Slight, somewhat shuffled footsteps approached. A smile of recognition crossed my face; I turned to see my mother enter the room. While a few years shy of fifty, she bore her age well and wore her ruby-red dress regally. Closely trailed by her maidservants, she swept into the room, mirroring my happy demeanor. And who had any better reason for celebration? I thought. Today is the day that the heir to the Kingdom of Balder—me—was to be granted a special blessing!
"I am so proud of you Rydell! My little boy has grown up wonderfully!"
"Thank you Mother."
A horn sounded in the distance. It was answered by a bugle…then the steady tattoo of a drum. In a matter of moments, the Royal Band would begin a fanfare, signaling all to witness the ceremony.
"I'll see you soon Love!"
She left the room before I could answer. Turning, I gazed out of my room's window. Situated on the highest tower of the keep, the latter built upon an ancient mountain, my window provided an excellent vista of the kingdom I was to rule: Balder. Already, a crowd had gathered below. Judging from the din that filtered to my perch, I surmised that upwards of a hundred thousand peasants resided below. The throng gave a wide berth to the castle's entrance, and I espied Griggs at the head of the mob. I chuckled when I thought of him. A peasant and a known thief, my best friend was quick with his wit and temper. He was the only layman my mother forbid me from seeing, and the only of whose company I thoroughly enjoyed.
Above the press lay the quiet mountains of Balder. Known for their fine timber and precious metals, the closest had been gutted to the bone. They had been so mined out that suburbs had sprung from the crags and risen to the summits. Conifers and Hemlocks blanketed the blue-green ranges of the distance and were glowing under the rays of the midmorning sun.
Behind the mountains, a gout of smoke snaked into the sky. A sick, falling feeling manifested itself in my gut. While the commoner's mind would recognize a forest fire, the nobleman new better: a city was burning. The Undead were coming. To others, they only existed in whispers over ale at the inn. To the Knights of Balder—even all of Lordran—they were a growing threat.
The fanfare started. I was late! Flying down the steps, I exited the gate and took my place as the last notes hung on the air. On my left was Knight Marshal Dulain. His hair—long since grayed over—matched the armor of his station. Catching my eye, he winked, and then resumed pretending to pay attention to the Master of Ceremonies. To my immediate right was Allfather Micah, chief Cleric of Sunlight. A bald man in his mid-sixties, his girth did little to hide what was once a powerful physique; an enchanted war hammer hung menacingly at his side.
Continuing my cursory look down the lines, my eyes settled on an unknown personage. To his side leaned a gnarled, wooden staff. Of average height, the man was completely attired in black; his doublet loosely rested over a long-sleeved shirt. While his face was hidden under his cloak, I couldn't help but feel that I was also being studied. A flash of recognition crossed my face; this man wore the attire of a Sorcerer of Vinheim! Vinheim was a land heralded for its scholars and magicians. Its people famously antisocial, almost all were talented in magic. Few outside of the realm understood the workings of magic; even fewer had been to Vinheim. This invited unbridled speculation, rumors, and suspicion from everyone else.
I had been instructed to stand on top of small marble pedestal, and waited as the magician drew complicated designs in the cobblestone around me. Employing his wooden staff, the magician gave birth to arcane characters of different colors. Jumbled phrases and the caricatures of animals manifested in the stone—to the audible delight of the crowd—only to be transformed by a single, adroit stroke. This process continued for two hours, and I—possessing all of the restlessness of a sixteen year old—was about to scream.
How long does The Blessing take?
The monarchy of Balder has never had a problem with determining lineage because of the Blessing of Balder. No matter how many princes had been sired, the one in greatest favor of the king would be declared heir and formally blessed in front of his rivals and the populace. The Blessing is not just for political gain; it is powerful spell that stays with the individual for the rest of their life. A token—unique to the receiver—is born, and provides a permanent increase in the attribute associated with the prince's declared vocation.
I wonder what kind of gift I'll receive?
