Author's Note: DLC...distracting...me. Can't write Iron Souls stuff like this. I reckon I'll do one more one-shot before I get myself in gear and start working on it again. In the meantime, however...
Wicker pushed the Royal Swordsman off of his katana as he delivered a strong kick to the steel-plated Hollow's backside, sending it falling to the floor to faceplant limply. The samurai wiped his blade off on the armor he had pilfered from the Blue Sentinel, Targray, who Wicker had seen and had decided at once that he would need the man's armor. The Dark Mask he wore sat comfortably on his head, and the Bone King Skirt covered his legs to the ankle, where he donned a pair of black sandals. To finish the appearance of a samurai, he wore Rogue Gauntlets, and he clutched his Berserker Blade with the pride that only a student of the code of bushido could have.
Wicker had come to the Lost Bastille with the hope of bringing down the Ruin Sentinels, a trio of gold-clad warriors who beat the life out of anyone who dared to face them and sent them packing to whimper out tales of fear and defeat to those who would listen. This, however, had not deterred Wicker, but rather had lead him to the watery prison, as he wanted to be the one who would be known for bringing down the terrible trio. He looked around him to regain his bearings after the brief battle: The walls around him were made of blue, time-eroded stone, lined with broken jail cells, and a hole in the wall down the hallway was filled with the familiar white fog that he crossed through in many other places, which had led him to battles against knights, demons, and dragons.
The lone samurai strode down the hallway, Berserker Blade clutched tightly in both hands, tilting it to the side for easier movement. He swept his gaze across the broken jail cells, observing the empty, quiet stone rooms that had once held writhing Undead who had begged for release, but had been damned to spend the rest of their days there by King Vendrick. Wicker shook his head to dispel the thought, and just as he did so, he lay eyes on a white, glowing inscription on the ground, a summon sign. He went into the jail cell that held it, and noted that the door was broken from its hinges, and the iron bars were twisted as though some monster had pried them apart. Wicker then knelt next to the sign and observed who it had been placed by: one Pilgrim Bellclaire, a user of sorceries.
Wicker shook his head as he stood, moving away from the summon sign, whispering to himself, "No, there'll be no need for help here. I'll be the one to bring down these Ruin Sentinels, and I'll be the one who's known for it." He exited the jail cell and renewed his stride towards the white fog ahead, gritting his teeth slightly in anticipation of the battle ahead. He felt his fingers gently caress the hilt of the katana, gleeful for the taste of flesh and blood. He came face to face with the fog wall, and he removed a hand from his katana, and held it up to the gate, and it parted to allow him through. He took his first step -
- and promptly fell right in front of one of the gold-clad Ruin Sentinels, who glared down at the samurai as though hatred of him was what drove it to fight. As Wicker stood, the Ruin Sentinel raised its mighty weapon and struck the samurai in the gut, sending him flying off of the broken platform and causing him to land on his back, losing his grip on his katana as he struck the floor, grasping his gut. He watched the Ruin Sentinel clutch its massive halberd in its hands, raise it high, and jump. The samurai grunted, and was only to get out the words, "Oh, hell," before the halberd struck into his chest, finishing him off. He felt himself fade away as he glanced one last time at the tall, lanky thing that had just ended him.
As he rose back at the bonfire which he had come from, he sat down on the wooden floors of the Tower Apart and shuddered to himself. "Hunh," he murmured to himself, "that wasn't as easy as I expected it to be. Maybe...Maybe I'll try another time." With that, he lay down on the wood below him, and shivered to himself as the trauma of being so easily defeated rolled through him. He'd have to try another time, indeed.