A figure adorned in the ornate steel of the old and forgotten Drakeblood Knights stepped onto an equally old and forgotten cliffside, which itself overlooked an old and forgotten city.
Of course, in Drangleic, most things came in the 'old and forgotten' variety. The figure in armor was used to it. That was, after all, why they had come all this way.
Only a few steps in, and there was a shaking. A rumbling. The figure in armor, the bearer of the curse, drew their sword, a broad and silver weapon that demanded dexterity of its wielder. Their shield was not raised, not yet, but soon the revealed monster causing the tremors proved that such a defense would be useless.
A Dragon. A true dragon. Not at all like the ones of the Aerie, or the false self-styled deity in that blasted Shrine. No, this was one of legend. One of old. One that the Old Woman had spoken of, when she told the stories of the beginning of the world.
"An Everlasting Dragon…"
The figure in armor could only watch in awe as the being of myth took flight, clearly wounded, retreating off to a safer perch, free of interruptions. There was a spear through it. Someone who had been here, before, had managed to hurt the beast.
The armored figure decided they would do one better.
They were going to kill it.
A kick to the back of the leg, a few well-aimed strikes, and the poisonous abomination fell. It was clearly corrupted, and hollow, but something else had eroded it. Something more sinister than the curse. The figure in armor, ever the inquisitive mind, crouched down and inspected the body closely. A soldier, of some sort. A strong one, too. Militia of the Sunken City, perhaps? Whatever this place was, it had a standing army. What went so wrong? And what of the Everlasting Dragon? How did it figure into this mystery?
The hollows were quieter and faster than they had any business being. The figure in armor found that out the hard way. A mace to the back of the head and a tumble down some rocks brought them back into the realm of reality. The pain of Drangleic, anew. A reminder that the figure in armor, despite their experience and skill, was not invincible. Lucatiel of Mirrah flashed through the figure's memories. A reminder of the price of the Curse.
Back to their feet, the figure in armor avoided another blow. The creature was slow, to be sure, but dangerous. This was no time to get reckless. Combat was a dance. A swing, and a dodge. A swing, and a block. The music was impossible to hear, but it was all there. An elaborate, and deadly, dance.
A wrong move. The creature had underestimated, and swung too far. With a roll, a kick, and a few slashes, the armored figure was safe, for the time being, and free to enjoy a well-earned drink of Estus.
"Bloody poison… Bloody ghosts… Bloody traps!"
The armored figure avoided a slash from a ghostly, nearly-invisible blade. It was impossible to take a headcount of the transparent assailants in the room, but there were far too many to fight. Instead, the armored figure was busy defiling graves in between dodges and blocks, destroying remains of knights long dead, and causing their ghostly forms to become significantly more solid.
When all were destroyed, the armored figure counted four. They were armed with crossbows and swords, all of fine make, not seen above, in the other ruins of Drangleic.
The armored figure decided they would take some back to the surface, from the hands of warriors they personally would return to the grave.
"Bloody Ghosts… Good riddance..."
Free of the ethereal mess, the armored figure went down, deeper, seeking whatever lied within the belly of the city, and the scales of the supposedly immortal dragon.
A shift in the air. A shimmering figure emerged from the floor, cloaked in red. A familiar face, one that had fought alongside the armored figure, before.
"You've got to be kidding me…"
The infamous Jester Thomas pointed at himself, as if catering to a loving audience, before preparing his flame and engaging in battle against his former comrade.
It was dark, down in the depths of the city. Granted, the areas above were hardly well-lit, but in the deeper alcoves, where all was silent except for the haunting singing, the armored figure could barely see their hand in front of their face. It wasn't ideal, and while a flame butterfly could show the way, the armored figure wasn't willing to give up their sword or shield for illumination in such an astoundingly dangerous place.
A cliff. Another drop into the chasm of destroyed buildings below. Had the architect never heard of stairs? Or did this Everlasting Dragon have a vendetta against stairs? And where was that bloody singing coming from?
The shifting of plates, and running. There was someone else in plate armor, in the dark. Someone fast, who knew the terrain.
An assailant in Drakeblood Armor came from the darkness, clashing with the bearer of the curse. The two struggled for control, an evenly matched duel. Was the knight a hollow? Or simply hostile towards strangers?