The magician's hood had fallen back. His irritatingly narrow face was set in a look of concentration. Clearly the man was exerting himself; he had not even bothered to remove the stray strands of brown hair that fell in front of his face. Finally, the figure stood still. Shaking hands lifted his black cowl to cover his head: only two glowing, purple orbs were visible.
Purple eyes? I shook my head. That's impossible…I must have been looking at the surrounding runes for too long.
The Sorcerer of Vinheim began to sing. Guttural words from an unknown language flowed off his tongue in a pitch three octaves to low. Both hands lifted the wooden staff in front of him, and began to pound the ground at an ever-increasing tempo. The runes that surrounded me began to glow in response, and I gasped as they all took on the same, blue-green color. A high tenor sung a perfect accompaniment to the magician, and my racing heart slowed a few paces in response to Allfather Micah's familiar voice.
The tune was triumphant. By now it had switched into the Common Tongue, and my chest swelled at the sounds of high deeds and triumph in battle. Like all of Balder's previous rulers, I had chosen to become a Knight King. This song clearly reflected that choice, and I eagerly awaited what was to come. Will I become the strongest warrior in the land? I thought of my father the King and of the way he comfortably swung his greatsword. Maybe I'll have an unlimited reservoir of endurance!
By now, the song had transformed into a retelling of Lordran's most well known tales. The crowd began to sing along, and the runes grew brighter and brighter.
Then the ground disappeared beneath me.
I found myself standing in a void. One by one, lights of various potencies began to flicker into existence above, below, and to the sides of me. Swirling, gathering: these lights danced across my vision and assumed the shapes of the runes that had once slept beneath me. The spell was a mere whisper of its earlier crescendo. The guttural tongue had returned, and black shadows began to snake their way around the marble platform I was standing on. The darkness coalesced into monstrous hands and absorbed the notes into themselves, distorting the heroic voice of the Allfather into a demonic supplication for power. I could faintly discern the crowd outside of the dome that had so encapsulated my person.
The Magician of Vinheim was frantically waving his hands, eyes wide in fear. The nobles and royal family—once festive—wore open expressions of horror. Ladies cowered behind men with drawn swords, and my knees buckled. I had lost my balance, and screamed as I fell into the immediate shadows. Unnaturally elongated fingers clung to my form, binding me to the plummeting chasm below.
What's happening to me?
My shoulders hit the solid cobblestone. I was stunned, and blinked at the sudden return of the sun's natural light. The confusing palette of runes were no longer visible; I could hear my breath steady in relief.
The crowd was silent. Even the children had stopped crying, and I looked to Allfather Micah. Because my father's blessing took place over fifty years ago, no one besides him could tell what had just transpired. Allfather Micah quickly composed himself, cupped his hands to his mouth, and bellowed.
"The Blessing has been given! Citizens of Balder, I present Prince Rydell, your future king!"
At the Master of Ceremony's nod, the crowd erupted into cheers. The reveling was not just limited to proud parents, but with the end of The Blessing came a day of free food, entertainment—and most importantly—free drinks.
A slight cold was radiating into my palm, and I realized that I was holding something.
Could this be the "token" that is associated with the Blessing of Balder?
My father had been granted a ring that made him impervious to attack. His father had been blessed with a greatsword. And I have a…
In my palm sat a small coin embedded with the image of the castle's Great Keep. My home. The metal was a disappointing green, and two ends of poorly twined rope had been attached to either side. A pendant?
I continued to examine the gift until someone's silhouette prevented me from doing so.
"Allfather Micah! Did the Blessing go as planned?"
The elderly man scratched at his bald head and frowned.
"I can't say for sure. Master Cerian—"
"Who?" I interrupted.
"Cerian is the Magician of Vinheim. For centuries, it has been sorcerers like him who have overseen this ceremony. He certainly lived up to that name; I have never sensed such a powerful discharge of magic!" The man shook his head at the memory. "Most curious, however, was the path your ritual took. The Blessing of Balder was initially being guided to bless you with either the strength or endurance. Then the spell's intention changed. I thought that Cerian was improvising, but he swore that something powerful, something primal had taken control of him and steered your destiny in a different direction."
