A/N: Welcome to the story Union of Hollows. I have played through both Dark Souls games three times and I am planning on playing the third game once it is released. I have always been fascinated with the lore and I love dabbling with a story's history in new ways.
This will be a different style of writing for me, but I am looking forward to it since I find potential in the story itself with the suspense and mystery surrounding it. I wanted to maintain the dark feel and some familiar characters of the games while also including new content to explore. I appreciate any reviews and critiques since much of the lore in Dark Souls has always been up for debate.
Feel free to send me PMs with questions or comments. I usually get to them within 24 hours unless otherwise noted.
This story is currently rated M for violence, blood and gore, language, and disturbing images.
Prologue
Do you see it?
She whispered into their minds.
A tainted fluid dripped from the ceiling of the cavern. It coagulated in an instant as it fell, altering mid-air and caking the armored warriors in blood that belonged to something no longer living. It was an unseen, accursed creature long devoid of a unified soul. Its existence was brought about by thin strains of life broken and hanging by delicate threads. It was a soul that abandoned the mind, succumbing to insanity.
The Darksign...
The few warriors that remained standing readied their weapons as strange creatures revealed themselves from the stalactites that had hidden them from the dancing flames. The humanoid creatures hid their distorted bodies under tattered, black robes with faces concealed by porcelain masks. They halted in an organized circle around the warriors that were now soaked in blood that mixed with their own. The masked creatures of the inner circle readied their crude scythes while those to the outside leveled bows with arrows infused with dark magic.
The blood crawling along the ceiling bubbled and threatened to erupt.
...it has taken him.
Some of the knights stole a glance to the throne at the end of the cavern where another Undead in black armor stood. The Undead they had once called "comrade" stood unmoving. He made no indication that he was going to assist them with this new enemy.
At his feet lay another Undead knight who grasped desperately at a Zweihander, a greatsword that pierced through his chest and pinned him to the stone floor. A limp form sat in a simple throne with her head lowered. A barely discernible rod of metal stuck out of her back through the throne. Her eyes struggled for the tenuous life, yet somehow remained locked on the Undead that lay at her feet.
The masked creatures seemed to grow impatient and charged forward. Some planted their hands on the ground and crawled like spiders with their scythes bending as if they were an extension of themselves. Many of them dropped the weapons in favor of slashing at the knights in a frenzy with their claws.
One of the Undead knights in bulky armor brought down a massive, double-edged axe that severed the spine of one of the crawling demons. The axe had once been the tail of a gargoyle killed at a church for the dead. The knight wrenched his weapon from the corpse and angled it parallel to the ground so he could drive the point at the head of the axe into the throat of another masked monster. It was as if the creature was immune to pain. It grasped with one hand at the handle of the axe and swung its scythe wildly.
All around was chaos. The masked attackers fell without a sound. An Undead warrior sliced the head off his enemy while another skewered an assailant with dual swords. One of the crazed creatures launched itself at a warrior bearing a large shield only to collide with it face-first. The shield-wielding Undead straightened his towering slab of metal and drove the curved edge of its bottom through an exposed throat. The dying monster spasmed and clawed at its killer's leather ankle bracers.
The hungry flames drew closer and reached for the ceiling where the blood threatened to collapse into a waterfall.
A hail of arrows arched through the air from the outer circle.
The flames...
The warriors occupied by the up-close encounter could not defend themselves against the wave of projectiles. Nor could those they fought. Many of the masked monsters were pierced by the senseless attack of their allies.
The armored Undead warriors shared in the pain, but they continued their valiant defense.
Severed limbs, broken bones, and pieces of indecipherable flesh...
The Undead assisted each other as the bodies of their enemies lay scattered around them. Some of them reached into their pouches and stared at the flasks that were now empty.
Many of the Undead had fallen as well. At one time they would have returned from the embrace of death since it had become so familiar to their cursed fates.
But the bonfires were gone.
One of the Undead reached for his fallen sword and realized that three of his fingers were missing. It was only then that he realized the extent of his grievous wounds. A despairing choke escaped him as he drew his gaze back to the throne.
