A Monarch No Better
The Man of White
There was once a man of white.
White hair. White eyes. White disposition. White soul. A sword master from the the sands, a mentor and a father. A man of kindness. A man of pride. He was a serious, honest man. Wise in many ways, naive in others. Some saw him as a guide. Others saw him as a fool.
No one could deny he was a man of white.
The curse of want visited him like all others. Like the sands he knew, his memories twisted and turned in time, until memories were formless, thoughts erased as soon as they arrived. And he tasted his first death.
Like all others, he roamed, hollowed beyond recognition. Until he was finally drawn to the gate of a kingdom. An ancient land, one long since forgotten. One where souls ran rampant. A kingdom of masks and dragons. Still he was a man of white. Gray hair, gray eyes, white disposition. White soul.
Until he met a woman of black. A herald of Drangleic.
She clothed herself in brilliant emerald, a guide to those like the man of white. Why she shepherded the undead, no one knew. Her dedication was inhuman, unearned, yet life saving. A soul of black, yet a white disposition.
She had seen every pawn fall, every possible monarch hollow. Each time, her soul had grown blacker, her view perpetually downcast. Some she had grown to care for. Whether they were ignorant, wise, brave, cowardly, rich, poor, white soul, black soul, they had all hollowed. An inevitability, one of a cursed, unfair world.
The man of white found solace in her advice, in her direction. She confused him, never explained her intentions. Yet he trusted her anyways, let her aid him. A skilled swordsman, a savant of two swords, he steadily slew hollow after hollow, demon after demon. The woman of black took notice, began to hope. She never let that hope run free, however. It would only end in pain. He died like all others. He would hollow like all others
Yet as he slew the Old Iron King, as his soul grew with the 4th great soul, he was still a man of white. Grey hair, grey eyes, white disposition, white soul. And her hope rose.
The man of white, weary and tired, now stood before the monument to old, forgotten Drangleic. A black, imposing castle, magnificent and sturdy. Rain covered the stones, dragging millions of trails as drops dripped along it's walls. The woman of black stood beside him, her gaze turned towards the castle.
"You have arrived, done what no other undead has done," she said, a note of nostalgia in her voice.
"And what have I done, Herald?. " He responded, his armor drenched with rain. His face was dark, serious. The castle had an aura of dark, the black of the stones reaching for him, drawing him in. The ring, the curse, ached on his shoulder.
She didn't respond at first. Simply stared out. Until finally, she turned to him and said, "The King waits for you, Avezrix. A soul such as yours will suffice."
"Don't make any promises."
The woman of black sighed, clasping her hands behind her back and returning her gaze to the castle. She said, "You and the king are not so different. He was a proud man, one of honor, one of kindness. A white soul. A monarch who could carry the weight of his kingdom." She paused before continuing. "But a monarch's soul grows darker in time. To carry the peoples' hopes, their beliefs, a monarch must do depraved things. To save what truly matters."
"And what truly mattered to him?" The man of white wiped his brow, cold sweat mixing with the rain.
"I do not know. But everything you have seen, every tragedy, all of the fallen, was the king's doing. All to save what he loved the most. To stop the curse, his soul grew dark. Until the soul of white was there no longer."
The man of white shook his head. "And does that mean that I am to take his place? Until my soul grows dark as well? Is that all there is?" He turned to her. "I'm afraid of what I'll find in that castle. I don't see an end to this. Most of all, I don't know what must be done.
The woman of black turned to him as well, holding his gaze. An eternity passed between the two, the man of white full of fire, the woman of black like stone. When she next spoke, it was filled with hope.
"You are to bring an end to your journey, Avezrix. As well as mine."
She turned back to the castle, her words spent. The man of white knew she was finished, that she had spoken enough. Drawing his two swords, he started up the bridge, towards the massive doors of Drangleic castle. He stopped in his tracks. He could feel her gaze on him.
"Every Monarch grows tired of carrying the weight of their souls." he shouted.
He couldn't help but smile. "So be it." The last words were a whisper to himself. Perhaps a promise. Perhaps a sad observation. Only he knew.
His mind turned back to Drangleic. Once a kingdom of salvation, now a kingdom of the damned. It's king, once noble, brought down to do hellish things. All to save what mattered most.
The man walked the bridge towards the monument to old, forgotten Drangleic. He had been a man of kindness. A man of pride. A serious, honest man. A swordsman. A man of white. White hair, white eyes, white disposition. White soul.
The man walking the bridge was no longer white. He was a man of hardship. A man of fatigue. A dark, crestfallen man. Weary of the world.
He was a Man of Grey. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey disposition.
A grey soul.