The Wolf and the Hunter

Foreword

Memory, it can haunt, comfort, fade, or burn. As long as I've been around, I've seen all of these things. The horror that haunts, the comfort of an old happiness, the burn of ire, and of course, the fading of Undeath.

I am Lupa, and I have a story to tell before the real tale can begin. These are my oldest memories, so if I should ramble, pay no mind. I fight hard each day just to retain my sanity, let alone recall my early life.

Campfire Tales-1

Before I became Undead, I was a nun, in a poor city in Carim. Each day I would see the starving vagrants and poor peasantry, and each night I would utter a prayer in their names. Our goddess, Caitha saw fit to let them die slowly. I disagreed.

One night, in my twenty fifth year, I took to the night, I acted against my faith, and I dressed in an old hunter's clothing. The black leather tight against my skin, and the leather shawl hanging loose over my right shoulder, I hid my face behind a hat, and tied my long blue hair in a ponytail.

I climbed up to the roof of the grand cathedral, and leapt from roof to roof. The Gothic architecture afforded me many ways to move around the city unseen. I worked my way to the wealthier part of town.

This would be my life, for several months. I would sneak around, and steal valuables from the wealthy. I then sold the stolen goods, and purchased food for the poor under the guise of church charity.

Finally, after eight months, I was caught, taken into the center of the city, and executed publicly. That is where the important part of the story begins. That was my last act as a mortal. I awoke screaming in bed.

The initial reaction I had was to check my wounds. After ten minutes of looking up and down, on the back of my right shoulder, I found the circular abyssal hole they call the Darksign.

It was not long before I was found by the guards. I went out into the night once more, to find my leg pierced by an arrow. I screamed in pain, and the guard dragged me to a cell.

I was moved from the cell to a reinforced covered wagon in the morning. I saw nothing for the longest time. The pitch darkness and unsteady motion brought me to the edge of madness, and peering over it, I found doubt. Doubt in my faith, doubt in my sanity, and doubt in myself.

The cart stopped, the door thrown open, and blinded by the light, I was dragged out once more. Tossed into a cell on the lower deck of a ship, I found that I'd be calling this room home for a while, if the carved tallies were an indication.

Weeks spent alone in the cell, fed once a day, left me tired, and terrified when I was dropped off at the asylum. I was once more locked in a cell. That would be my end, were it not for a mysterious knight from Astora.

He dropped a key on a corpse into my cell, without saying a word. This is one of the few moments I remember clearly after leaving the cell. I stumbled out into the halls, past my shambling, Hollow captors, clutching a sword hilt the corpse had been grasping. Each step hurt, my joints throbbed after decades of inactivity. I reached a ladder, and with great effort I climbed.

For the first time since I was captured, the sun truly, directly embraced my skin, leathery with age, and my near Hollow state. My mind was sluggish, I came to a sword hilt in a small pile of bones. I grasped the hilt and the bones lit fire.

The warmth was intoxicating, I sat close to the fire, the first comfort since well before I had initially died. I rested for quite some time, as day became night. My mind had time to clear, I was ready to move on, and knew what I needed to do.

I started toward the large double doors sharing the courtyard with the Bonfire. I entered them after expending great effort shoving the doors open. I took a moment to examine the room I was to enter, to the left a torch lit wall, leading to a doorway, to the right a torch lit wall with no openings, straight ahead another set of double doors, and above them a balcony, and above that, starlight.

A loud roar, a tumultuous crash, and a vague towering figure… I awoke at the fire. A wall of fog blocked my way. I entered again, the darkness near consuming, a vague, bulky shadow revealed only by the rumble of movement and the silhouette against the torchlight. I ran in, rushing the left, scraping my hand along the crumbling bricks of the left wall, leaving it pained, and bloody. A crash behind me, I stumble, falling to my left, a metal scraping sound, a clang. I look up, fear racing through my mind.

Metal bars block the passage I have stumbled through, A large hammer cracking the stone floor just outside the bars, it lays still a moment. The hammer shifts loose,lifting high enough to see the grotesque, curled, bat-like face of the gargantuan beast wielding it. I back away, down the stairs, tripping, and landing with a splash.

I get up, and frantically glance back, to see I've tripped over a twisted sword, and a pile of bones. Once more, I grasp the hilt, and once more a fire springs to life. I rested here, waiting, letting myself focus, panic gave way to determination. Stagnation gave way to desperation.

I stand up, and rush into a hall, a familiar feeling pierces my left leg, I look down to see an arrow sticking through my thigh. I limp, leaning left as I hop down the hall, My hand finds a lack of wall to grasp and I fall on my side, crying out in pain. I pull the arrow out, grunting and gasping in pain. I look around and grasp a small, round, leather and steel shield. I limp out into the hall, looking up the hall to see the archer, firing another shot at me.