"What are you saying, Micah?" I held up the pendant. "Are you saying that this won't make me stronger or faster? Maybe this necklace improves my speed? Can you tell me?"
"Let me see." The cleric took the token in his hand and closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer, and streaks of white light peeked from between his closed fingers. After several minutes, Micah's old eyes popped open. "Either the magic is too subtle, or…this pendant failed to receive the enchantment."
I was crestfallen. Does this mean that nothing happens?
The Allfather laid a wrinkled hand on my shoulder.
"Do not worry, my prince. You are still in line for the throne. Wear that necklace proudly and remember that a knight is not great because of a ring or weapon; they are great because how they wield them."
The cleric gave me a hug before leaving me alone with my thoughts. Despite his kind words, I immediately tucked the ugly accessory under my neck and made my mind to forget about it.
The Great Keep loomed overhead; its flickering torches providing ample light for the revelers. Night had failed to dampen the celebrations and much of the Choosing's crowd had remained for feasting and possibly partaking in a game of Footbreaker. The goal of the game was to direct a small leather ball into the opposing team's goal. That being the only rule, one was free to engage in blows and kicks. A skilled observer could judge how long a game of Footbreaker had progressed by noting the amount of blood and sidelined players. I judged the game to be three hours old.
"Just look at them." I laughed. "No direction, no worries…no burdens; I wish we could be that way."
"What do you mean by that? You'll become a knight, and we'll both go on an adventure or two, get married an' grow fat. Very fat." At that last sentence, Griggs grinned and stroked imaginary girth.
He did not know! Not a clue of the peril our nation was in. I decided to change the subject.
"Now, how are you going to survive? Sooner or later, you'll need to find a craft…"
"It's all taken care of. Have you ever heard about the rumors of an Undead army?"
My palms began to sweat. If the citizenry of the Capitol found out that they were one of the handful of remaining cities in the Kingdom, then there would be riots!
"Why, no. I don't believe in such childish notions."
"Rydell. Do you recall the 'vacation' I took earlier this year?"
"By 'vacation,' you mean vanishing for a month."
"Anyways, that 'vacation' consisted of a little pilgrimage to the northern city of Carth. My father was believed to reside there; I was hoping to meet him. And what do you know?" Griggs continued. "When I arrived, Carth was in ruins! Ransacked! Being the prince and all, I am sure you already know this, but please hear me out." Griggs took a moment to catch his breath before continuing. "I—being a lawful citizen—began removing the coin pouches of the dead. You know, for identification…"
I rolled my eyes and signaled for the thief to continue.
"At this point, I had been collecting coin pouches for awhile. Then, there was this building on fire and…" he shuddered. "A man climbed out of it! His skin was burnt off and he limped terribly, but was still able walk towards me!" Griggs's eyes were wide with fear.
"I began to run, but turned when I heard him fall down. He twitched horribly, then rose again to pursue me!" Griggs gripped my shoulders; his light-green eyes were fixed on my own.
"What is going on?"
My mouth hung open. Centuries of work would be for naught if I did not properly deal with the situation.
"Griggs…you must promise me that you will repeat this conversation to no one. Am I making myself clear?"
The peasant nodded and I continued, "Do you know the history of Lordran? Do you know why the Undead came to be?"
"So there are Undead! I knew it!"
"There have always been! Now shut up and listen:
In the beginning, the world was without form, shrouded in fog. The land was grey and rocky, covered in stone archtrees and populated by everlasting dragons. But then came Fire. With Fire came time, heat and cold, life and death, light and dark. Just like us, our progenitors needed light. Manifesting alongside the Flame, they bound its power to themselves. By doing so, they claimed their humanities, their souls! Three of those men found the Lord Souls; thus, their humanities became directly linked to the First Flames. Nito was the First of the Dead. With his powers, he visited unparalleled plagues and pestilence upon Dragonkind. Second came the Witch of Izalith. Alongside her Daughters of Chaos, she melted the Everlasting Dragons with pyromancies and powerful flames of her own creation. Last of the new Gods was Gwyn, Lord of the Sun. Conjuring great bolts of lightning, his volleys tore apart the Dragons. With the help of Seath the Scaleless Dragon, the old order was annihilated. Thus, began the Age of Gods, the Age of Fire…"
Griggs had patiently endured the history lesson…till now.
