Solidarity in Exile

by Completely Uninspired

"I won't. I promise." He tightened his grip on the bastard sword resting on his shoulder, and walked from the room. "Exiled… for now."

Solidarity, in Exile

In the Age of Ancients, the land was unformed, shrouded by fog. It was a land of gray crags, Archtrees and Everlasting Dragons. But then, from deep with the earth, came Fire. And with Fire, followed disparity. As heat and cold suffused the world, so too did life and death. And within the world was born; Light, and Dark. And it was from the Dark they came, and discovered the foundation of Lords. Nito, the First of the Dead. The Witch of Izalith, and her daughters of Chaos. Gwyn, The Lord of Sunlight, with his faithful knights. And the Furtive Pygmy, so easily forgotten.

With souls of unimaginable power, they challenged the might of the Dragons. Gwyn's mighty bolts of sunlight peeled apart their stone scales. The Witches weaved great firestorms and scorched the earth. Nito unleashed a miasma of Death and Disease, allowing the Everlasting to end. And Seath the Scaleless, ever jealous of his brethren's immortality, betrayed his own, and the Dragons were cast down.

With the end of the Everlasting Dragons, the Age of Fire began. But even with the strength of the Lords, the Fire is fading. Soon, only Dark will remain, to cover the world. Even now, the Fire is little more than embers, and the Dark creeps at the edges of Man's world. It is amongst Man, that carriers of the accursed Darksign are seen. The Darksign brands the Undead, and in this land, the Undead are corralled and imprisoned in the north, to await the end of the world.

Only, in whispers of prophecy, it is said that one day an Undead shall escape the Asylum, and in pilgrimage, go to the ancient land of Lords.

Lordran.

Years. It had been years ago when he had been led here, in chains. It had been years since he had last seen another person. Spoke to them. It had been years ago that he could say his own name with confidence, and now it was little more than a shaky sputter in his mind. A fleeting thought ever beyond the grasping of his mind.

At first, he had contemplated. Wondered why it was him that was called the monster, when he had done nothing wrong. Why it was him that was locked away, when his imprisoners had committed more evils than he. Then, those thoughts turned to anger. To hatred. If he could escape, he would see every last speck of light that filled their lives ground to dust.

Then, time rotted his thoughts to gibbering madness. Not unlike the ones that pounded on their own cells, rattling the rusted metal and filling the air with their groans and screams. Coherent thought ceased to be a concept in his mind as comforting madness soothed his loneliness.

But again, time took away his small comfort, and left only a cold, mindless shell. It had been that way for so long. Like all Undead, he had ceased aging when the curse afflicted him. Using his body as an indication of time and age had failed when he had become cursed. Instead, he had relied on scratching marks onto the walls to count the passage of days. Even in his madness, he hadn't stopped.

He had long since run out of room in his cell.

All he could do was sit. And wait. For something to happen. Something had to happen. There was no other way. It was a set law in his mind.

Something would happen. He could accept nothing less.

And then something did happen. A thump. A body. A key.

Freedom.

It was with great effort that he raised his head. For so long, he hadn't moved. Muscles had locked up. He had to shake literal cobwebs from his head. Blank, empty sockets took the place of his eyes, but his world shone through in gray. A body. Nearly naked. Clearly Hollow. It lay there, just beyond reach. And then he saw it. Wrapped around its neck. A key. To what hardly mattered. It symbolized something. His freedom. Just with reach, the goal he had prayed for so much. His neck craned upwards, managing to catch a fleeting glimpse of someone in heavy armour.

It didn't matter. All that mattered was leaving. Any thoughts of revenge had faded with his madness. Any bitter resentment held within him had long since left. All he wanted to do was be free. With creaking bones and aching muscles, he stood. He removed the twine around the neck of the dead Hollow. The key to the door, to his freedom, was now in his hands. One step. Slowly, to the door. He put the key in, twisted, and with a shrieking scrape, the rusted door was open.