The traitorous Undead in black armor now had his back to them and drew a broadsword from the sheath slung over his shoulder. He approached the dying female who sunk into the back of the throne. He stood over her, grasped the handle of the sword in both hands, and pointed the tip of the blade at her chest.
The wounded Undead stared on helplessly from across the cavern.
"Ana!"
...will fade...
The ceiling above collapsed and the Undead knights scattered as debris rained down on them. They regained their senses in time to witness the foreign presence that skulked amongst the fallen stone.
The front of its head was covered in lengths of metal like jagged teeth. Its spiked, lanky arms reached for two scimitars that had fallen near its clawed, metal feet.
It shifted its head as it observed the wounded Undead that remained to stand against it. The thing cocked its head to the side and its shoulders twitched in an unsettling manner like a rabid animal. It bathed in the dying flames around it and moaned in ecstasy as the flesh burned.
Then it was upon them. Their vigor had abandoned them.
The Undead comrades fell to the blades of the creature. One brave fighter dove under the swinging scimitars and managed to move in close enough to slice along the behemoth's exposed chest. The creature regarded him with its expressionless face and snatched him up in its claws. The Undead struggled to free himself until he was impaled by the blade of a scimitar that awaited below.
The Undead wielding the gargoyle axe dug his weapon into the back of the faceless monster but soon found himself flailing through the air a split-second later until his body collided with the side of a stalactite.
He lay there a moment as the world spun and dipped around him. He looked up when he regained his vision and his body succumbed to despair.
More of the crazed scimitar wielders appeared from the gaping hole above where the first had emerged. He stared paralyzed as his comrades fell one by one.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see an Undead with a gaping hole in his chest hunched over him. It was a miracle he was still even able to move. But they were Undead. They were beyond the limitations of living humans.
"My friend," the kneeling Undead gasped.
The one lying on the ground reached out and gripped the others wrist in a firm, reassuring handshake. He wanted to speak, but words had been stolen from him long ago.
The crouched Undead reached into his armor and held out a black feather stained with his blood.
The Undead on the ground shook his head.
"This world is lost." He forced the feather into his comrade's trembling hand. "It is no longer for me."
The Undead then stood over him and turned to the mindless creatures that closed in around them.
Souls lie broken. Pieces of shattered glass that once gave the identity of being. They now lie within the Chosen Undead of this world, to be mended and prepared for a convergence. He has made himself a vessel for their containment.
It is far too late for him. The accursed Darksign is now branded in his senses. He has fallen in its center. However, the emotions tied to his goals retain a twisted clarity. There is an awareness intensified like that of the true flame.
And then there is you...an Undead still with no meaning. An Undead striding blindly into a hidden purpose. What's transpired in your past is nothing but ashes scattered on the wind.
But you are different. No longer human, yet craving desires of those living.
Do you have something akin to humanity lying within you? Something bound by an unknown ambition?
The former self is not necessary for what endures now.
For your fate will be like all the others...
...
Darkness filled his vision. All he could do was reach out with a battered hand and grasp desperately at an endless valley of roots and dead foliage. The rough skin of the roots dug into his torn hands as he dragged his armored body forward inch by bloody inch. A stray rock rubbed against the wound in his side and he let out a pained gasp as a flicker of hard white flashed across the encompassing darkness.
There shall be no Age of Fire. The familiar voice echoed in his head. It was the voice of someone he had once thought of as a friend.
The ground soon went into a downward slope. The smooth armor worn by the Undead was met by a lack of friction. The Undead slid down the drenched hill and found himself face-first in a muddy ravine. The deep black swirled around his vision until a stinging pain shot across his stomach and chest as the polluted water soaked his wounds. A brief sort of relief came over him as the cold water felt like it was seeping into his bones. He thought he was dying until his numb, clawing hands grasped an outcropping of rock. The Undead pulled himself from the ravine and continued his trek on hands and knees until strength once again waned.
