Today was not a good day to be Jaune Arc. Granted, most days were never good for him, but today definitely took the cake. He knew Beacon had really high standards compared to most other Hunter academies, but not even in his worst nightmares would he have imagined THIS.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God, OH GOD!"
Turns out, there was a Death Stalker in The Emerald Forest.
A very old Death Stalker.
A rather large, Death Stalker.
One that just so happened to be holding him very tightly in it's left pincer.
"PYRRHA, HEEEEEEEELLLLLLP!"
Honestly, if he weren't so frightened, being tossed up, down, and around like this he probably would ended up with both voided bowels, and an empty stomach. At least he would die with his dignity intact.
"Jaune!"
He was saved!
"I don't want to die, Pyrrha! Not like this! I haven't even had my first kiss yet!"
Well, there went his dignity.
The sharp report of Miló's rifle form tore him from his ruminations. The bullet skittered off the Death Stalker's shell, not even scratching the carapace.
While it may not have damaged the ancient Grimm in any meaningful way, it did get it's attention. The Death Stalked turned to face Pyrrha, drawing it's left pincer, and Jaune, over it's right pincer.
For but a moment, Jaune was confused. Then, he realized what the Grimm was intending.
Any further panicked cries and pleading for his life were silenced as the Grimm swung it's pincer to the side, towards the large cave it was residing in.
Jaune felt his stomach, along with most of his internal organs, shifting downward, as he flew towards the mouth of the cave. If it weren't for his newly awakened Aura, he likely wouldn't have survived the resulting impact with the cave wall. Such was the force behind the Death Stalker's throw, the roof of the cave collapsed, trapping him within.
Just as the last boulder fell into place, cutting off the outside world, he could hear Pyrrha call out his name in horror, and shock, before a chunk of rock, roughly the size of his head, squarely struck him the forehead.
When Jaune regained consciousness, he half-expected the Death Stalker, mandibles fresh with Pyrrha's blood, and viscera, to be standing over him, ready to consume him as well.
Instead, complete and total darkness surrounded him. He could hear nothing beyond the cave-in, and the cave proper was deathly silent as well.
A sudden jolt of pain drew forth a hiss, gloved hands swiftly coming up to tenderly grasp at the welt on his forehead.
Pain. That meant he was still alive.
He would chuckled to himself if the situation wasn't as dire as it was.
Doing his best to ignore how the rest of his body ached, he groped around blindly. If there were more Grimm deeper in the cave, he at least wanted something resembling a fighting chance. The familiar grip of Crocea Mor was found after a few seconds of searching.
Well, he wasn't going to escape by just lying down. He clambered to his feet, finding the pain had since lessened. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, though he was still effectively blind, as he could only see roughly two feet in front of him. Nevertheless, he slowly walked forward.
By the grace of God, he had managed to survive being a Death Stalker's stress ball, and there was no way in hell he was going to just crawl up into a ball and die here, not while he could still walk.
Before he could start wondering just where this newfound determination came from, something broke the silence.
It sounded faintly like the crackling of a dying campfire.
He wasn't alone.
Gripping his sword tighter, he made his way toward the sound, only stopping once he came to...the cave wall?
Unless the impact had rattled his brains enough for him to start hallucinating, the fire sounded like it was behind the solid stone. But how?
He reached forward with his shield-arm, and grazed the wall.
Imagine his surprise, as the wall faded away as though it was some kind of mirage. And what lay behind the illusory wall, only served to confuse him further.
It was...a staircase. A stone staircase, leading downward into further darkness. The walls were made of stone brick, rather than the natural cave wall.
Well, he had two options. Either progress further into the cave, and run into whatever other Grimm called this place home, or descend the staircase, into the complete unknown.
Luckily, he received his answer in the form of growls, and snarls coming from deeper within the cave.
Well, he didn't exactly fancy trying to slay the maker of those growls in near total darkness. His decision made, he started to descend the staircase.
Before he could make it to the second step, a torch, planted on the wall to his right, roared to life, bathing a good portion of the stairs in warm, orange light.
Making no effort to suppress the startled yell that tore forth from his throat, Jaune flinched back, bring Crocea Mor into a ready stance. His heart pounding in his chest, he eyed the torch with no small amount of suspicion.
Torches weren't supposed to just light themselves!
Deciding that the mystery stairs weren't worth it anymore, he turned back, only to find the path back into the cave blocked again. Hesitantly, he stepped forward, tapping the wall with the tip of his blade.
Nothing. A faint clang as the sword made contact with the stone, but beyond that, the wall didn't disappear like last time.
"Great," Jaune muttered blackly. "First, I nearly become a chew toy for a Death Stalker, then, I get trapped in a dark and scary cave, and now, I'm trapped again, in...darker, and even scarier ruins."
Suffice it to say, he was really starting to get tired of this shit.
Sighing, he turned back once more, dimly noticing that the staircase began curving to his left, thanks to the light offered by the possessed torch. He continued forward, every seven or so steps, another torch would come to life, casting away more of the darkness.
When he finally came to it's end, what awaited him was...shocking, to say the least.
He found himself in a very large rotunda, one that hadn't had anything living in it for quite a while, from how thick the dust that lay on every stone surface was. The only source of light was in the center, and once more, just what it was only served to raise more questions.
It bore the faintest resemblance to a campfire. Ashes, and bones that looked alarmingly human lay around it, a small flame burning in it's center. What struck him the most, was the sword, that lay tip first in the ashes. It was an incredibly strange design, coiling in such a manner it seemed to have no true edge, had four cross-guards, which were short, and thick. The pommel was another oddity, consisting of a large metal ring.