He waited, hesitating for a second. And then he stepped through. But nothing felt different. No lightening of the burden of painful years of isolation. He still felt like a prisoner, trapped in his own mottled skin. An unspeakable anger rose within him, dim remnants of his former hatred, but still there. But almost apathetically, he let it go, cold determination filling its stop.

He would be free. Nothing would stop him. Not even himself. The shackles of hate his captors saw fit to slap on him would be broken.

Step after step. Each one brought him closer, only for him to feel more and more burdened. An invisible pressure was pushing down on him, trying to break him. He refused to allow it to beat him. He had stayed imprisoned for too long. No more!

With a snarl of effort, he pushed through the pain slowly building. He passed other Hollows in their cells, many of them hurting themselves or muttering in hushed gibberish. They had given in. They had given up. He refused to become like them again. Broken and weak. Each step beat on him harder than the last, but each step also filled him with ever growing strength. As he suffered, he grew. Through pain and weakness, he attained greater strength. The tunnel he followed was lit with torches lining the walls, their burning eternally trapped by forces unknown.

He had reached a ladder now. The top of it seemed so far out of reach. Yet he climbed. Each rung felt further than the last. But he would persevere. Soon enough- yet in what had felt like years- he reached the top. And he continued doggedly. Each step dragged more and more along the ground, the pain giving way to an aching and mind-numbing tiredness. A large door stretched in front of him, its heavy iron daring him to try. So, he did. He struggled more and more, yet with every centimeter the door was opened, the weight seemed to double. He kept pushing, however. The cold determination within him had not ceased in strength.

With a final scrape, the heavy metal door slid open to reveal a soft orange glow. Originating from a coiled sword, piecing a pile of bones and dust. The warm orange glow comforted him, and each step he took felt lighter. With each motion, the pain and weariness in his mind diminished further. And when he kneeled in front of the fire slowly twisting up from the base, all of his tiredness and worries washed away. An ease he had long forgotten filled his body, relaxing tensed muscles and bringing a wry smile – as small as it was- to his mottled face.

It was nice.

Here, he could settle. Here, he could stay. Here, he could be happy. A small memory drifted through his head. Of a table. A home. People surrounded him. All smiling, all making him smile.

It was quick to leave, only fading glimpses of past happiness remaining.

As warm and cozy as he felt, something else tugged on his mind. A reminder that he still had to be free.

A scowl overtook the small smile. If he were to stay, he would still be trapped. A complacent prisoner. In order to be free, he had to let go. Feet shifted. He stood and continued on his ever-growing journey. This time, empowered by his brief rest. He felt stronger than he ever had before. His whole time in this prison he was isolated, and weak. Now, his tortured soul was ever-so-slightly mended. It would be enough.

Another heavy iron door stood in front of him, blocking his path. This time, he didn't hesitate and barely faced any difficulty in opening it. The metal slid over the rough stone ground like water on oil, and the strength filling his body didn't waver in the slightest. A small courtyard came to be in his view, with pillars holding up open balconies. A bright light shone through an alcove directly ahead and above him.

Were it not for the sudden rhythmic shaking of the ground, he would have found the overgrown courtyard entrancing. As it was, the source of the disturbance saw fit to reveal itself.

A grotesque overgrown imp looking creature had appeared at the alcove, carrying a large stone hammer. The large creature's skin was a dark green, and its body was a strange mix of grossly muscled and fat. Standing on two legs, the large creature stood towering over him, at least thrice his height. In its stubbly arms, a massive stone great hammer was clutched, primed to crush him into paste. Its face evoked a sense of ancient terror, stretched into a demonic grin filled with dagger-like teeth. Squinted, burning eyes pierced into his Hollow sockets, and with each second, they seemed to grow brighter. A crown of spiky bone lay emblazoned on its head, and a pair of small, bony wings jutted from its back, along with a segmented bone tail attached to its backside.

A scream erupted from its mouth, and it leaped down from the balcony to crush him under its hammer. Or, it would have, were it not for his timely dodge to the side. Avoiding the hammer by a few meters, the force of the strike nonetheless threw him off his feet and tumbling along the ground, smashing into a few pots littering the ground.