A mighty swing of a greatsword met the bearer of the curse's shield. It was then promptly pushed off, knocking the knight to the ground.
The armored figure recognized their opponent, from old stories.
"A Drakeblood Knight? Weren't you lot supposed to be dangerous?"
The armored figure's sword slid between plates, and the Drakeblood Knight was no more, dying in silence on the cold floor, alone, in the darkness.
The armored figure simply regarded the corpse with malice, and perhaps a brief flash of amusement, before moving on, eager to get to the bottom of the city.
The singing was louder, now. Incredibly close. The armored figure could hardly think straight. Something within them was pulling. Yearning. It was as if their very soul was urging them forward, towards something it wanted, either out of envy, or love. It was a familiar feeling. The dark of humanity had found something greater, more powerful, and wanted to join it. It was a feeling the armored figure had felt with Grandahl, the so-called dark diver. He had been an adept teacher, and had paved the way to a greater dark.
Unfortunately for the armored figure, something even greater than the Dark Chasm, or the incomprehensible Darklurker, was waiting for them.
The armored figure could barely breathe. They craved whatever was beyond the archway so badly it felt like they would die. Tears were beginning to well up from the tempest of feelings swirling within their mind, courtesy of the dark inside of them pulling them forward.
"Who are you, to think you deserve the mire?" The Child of Dark asked.
The armored figure wrenched their helmet off, letting it fall to the ground, revealing evenly cut black hair, ivory skin, and sinister red eyes.
"I am Samantha Regina, and I am here to slay a dragon." The woman said, grinning madly.
The Child of Dark drew her axe, a mighty tool which had no doubt seen blood before.
"Now… be one with the dark." Samantha Regina said, charging with her sword at the ready.
It had been a fight bards would sing about, in taverns. A sort of duel that the Old Woman outside of Drangleic would tell others of, if she had been present. Regina herself would be sure to write down her recollection of the battle. But, for now, she enjoyed the spoils.
Samantha, of Melfia, was almost sure that the Drakeblood Armor she stripped from a corpse was going to be the greatest of her finds. It was fine armor, to be sure, and she would have been happy with just it, but with the death of the Child of Dark, an even greater prize than she could have possibly imagined awaited her.
A pulsing lump of gathered humanity, a fragment of the legendary 'Dark Soul' only spoken of in obscure texts, sat in the eager hands of Samantha Regina, Abyss Witch.
Without so much as a second thought, she absorbed it, feeling the dark within her grow, and gaining bits and pieces of the soul's former owner. Memories, perhaps. Flashes of dark, and anger. Visions of a maiden, and a knight sent to rescue her.
Visions of the formation of the Abyss, something that the Witch Regina would cherish, and be sure to pass on, either through a verbal re-telling, or texts.
But for now, an ancient dragon awaited, and the Abyssal Witch was hardly one to disappoint.
With a draconic knight on one side, and a priestess on the other, Samantha Regina held her chime high and put all of her effort into one final blast of dark leveled at the impossibly old beast.
With one final roar, it fell, and Regina's invaluable companions bowed as they left, off to their own worlds, and their own goals. Who they were, and where they came from, mattered little to the Witch. Instead, she strode forward, reaching out towards the heavenly glow awaiting her, as if congratulating her for her victory.
She had succeeded where armies failed. She had triumphed, where Gods had come up short. She had killed a thing that was not even known to exist, and lived to tell the tale.
She placed the eroded crown on her head, grinning.
It had been a fruitful evening.
Regina returned from her depths, back to the lukewarm fire and green lighting of the Black Gulch, greeting her awaiting travel partner with a grin and a wave. The Thief, Vladoff, was always playing the reluctant companion, and while he had not accompanied his magician friend into the Sunken City, he was mildly impressed with the results.
"Take that off, lass. We're not looking to get robbed right away." He remarked, never keen on letting Samantha be too happy.
"I'm a Queen now, I think. A real Queen, by right of conquest." Samantha said, adjusting the crown slightly, her happiness unimpeded.
Vladoff could only snort, skeptical.
"Queen of what, exactly?" He asked.
Samantha looked back to the shrine and the obelisks, the entryway to the domain she supposed was now hers.
"Shulva. They called it Shulva."