"See here," he exclaimed, "You haven't told my why that man was able to..."
"I am getting to that!"
"Alright, but make it quick."
I continued my recitation of our origin. As a royal, it was imperative that I had been made aware of the Undead threat.
"But every flame fades. Ten thousand years ago, the First Flame began to die. From then on, the link between man's humanity and soul was weakened. As time progresses, this link grows weaker and weaker…"
"What does this mean Rydell?" Griggs was entranced.
"Praise the Sun, it usually has no effect. In some cases, however, the link between humanity and soul…severs. Apart, one's humanity dies? It is not fully understood, but when one loses their humanity, their soul seeks to fill the void. The afflicted individual—while still conscious of his or her actions—becomes obsessed with killing others so that their own, "hollow" soul may be complete. Even after death, one possessing a depraved soul will continue to kill until they are hacked to pieces.
The greatest threat to mankind is an Undead army. If present in sufficient numbers, then their durability on the battlefield and complete disregard for human life would spell the end for mankind. Ten thousand years ago, this was a reality. The Fire was dying! Undead hordes swept through the Kingdoms of Lordran. Daily, more and more sane went hollow and chaos reigned. In a last ditch effort, the Lord of Sunlight—our God Gwyn—sacrificed himself by returning his soul to the First Flame. Praise the Sun, this stemmed the numbers of Undead. With less and less of us going hollow, mankind was able to regain a foothold in this world. When the last bands of Undead were vanquished, my forefathers vowed that proper steps would be taken in order to avert a future epidemic. Religion was nationalized and clerics were assigned positions in the government. Likewise, they were charged with hunting down the Undead. This, and a renewed worship in the Gods is why mankind has survived till this day."
"Rydell, this is too much! How can you tell if one is going to become Undead? Why are we commoners not told of this?" Griggs was furious.
"I am sorry, Griggs; realize that this was not my decision." I tried to reason, but Griggs refused to calm down. Pushing off of the wall that I had been leaning on, I began to pace. Scratching my head, I fought for the words, the ability to enunciate. I shouldn't even be telling him about this! What do I do now?
The game of Footbreaker had long since ended. While the torches had almost gone out, the moon provided ample light for those still remaining in the courtyard. Earlier, during the game, the young women had sat across from us. Probably gossiping, they had been trying their best to snag the attention of the young men by accentuating their arm gestures, hair flicks, and giggles. I found it funny, but many were successful and drew the game's participants away from us. Those who did not have company had merely to wait for the other men to consume more…proportional amounts of liquid courage. Watching their antics, I stopped pacing.
A laugh sounded across the court; one man had his hand down a wench's skirt and was saying something to the group. Everyone was laughing. Tradition would soon see to them making love in the orchards.
"Why are you so down all of the sudden?" Griggs inquired. The latter's temper had completely subsided and patiently waited for a response.
My composure broke. Already strained by the day's emotions, I ripped the shoddy craft from my neck and held it out in a fist.
"Behold! I present to you the 'Blessing of Balder." I announced in a pompous voice and tossed the pendant to Griggs.
The thief deftly caught the article, gave it a quick bite, and shot me a curious look.
"Aren't these 'gifts' enchanted? Something that the kings guard with their life?"
"They have been in the past." I remembered the absolute darkness that had engulfed me and shivered. "This blessing appears to be a dud."
"And?" Griggs shrugged and tossed the pendant back. "At least you are ok. The ritual could have made you even more ugly."
I punched him in the arm.
"Where were we?"
"You were answering my question about the Undead."
"Right…" I sighed again. "One is not born Undead, but one can become Undead. When they do, they are perfectly normal. They act, feel, and look just like us! But as they begin to degenerate into a Hollow, the estrangement of one's humanity develops into a visible mark: the Darksign."