Quickly regaining his footing, he was forced to dodge again as the demon brought its hammer down upon him. Aware that he would lose his footing if he wasn't prepared, he was forced to throw himself back to avoid the follow up swipe of its hand. He couldn't fight this thing. Not yet. He needed a weapon. Glancing around rapidly for an escape, he noticed a small tunnel off to his right.

He ran as hard as he could for it, avoiding the demons hammer as best he could manage. Running through the open archway, an iron gate closed before the grasping demons' hand. He caught his breath by leaning against the wall, and in a few seconds, he pushed off and continued down the hallway he ran into.

The creature he had just escaped from had to have been one of the wardens of the area. From what little he could remember, he was one of the earliest Undead to be imprisoned in the complex, so he had been placed relatively close to the exit of the Asylum. The prison spread for miles, although new prisoners had ceased to be brought through the way he did. Perhaps his captors had decided that dealing with the wardens was too much trouble, and made an alternative exit.

Soon the tunnel opened up into another hallway, only larger and with the roof broken open, revealing the bright blue sky. Before he could continue to take in the view, his danger sense screamed to him, and he launched himself into a timely roll to dodge an arrow headed straight for his head.

Whipping his head over to the source, he saw that an armoured Hollow stood at the end of the hallway, already in the act of readying its bow once more. Throwing himself into a cell with a broken door to his left, he searched it for something that might be able to help him, only to find an old broken wooden shield. Seeing as he had nothing else, he slid the cracking leather grip of the shield on his arm, and stepped out to fight the Undead.

Being forced to block another arrow, he rushed the Hollow, braining it with the solid rim of the small shield on his arm, and pulled the arrow out of the shield to stab it through the neck of the Undead. With the Hollow now dead, he stepped back and watched apathetically as the body hit the floor. Stepping back, he threw the now useless shield to the ground. Backtracking down the hallway he had found himself in, he found a rusted and scratched great sword laying in another cell he had missed during his rush.

The weapon had ragged and worn leather wrapped around the grip, the two sections of the handle revealing it to be a bastard sword. A deep fuller was struck through it, and despite its obvious old age, the blade was free of any nicks and looked as sharp as the day it was made. He picked it up and hefted it onto his shoulder, testing the weight with a few swings and thrusts. Finding it to his liking, he walked through the doorway near the dead Hollow now lay.

He travelled through several twisting corridors with countless prisoners still trapped inside, and came to a balcony overlooking the small area he had rested in before encountering the demon. The slowly twisting fire at the base of the coiled sword providing some small measure of comfort to him, distant as it was. To his left was a stair case, steps both descending and ascending. Opposite to that, a cell was open with the door crushed into a rusted amalgamation against the wall of the cell. A large iron ball held it in place. He froze as he heard a sound call out from inside.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

He was stuck in place. How long had it been since he had last heard a voice? How long had it been since he had last heard his voice? It had to have been just after his imprisonment, if his failing mind remembered. So long ago now, he could hardly remember at all….

He couldn't move. Another person, a sane person, was so close to him. Close enough to hear. Close enough, that he could touch them. He could talk back. He could be human again. He had to speak with them. They had to have been the one that helped him escape his cell. Tightening his grip around his great sword, he stepped through the cell, and came upon the armoured form of a knight. The armour he wore looked familiar, and for him to remember something as clear as that, it couldn't have been too long ago. And then he noticed it. The rusted metal pole in his side, steadily braining blood from him.

Ah. He was right. It was the one that gave him the key to his cell. He supposed he should have felt grateful, but for some reason he felt nothing, not even pity for the clearly dying man. His breaths came in shallow breaths, and he knew the face of the man was twisted in pain under his helmet. Then, hearing the steps, the knight raised his head hopefully.

"Ah… it's you. I see you…managed to free yourself. That's… good, I suppose. At least... in my final moments… I managed to do some good…" His weak voice was interrupted by his gasps of pain. However, he just stood there, looking down apathetically. The knight, however, wasn't done quite yet.