But by far, the most bizarre aspect of the sword, was the fact it seemed like it had just come out of the forge. The blade was glowing red, and with what little light the fire underneath it, he could see the air shimmering around it.
It was too dark to see anything else around, save for the strange fire, and the sword embedded within. Curiosity struck him. He could feel a strange yearning when he looked at the flame, and it seemed inviting. Jaune realized how cold the room was, shivering as the chill seemed to permeate into his very bones.
Yes...the fire looked quite warm. Surely, he could rest by it for at least a minute or so?
He walked over to the flame, sheathing Crocea Mor, and held out his right hand to the hilt of the sword.
It was when his hand promptly ignited, that his senses returned to him. Stumbling back, he could do naught but scream, as the fire burned away. In a frenzy, he swung his arm to and fro, until he finally managed to extinguish the flame eating away at him. He collapsed onto his rear, throat raw from his agonized cries, and, fearing the worst, took a tentative look at his burned hand.
Only...it looked fine. It didn't feel fine. But it's appearance belied just how much it hurt.
Had that fire burned his soul?
He couldn't think on what just happened further, as the flame before him grew in strength. All around him, candles that were once unlit, and unseen were kindled, and the entire room was lit. With his vision restored, what he saw next made his heart skip a beat.
Five thrones lay above Jaune, four of which were empty. It was the throne in the center, that demanded his attention.
For sat upon it, was a knight of sorts.
A knight that had more business in Hell, than in the mortal world.
It's armor looked warped, charred almost. The chest-piece was ravaged in such a way it bore more resemblance to a ghastly steel ribcage, than armor. The helm was similarly burned, with dimly glowing spikes jutting upwards, faintly resembling a misshapen crown.
It's right shoulder was protected by a large pauldron, consisting of five overlapping steel plates. The opposite shoulder lacked the pauldron. The rest of the armor coating it's arms and legs were worth little mention, with fairly basic elbow guards, gauntlets, and greaves. Underneath the armor, chain-mail protected whatever wasn't covered by plate.
The knight looked almost like a corpse, slumped to the side of the throne, one arm on the armrest, and the other hanging limply to it's side. The fire grew brighter, and looked almost out of control, the shadows cast by it's light dancing around.
Then, the knight stirred. And ignited. The spikes of it's crown became red hot, flickering flames bursting forth from every crevice in it's armor. Embers started emanating from the burning knight.
The helm lolled forth, and the knight barely managed to catch himself before he tumbled out of his throne. It's head raised. And locked it's gaze firmly onto Jaune.
Ashen one. Mayst thou thy peace discov'r.
The Dark had settled on the world. The ceaseless linking of the fire had ended. The last desperate gasps of the First Flame, went unheard. The First Flame had faded. At least, in the twisted land of Lothric. The Ashen One knew not what had transpired at the Kiln, not fully. The only memory, fleeting as it was, was of the Fire Keeper, saying these words. The words that repeated over and over within his mind, all through out his slumber.
Why then, was the Flame burning as bright as it was? It was as if the Flame had been reborn, it's strength, fading over the ages, had been restored, the means of which, escaped the Ashen One.
He stirred, bones that had remained still for eons creaked, and groaned, as he lent forward. Vertigo struck him, and it took all his might to remain upon his throne. For as long as he had remained in his dreamless sleep, Firelink Shrine remained untouched, save for the copious amounts of dust strewn about.
The First Flame, having taken the place of the Shrine's bonfire, called to him, to guard, to protect, from the intruder, who had awoken him, and the Flame. Slowly, he raised his head, and took in the form of the intruder.
He was young, barely seventeen summers old. He was clad in light armor, a polished white chest-piece, and a set of guards attached to his upper arms. His clothing was odd, to say the least. A hooded tunic, black in color, with an orange lining within. His vambraces were made of cloth, and similar colored orange, his hands covered by fingerless leather gloves.
Two belts lay on his waist, one to hold fast his blue, roughly-hewn trousers, and the other, held a broadsword, strapped to his left hip.
A squire then? The lad's face still bore traces of the roundness of a child's features, his eyes a dark blue, and he was fair-haired.
The boy looked terrified, and the Ashen One could not blame him. The armor of the Soul of Cinder had become his, and even he, who had bested the likes of Ancient Wyverns, Darkwraiths, and all other horrid creatures that inhabited the cursed land of Lothric, felt fear when he had first lain eyes upon the guardian of the Flame.
He rose to his feet, soot and ash spilling forth from within his armor. The squire crawled back, cradling his right hand, glancing back to the stairs, and to the Ashen One, judging whether he could clamber up the stairs before the Ashen One could reach him.
The Champion of Ash had no intentions of harming the young squire, as much the Flame refused, demanding the squire's eradication.
Reaching the edge of the platform the throne was situated on, he stepped off, landing roughly, his armor clattering back and forth from the force of the fall. The Flame, and the Coiled Sword lay before him, he looked back to the squire who had since managed to get back to his feet, and was slowly, but surely ascending the stairs.
Ignoring the squire for now, he stepped forward to the Flame, and took hold of the Coiled Sword's grip. He yanked upwards, taking the Flame, and the Sword, which quickly set alight.
With the First Flame safely in his grasp, it was time to introduce himself.
Resting the Coiled Sword on his shoulder, the Ashen One did his utmost to appear non-threatening, and advanced to the fleeing squire.
Uh...
Hi. I'm back. Ish.
It's only been, what? The better part of a year since I did anything on this site?
Better late than never?
Anyway, I just shat this out in about an hour and a half, so let it be said that this opening chapter will probably not be indicative of the quality of later chapters. That, and I haven't been sleeping well for the past week or so.
Yeah...
OH GOD PLEASE DON'T BE MAD.