Patches broke out into a fit of laughter at the idea of there being truth behind the old wives tale, it was probably just an ordinary mountain in comparison to the very real horrors that permeated the world now.
"Probably just something mothers told their children to warn them of trying to go up it, you see how steep that thing is? But if you do go, be sure to bring something of worth back to show me, alright?"
Ever silent, the other undead turned back to the bonfire, intent on warping off to another bonfire somewhere, which was likely how they came back here.
"You hear me? It better be something shiny!" The undead had already kneeled down and vanished. "Ah, whatever. Always a stranger, that one." He then realized that they left behind all the weapons they were showing him. "Always a forgetful sucker, that one!"
Laughter again echoed throughout the once-silent shrine.
(01)