"If I… may ask… what is your… name?"

He would have blinked, had he possessed eyes. What was his name? He had forgotten it so long ago… nonetheless, he felt obligated to try to answer.

"I... don't… remember…" his scratchy voice sounded so alien, so unknown that he couldn't believe it was his.

"Ah… that is unfortunate… But take solace; we all… remember eventually…" the man's shaky attempts at comfort went unappreciated, and almost unnoticed by him.

"Exiled… that is… all I remember… I was exiled… I am exiled…" The quiet response echoed softly in the room, each man choosing to stay silent for a while. Eventually, the knight spoke up once more.

"Well… Exiled... my name is... Oscar... of Astora. I… have a favour… to ask of you." The knight waited for a response, but upon hearing none, he continued anyway.

"I came here… hoping to find… something to help me. An old… saying runs in my family. 'Thou… who art Undead… art chosen. In thine… exodus from the… Asylum maketh pilgrim…mage to the land… of Ancient Lords… ring the Bells of Awaken...ning and thy fate shalt… thou know'… I am dying. I know this… and soon I shall… Hollow. Please. Continue my journey… for me." The man reached out a hand, and took his own. "Swear... this to me. Please…"

He hesitated. Something was telling him this would be a mistake he would regret. But this man gave him the means to free himself. Despite his reluctance, he owed him. He would do this favour for him.

"I… swear."

The mans grip tightened, and then his shoulders relaxed. A barking cough erupted from Oscar's mouth, and he let go of his hand.

"Thank you… for this kindness. I shall not soon… forget you. I would give… you my Estus… Flask, but regrettably, it was… destroyed when… that ball hit me. I… can give you… this though." He reached into the coat under his armour, and pulled out a small golden ring, the metal exhuming a small comfort, not unlike the fire he encountered earlier. It was attached to a small chain, large enough to fit around his neck, at least.

"It was a… a gift from my… sister. She… she would want… you to have it. It was… blessed by one… of the gods long ago. It… it is not as powerful… as Estus… but it will serve… you well."

Taking it by the chain, he looped it over his head, and let it be hidden by the leather and tattered cloak he wore. The man then slumped gently, and his breathing began to get softer.

"Thank you… for your promise... Please, don't forget..."

Oscar then went deathly still, and began to fade into dust.

"I won't, Oscar. I promise."

He tightened his grip on the bastard sword resting on his shoulder, and walked from the room.

"Exiled… for now."

He came back to the stairs, filled with determination. One foot after the other took him up. At the top, he found a Hollow with a sword readied in its hand. A gurgling cry was uttered, and it raised the sword down for a strike. Its gurgle was quickly silenced, curtesy of the great sword now impaling its throat into the wall. A quick jerk of his arm and the sword was unsheathed from its body. He continued on further down into a hallway, eventually coming to a darkly lit room with three Hollows wandering around inside. Each of them heard his footsteps, and charged at him.

The first's broken blade was parried to the side, and had its spine snapped by his great swords pommel. The second's slash was dodged, and he impaled it through the chest. The third's blade found itself in the back of the second Hollow, then was cut shoulder-to hip by a spinning slash. With the three Hollows dead, he continued on.

A balcony was to his left, and another room was at the end of the corridor. Walking to the balcony, he crouched suddenly as he caught the burning eyes of the demon he ran from roving over his spot. He softly crawled back, keeping low in order to hide from the demon. He went into the other room, only to find a locked door and a Hollow clad in armour. In its left hand was a heavy iron shield, and in its right was a rusted straight sword. Upon seeing him, it took a stance, shield in front and sword on top, pointing directly at him.

Seeing this Hollow take a trained stance -seemingly all it remembered from its life- made him do the same, with his arms raised and his sword running parallel to his left forearm. His elbows were pointed away from his body, each resting shoulder height. They circled each other as best they could in the cramped room.

