Prologue: Firelink Shrine.
"Tarkus I… I have…" The once brilliant blue surcoat of the Elite Knight was now as tired and worn as he was. His helmet's pot-holed grill concealed his distraught emotional expression. The helmet was a blessings at times, to hide his anger, to hide his sarcastic grin, but when he was overjoyed and wanted to express himself, the dull grey iron shielded him from the world.
The Knight, in his tarnished silver armour stood with his arm slightly bent, his armour plates knocked together as he shakily gripped a piece of parchment with bright white, neon glowing text.
"I know my father is gone." Tarkus replied plaintively, before the Knight could reveal the contents of the letter. Tarkus, a giant of a man encased in an ebon dark bulbous mass of iron, sat, knee's apart, chin cupped in his hands, contemplating and staring deeply into the raging bonfire before him.
There was a dead silence as the brisk wind played with the flames; dancing and sparking, embers taken in the breeze.
Tarkus lowered his head, unsure what to do in the awkwardness he scratched a line through his gauntlet. The clump of rust peeled off like a slice of orange and fluttered away, revealing a dull reflective leaden iron. He could see the six black holes in his visor looking back at him, lifelessly.
"Do you want this?" The Knight did not know what to say, but he asked anyway, his voice soft and kind. Tarkus shook his head and shuffled back into a comfortable position, he rose slightly to push the leathery strands of his skirt underneath to cushion himself on the cold rock and grassless ground. The Shrines crooked, defaced statues loomed over, their shadows casting them in darkness. They appeared to the Knight as peering, eerie eavesdroppers, absorbed in their conversation that dare not look away.
The Knight crumpled the parchment and let it go, it spun over and swiftly dove off into the overcast sky. The clouds grew denser, a mass of grey and black slowly floated overhead. The rain would come eventually, but the fire of the shrine always lingered on, comforting any weary traveller.
"My father… he was a great knight of Berenike." Tarkus finally plucked up the courage to talk about his old man. In the last days before Tarkus left to this land, Lordran, he saw his father for the last time. He was losing himself, his mind degraded, his soul diminished. He did not even recognise his own son! It hurt.
He wanted to keep fresh in his mind the stories he had heard, of a time before he was even born. The stories, the legend, his father Iron Clad.
Chapter One: The Stories, The Legend… Iron Clad.
'The past can lock away unwelcome memories, it can conceal demons or hide the truth. Whoever is the last man standing, his memories will live on in the pages of history and the fallen warrior will be forgotten, even if he was the better man, a man of truth, of justice. The scribes are paid the highest wage to write one side of a story. They do not care about filing pages of ancient scripture, they're more interested in the weight of gold…'- Great Knight King Rendal.
A sporadic whistling wind swept up, cradling embers from a scorched bare plain. No trace of life, not even the faintest noise could be heard other than the gust. The birds that once swerved overhead were replaced by savage winged beasts, perched on burnt stumps. Their eager eyes scanned the plain, leering the fresh corpses. The forest, once rife with twisted oaks, was now cut down to mere blazed stumps and the peaceful pit-pat of wild deer's trotting could no longer be heard. Only hours ago, catapults bombarded the forest, their raining meteors tore through the sky and decimated the once glorious, flourishing greenery with a raging fire. A pall of smoke rose above the scarred woods. Men, young and old lay still, their emblems, which they swore allegiance to, meant nothing now. They were finally as one, resting together in eternal peace.
Amid the dust and smoke of the ravaged plain two great men remained, they squared off, but held back as they silently delved into their last reserves of strength.
Their nations were divided by trivial matters, both Kings claimed the land was rightfully theirs, and somewhere in the deceased plain, their banners, blood stained and torn, fluttered in the breeze. Really though… survival was all that weighed on their minds.