This time, it bounces off of the shield, and I limp towards him. He begins to run around a blind corner. I reach where he stood in this dilapidated asylum, and something metallic skids away after my feet hit it. A knife, I grasp it in my hand, its serrated edge gleaming as the sun hits it. Grasping my new weapon, I limp after the archer, to find his hollowed form grasping a broken sword.

I block his first swing, the clang music to my ears, the recoil causing adrenaline to surge through me. I follow his lack of balance with a quick swing of the knife. He readies a second swing, and again, I block, shuddering knowing what comes next. I swing again, and again. The blood splatters over my face and chest, the archer falls limp to the ground. I take his bow.

Bow slung over my shoulder, I pass through the fog in front of me, limping onward, I reach a fork, overlooking the first fire I'd found, and decide on right. Going right, I find stairs leading up, and stairs leading down, I go up. As I limp up, I hear a metal scraping, and a rumble, a large metal sphere comes rolling down, and I fall off the side of the stairs on my right, trying to avoid it.

I stand up, coughing, and spitting out dust as I recover my composure, I hear a crash, and start up the stairs I've landed on. The wall at the landing is broken, I hear heavy breathing, and whimpering prayers.

"Gods, I'm done in. Please…" Interrupted by rasping, and a coughing fit. "Send someone, anyone. Give me a legacy."

I walk in, to find a knight, wounded, in a pile of rubble, and a hole in the ceiling. His helmet is half caved in, the faceplate hanging on roughly, dangling from his right cheek. His bloodied blonde hair hangs loosely in front of his slightly pale face. He raises his head to speak.

"You…" He coughs and rasps. "You are no Hollow."

"No…" I barely whisper, my voice unused for decades. The sound foreign to my own ears.

"Have you…" He sputters and coughs up blood, spattering it on his chest. "Heard the legend?"

"Legend?" I query softly. My voice stronger than it was a moment before.

"In my family there is a saying. Thou that art Undead art Chosen, in thine pilgrimage from the Asylum..." He coughs and rasps. "Make way to the land of Ancient Lords, and ring the Bell of Awakening, then thine purpose thou shalt know."

"You're hurt. Is there anything I can do?" I speak louder this time. Genuine concern in my voice.

"Yes. Take this key, and my Flask. Mend your wounds with Estus, and get away. I'd hate to harm a kind woman such as you after I pass." He holds out a bottle of glowing orange liquid, and a large iron key.

"But your wounds, they're worse than mine, you should drink it, and heal yourself." I try to reason.

He chuckles.

"Don't you get sentimental on me. I'm through, finished. Carry my name, and carry my flask. I am Oscar of Astora, last of my line." He coughs, sputters and rasps. I take the flask in hand, I hook his keyring onto my belt, and I raise the flask to my lips, drinking down some of the thick, sweet, warm liquid inside. I feel a tingling in my legs, and my chest. My broken ribs snap back into place, the hole in my leg closes up, and I feel newfound determination.

"At least, Oscar, allow me to give you last rites." He nods.

"Caitha, Goddess of Tears, I ask of thee, cry for this poor soul, undeserving of his end, shed blue tears upon this land, the place where this soul shall rest. I, your servant, Lupa of Carim, shall bear the weight of this soul, and carry forth his burden, that his soul mayest peace discover."

Events after this point are hazy, a blur of motion, a crushing pain, a loud beast's roar of pain, and splashes of red. A large bird, a new home, a dozen battles, a burning, and a sadness. Lordran was no more. My next memories were in Lothric.

-Interlude-

"Anduin, my good friend. How many years have we spent on this noble task, that I am just now spinning my tale?" I ask solemnly.

"Lupa, I've known you so long, you know I don't keep time. Not much point. Or am I still waiting on old age?" He jokes with a smirk. His short, scraggly brown hair was matted down with sweat, his Bascinet laying on the ground to his right, his shield strapped over his shoulder. His armor chainmail, with blue and gold cloth covering it, noble house markings old enough to be unrecognizable to Unkindled younger than he or I. He reaches up with a smile and swipes my hat, and puts it on his head.

"You and I are old, my friend. Over a hundred years, and we've known each other at least forty. That hat doesn't suit you, your hair's a mess to behold!" We burst out laughing. His guffaws are quite the rancorous sound. His voice smooth, and his disposition can make anyone smile.

"Well, we can't all have clean hair the colour of blueberries, can we? I'm a knight, not a primadonna!" His Astoran cheer is infectious. His sarcasm offsets my typical seriousness.

"Primadonna though I may be, at least I bathe regularly!" I jest. We spend the next several hours joking back and forth, and laughing to forget our troubles. If nothing else, Anduin of Astora is my best friend, and confidante.