But he had to act. He had no shield to guard him. He had to attack and remove the only advantage the Hollow soldier had over him. A quick leap forward had his blade thrusting to the Hollows head, only to be deflected off the shield. However, as the Hollow sought to stab forward in a counter-attack, he used the momentum of the deflection to carry his weapon around in a full-body slash, the blade digging into the exposed neck and cleaved the head of the Hollow clean off.

With the Hollow now dead and not threatening to kill him, he noticed that aside from a few tears and missing links in chainmail, the armour it wore was almost immaculate. Heavy metal greaves made of a strange looking steel covered its legs, with similar looking gauntlets covering its forearms, dark leather gloves worn on its hands. It wore a hauberk of chainmail over a leather tunic, a sash wrapping around its waist to keep the mail tight. A ragged brown cloak rest over its shoulders and back, with tattered strips dangled over its chest.

Seeing the quality of the armour forced him to look at his own, and it was in dire straits. Little more than ragged leather and a cloak covered him, with no form of armour at all. Quickly coming to a decision, he took the time to strip the Hollow of its armour donned it for himself.

A search of the body yielded no other results, and he returned to the balcony. Upon reaching it, he lifted his blade off his shoulder and brought it to bear. He tried to see his face in the blade, only for the bloodstains and dirty gleam to obfuscate it. Lowering it, he stepped forward to the edge of the platform. The demon was patrolling in the small room, each step causing small shudders in the ground.

Tightening his grip on the hilt of his blade, a leap sent him plummeting towards the demon. His blade was swung down, and the momentum carried it straight through the shoulder of the beast, permanently separating it from the body.

The arm landed with a crash against the wall of the room, and a loud scream issued forth from the throat of the demon. The large hammer clutched in the remaining hand dropped to the ground as the beast brought it up to clutch at the stump of its shoulder. It turned it's burning eyes to him as a strange orange fire lit up from its hand, burning the blood and skin on its stump to block the profuse bleeding.

Upon witnessing the beast cauterizing itself, he took the same stance he used previously, and slowly shuffled back. The hand of the demon came down to clutch at its weapon, and once in hand it immediately threw itself forward with a crushing blow. He hopped out of its way, wary of the inevitable shockwave, and proceeded to charge at its leg and swing his blade across what he assumed to be its knee.

All the weight placed on the knee was left unsupported as the leg was severed, and the creature came crashing down to the ground. He leapt up on it's back, raising his sword to plunge it into where he thought its heart lay, only to be flung against the wall by a whiplash from the tail he had forgotten about. The air was knocked out of him, but his newly gained armour did well to soften most of the damage the blow could have done.

He released a cough, along with some blood. He crawled to his feet as the demon was struggling to stand itself, only to feel something strange. His ribs -crushed by the tail slamming into him- were moving inside his body. Re-arrange. Fixing. Healing. Then came the burning. Around his neck, on his chest. The ring given to him by Oscar. It was glowing a soft golden light, but burning all the same. It was healing him. Within moments, any evidence he was harmed had all but disappeared.

He stared down at the golden ring is surprise, silently grateful to Oscar for giving it to him. Nonetheless, he still had a demon to kill. Standing up with the help of his blade, he took his stance once more. The beast was in the process of cauterizing its leg, and he capitalised on the opportunity. He charged forward, sword at the ready. He dodged a desperate swipe of the demon's fiery fist, and brought his blade through the jaw of the creature and straight into its brain.

Breathing heavily, he watched as the demon's body faded into a white dust. Then, he felt it come to him. The Soul. The essence filled him, its energy restoring something he almost lost a long time ago. His Soul. His very own Soul. Memories came flowing back to him. Confusion; anger; hate; pain. All his memories from after he became Undead returned. Every single thing that was done to him at the hands of the Dying filled his mind and brought him to his knees. Every moment, every second of his eternal consciousness sitting in the cell pressed down on his mind.

His insanity followed along with them, a seeping undercurrent that threatened to drag him under. He almost slipped, the sane memories returning made him experience it all over again. But he had endured it once. He could do it again.