He then reached out for another hold but found himself grasping at nothingness. He lowered his arm to feel along the ground. His hand was met by the cold air. A feeling of loss clouded his mind and he lay there with his hand dangling over the edge of what he assumed was a cliff. The Undead warrior rested his head on the ground. He wished he could remove his helmet, but he found that one of his arms was no longer working while the other still hung limp over the cliff.
Nor will there be an Age of Dark.
The Undead knight remembered now. The betrayal. The supposed "Chosen Undead" had betrayed him. Betrayed them all.
With what energy remained in his body, the Undead rolled over to lay on his back with his lifeless hand still suspended behind him. He struggled to open his eyes and found that they still worked. Had they been sealed by all the caked blood? Perhaps the ravine...
The water had given him a last gift. It had given him the chance to look at the sky one last time. The sky was still beautiful even with the darkened clouds that smothered it. Cracks of lightning snaked across the sky and booming thunder echoed amongst the trees from the forest he had left a few feet away.
A trail of water creeped along his closed helmet and entered at a crease near his mouth. His tongue reached for it instinctively. The taste of the water awoke his senses.
He didn't want to go Hollow. The fingers of his working hand prodded the pouch at his side where his flask should have been. Gone. But he felt the softness of the feather brush his fingertips.
He was in a world that he assumed to be far from his own. In his world, the fire had been extinguished. No bonfire remained as a sanctuary for any Undead in that world. Soon they would all go Hollow. They would be nothing but shells, seeking life with the intent of quelling it.
There will be a new age. An age to end ages.
The voice of the Chosen Undead echoed in his mind one last time before it was subdued by his own. The despair that was once prominent in his mind was now consumed by hatred. The fallen Undead somehow found a hidden vitality lingering within himself. He lifted his dead hand and managed to outstretch his fingers despite the damaged nerves and muscle. He was Undead, but even this resistance with his battered body was a daunting task another of his kind might not be able to carry out.
He wanted to kill him. Never had he wanted something so passionately.
They had been so close. Whether it be to link the fire or to allow the Age of Man had meant little to him, but what this other Undead had planned was much more than just breaking the cycle. The dark-armored warrior, the Chosen Undead, his plans went beyond just ruination. It could be felt in the fire that all Undead shared. It was a fire that transcended beyond just a single world.
Had all the Undead sensed the deep loathing and firm resolve of the Chosen?
A cough escaped him, accompanied by a small fountain of blood. His chest heaved when he realized that he had been holding his breath. He let his head loll to the side and an unexpected sight met him.
He saw feet. Smooth, white feet. It was the prettiest, cleanest thing he had seen in a long time. Even the mud could not blemish them. They were so pale in contrast to the darkness around him.
The Undead let out a humorless chuckle that incited another coughing fit.
How funny, he thought.
The muddied ground shifted next to him and the feet disappeared under a tan cloak. The figure knelt down beside him and rested a hand on the exposed wound gaping along his chest. The Undead winced as a brief, but sharp pain crawled around his torn flesh. It was gone in an instant as a lukewarm sensation took over and coated the wound like an oozing film. Soon the pain subsided altogether. It was a relief despite the weakness that still lingered. His breathing steadied and he found that the air no longer tasted like bile.
The Undead knight turned his head so he could observe his savior.
A young female stared back at him, her head covered with a hood and one eye masked by her flowing brunette hair. Despite the finely stitched fabric of her outfit being drenched, she showed no signs of discomfort. As a matter of fact, her pretty face seemed to be devoid of any sort of emotion at all.
She removed her leather gloves and reached for the Undead's helmet and removed the clasps on either side. The Undead involuntarily flinched as the woman removed the lower portion of his helmet. Her focus didn't waver even when she observed the dead, broken skin that was revealed. From a pouch at her waste she produced a green flask containing some strange, dull liquid. It was a liquid coveted by all Undead: Estus. It contained restorative properties for the Undead.
Never did he think to see so many beautiful sights in many lifespans.
"Be still," the woman whispered.
The Undead knight obeyed and closed his eyes.
He saw the sun.