"What is a Darksign? Why do you say it with such reverence?" Griggs was thunderstruck.
"At first, the Darksign is merely a single, circular darkening upon the skin. This can originate anywhere, but it is most often located over the heart."
At this remark, Griggs pulled up his tunic and examined his chest. Nothing.
"As time progresses, more humanity is lost. The more humanity lost, the darker one's Darksign becomes. Hence the name, "Darksign." It brands one as an Undead; those with it can never be cured and will one day go hollow."
"Is there no cure? Do the Undead have any hope?"
"Sometimes—for a short period after death—a person's humanity is preserved within the corpse. If a healthy Undead can locate the humanity, then they absorb it. This action significantly prolongs their sanity at the cost of another's life."
Griggs was beyond captivated. Nodding profusely, he had taken note of every word as if he were Undead himself.
"But Rydell, is there no hope for the Undead?"
I scratched my head. "There is this Prophecy, but…"
"But what?"
"The Prophecy is ancient and old in the telling. Its been rehashed so many times that wherever you are and whomever you ask affects the story you are told! But the Prophecy agrees on one universal truism: an Undead will save Lordran. Chosen by fate, he will escape from the Asylum and pay council to the Gods. Only then would our means of salvation be known."
"But how? Isn't Lordran endangered by the Undead?" Griggs was incredulous.
"Undead are but one of the side effects of Lodran's blight: Fire is dying. The First Flames, the Fire of Lords…whatever you call it; it is what allows for mankind to live! The fact that the Fire is failing disheartens us all. Lord Gwyn's sacrifice—as powerful as his soul was—only prolonged the inevitable: an Age of Dark. While we are scared of them, those branded with the Darksign are no less different than us. Unlike Hollows, they are still cohesive and feeling. Those Undead still have lives, families, and friends. If the clergy catches them before they go hollow, families can pay for them to be sent far away to the Undead Asylum. As long as their taper burns, family is still allowed to visit and to write. As long as their taper burns, they have a chance to escape, to fulfill the Prophecy, and to save Lordran!"
My friend crossed his legs and leaned against the parapet. The moonlight illuminated his face and glimmered off his smile.
"That doesn't sound too hard. I'm sure everything will work out."
Since the Blessing, life had fallen into an exhausting routine and eight months had passed in quick succession. At the crack of dawn, us would-be knights were roughly awoken from our Spartan bunkhouse. Afterwards we were assigned to tend to the horses, prepare breakfast and then train with the Knight Marshal. By noon, we would be sent to study "support" crafts such as tactics, smithing and archery before continuing our training till sundown.
I had excelled.
My background had regally prepared me for combat. Growing up, I had been instructed in the use of various arms. My archery was supreme and only surpassed by that of my father's.
"Don't get lazy with those strokes, Rydell!"
Knight Marshal Dulain's reprimand awoke me from my reverie. Renewing my focus, I readied my broadsword and stuck a vicious, overhand blow. With a resounding thud, my blade sank deep into the hemlock's trunk. Extracting the sword—with no small effort—I took a step back and brought the pommel to my hip. Lunging with my right, I drove the point into the front of the tree, then spun, using my momentum to produce yet another nick.
Finally, my foe succumbed to the blows and fell. Exhausted, I lowered the point of the broadsword and sank to my knees. Lathered in sweat and covered in pitch, I was in no mood for celebration, but when the Knight Marshal laid an armored hand on my shoulder, I smiled.
"Take heart from your comrade Rydell. The tree will fall, just like your enemies."
William steamed at the announcement. I had groaned when I found out that the noble had decided to become a knight as well. While possessing an honest face, William was a bully that delighted in other's pain. Griggs and I had our fare share of run-ins with William; I rubbed my chin at the memory.
"Who told you to stop?" Dulain barked and then turned to face me.
"Great job today," he whispered, "You have earned your rest."
I dragged myself back to the city's garrison. It was far emptier than usual, the true Knights of Balder campaigning with my father. Battles between his army and the Undead played out across my mind. Before I knew it, I was asleep.