He didn't know how long he stayed there wrestling with his memories, but once he had won out against them, the area hadn't changed. Nothing seemed different.

Fitting.

A small black sprite floated just out of reach, and something primal within him demanded he claim it. He gently cupped the strange thing, and brought it up to his face. It floated there innocently, before it slammed into his chest and sunk into his mottled skin. Then he felt himself change.

Mottled skin grew healthy and muscled; rotting hair regrew into a wild mess; eye sockets were filled with proper eyes and his world sharpened into colour. No longer grey and dreary. For the first time in a long time, he felt normal. Human. A long, drawn out sound echoed within him.

He was breathing. Undead didn't need to breath. They didn't really need to sleep or eat either. They just wandered. Undying, eternal. Hollow. To be breathing signified something he thought was impossible. He had regained his Humanity.

A few more deep breaths later, and he walked to the door the demon was guarding. It was larger and more foreboding than the last, a grim warning against him. But he had a purpose and a promise, and no door would stop him from fulfilling them. He placed his hands on the cold metal and pushed.

Then, he felt a warm breeze. Light blinded him, and he had never felt happier. He kept his eyes open, even through the pain of seeing light for the first time in decades. His eyes quickly adjusted to the light, and he was met with a sight he had long since been denied.

A bright blue sky was light up over him. White clouds drifted by silently, each on their own journey in the world above. Around him for kilometres stretched a crater of mountains, their snow-peaked Stretching for kilometres around was a giant ring of mountains, their snow-tipped peaks standing out starkly in the day. The Asylum was built on the highest peak of the ring, and the only path was a bridge stretching down to the snowfields beneath him.

A bridge that had long since been destroyed.

He walked up to the edge of the cliff face, the drop stretching down for hundreds of metres. So far down that he couldn't see the rubble that should have been there. Ahead of him was a small platform, connected to the cliff. Walking to the edge of it, he stopped before the drop and stood there taking in the view.

He was still trapped. A larger trap, to be sure, and one with an exit further away, but he would make it. No matter the cost. He had escaped his cell. He had escaped the Asylum. He would escape this one as well.

A deep breath later, he turned back to search for a less treacherous way down, only to hear a loud screeching from behind him. Whipping around with his sword brought to bear, he froze as a giant crow appeared it his sight, talons outstretched to grab him. He tried to throw himself to the side, only for it to grab his leg and yank him into the air.

He brought the sword tightly gripped in his hands to bear, preparing to swing at the leg of the crow. He was stopped however, when a soft, effeminate voice rang through his head.

'Calm yourself, little one. I am merely bringing you where you need to be. Sleep well. You will be safe in my talons.'

He looked up, to see the black eyes of the crow staring ahead. The wind whipping into his eyes made it difficult to see, but there was a sharp intelligence in those eyes. Keeping a tight grip on his sword, he climbed his way up to the back of the gliding avian. Laying down on his stomach, he watched as the landscape slipped away below them.

'Sleep.'

His head lolled onto the black feathers, and he knew no more.

Okay, this is now a thing. I've tried my best to keep my writing in the vein and style of Dark Souls, but it's a very fragmented story, leaving more to visual design than written interpretation- aside from the item descriptions. It's the kind of story that tells itself more than tells you. That's pretty hard to write. Anyway, trying my best here. Also, I got something to tell all you readers.

I feel obligated to ask you to leave any criticism and feedback in the reviews. And please, for the love of all that is sane, don't spam 'PLZ UPDATE SOON', it's not helpful, and only serves to irritate me. And if you do decide to review, please do try your best to make them longer than a sentence. That would be great.

This next bit will ostracize myself from (if what I've learnt from my years of lurking on this site mean anything) probably about 40% of the readers. I will not. EVER. Take suggestions from reviews or PM's about plot or pairings. I've seen too many stories derail and lose their original focus because the authors tried to pander to the readers. If they even had a focus to begin with. The only things I will make us of is the pointing out of inconsistencies, plot holes and grammatical errors. Anything else will be taken and promptly thrown into the metaphorical wind.