The taller of the two laid down his tower shield, as it crashed to the ground it broke and divided into two pieces. He gripped his Greatsword with two hands, tension wracked his body. Three spindly metal interloping tubes protruded from his dark grey cylindrical helmet, like an extravagant crown. An ebon contour resembling a river through the earth's crust, ran down the face of his helmet. The one side of his shoulder was layered with many plates, to deflect sharper piercing blades, on his other shoulder a giant curved slab defended his body where his shield could not reach. His chest was oval and wide and in the center a round small hole held a red glowing sphere. His fauld was made of chunky heavy iron and fanned out across his waist, connected below were several tasset plates which added extra protection over his greaves. The rest of his armour resembled many a Knights, only larger in scope, heavier and more defensive, yet encumbering. Engraved into the face of the plates were finely carved white intricate patterns, with numerous dents and scars alongside.
Opposite him, the young Knight Rendal, Commander of the Balder army, stood poised, his arm outstretched holding a fine tipped, yet solid Rapier, casually as if he was about to engage in fencing. The Balder armour was known for its scantily clad plating, but was physically strong, rock solid yet versatile and light. The wind blew a furious flurry, rattling between the gaps in his helmet and flapping his maroon cape viciously. The hairs on his arms pricked.
Their silhouettes cast peculiar shapes, one of a towering colossus the other a thin figure.
The fiery horizon raged ever more, the last battle cries and dying screams resonated in the fading echo. It sounded like a myriad of cries; of many survivors, but the open outdoors played tricks on their minds. The echo died, the two men slowly circled, foot over foot as if to begin a dance, their boots in steady cadence, waiting for one to strike and make a fatal blunder. One misstep, a trip on an unseen rock as they stared intensely was all it would take. They stepped forwards, the Greatsword, a mass of unwieldy iron to most men, crashed down, Rendal deflected the strike quickly with his wrist, swiftly lodging the sword into the ground. Rendal flicked forwards, chaining several blows, which resulted only in scraping agonisingly off the bulky impenetrable armour of the Berenike knight.
Iron Clad pulled the sword forth and struck, the blade caught Rendals cloak and tore it clean off his back. The cloth fluttered, stuck between sword and ground, until the sword rose upwards, the maroon twisted, flittering and twirling in the gust, back and forth before rocketing out of sight.
Rendal drew up his arm and thrust the tip forwards, it scratched another white line across Iron Clads chest plate, the oval shape stuttered Rendal in his follow up and his blade slipped across. Iron Clad brought down his elbow, covered in a round chunk of armour, and cracked down upon the Balder. The huge protective mass of armour on his back fractured, its broken bulk landed heavily onto the ash laden ground. Black particles sputtered upwards turning the once grey to black.
Iron Clad lunged forward on the assault, swaying his Greatsword exuberantly. Rendal ducked and dodged effortlessly, the obtuseness of that armour and its exaggerated size would ultimately enfeeble the man beneath it. Even his faithful Balder sword could not pierce the crude but effective Berenike armour, its empowering visage shadowing his every stride and strategy.
That dying cry resided in his mind, a constant bawling of bloody pain, he could imagine a young man holding his stump, bone jutting leg, crawling through the remnants of the once grand forest, with its canopies of greens and golds no more, desperately seeking help.
A turbid fog sifted through the ravaged landscape. A mess of wooden splinters and stakes that once held up monstrous catapults lay sprawled and where a fire had once raged, was now char coloured and black as the darkest soul.
The darkening horizon collided with the grey leaden moist clouds, a faint sprinkle of rain pattered against the armour clad warriors.
The immense Greatsword clanged down once again, Rendal cockily attempted to parry, but his side sword buckled, it pranged, splitting into two and flied wildly through the air. Iron Clad stood, silent, the shaky winds the only perceptible sound.
Rendal looked the giant in the eye, expecting his demise. He did not take a second gander, he scampered in the wet mud, globules of the muck kicked into the air as he scurried helplessly trying to locate a fallen weapon. A Balder Knight lay against a dry dead tree stump, as if he was resting peacefully. His customary Rapier lay beside him, a hue of iridescent red slithered across the face.
Rendal grabbed the hilt and spun it in his wrist, holding it upright with an emphatic swish of the blade.
Iron Clad attacked perilously, furiously heaving his sword and slammed down upon the wrecked Knight. He had read Rendal wrong, a dire misjudgement. Rendal parried the blow, he pulled back and held the Rapier two handed, in a swift motion he plunged the blade, penetrating through the iron barrier and into flesh. Iron Clad swayed sluggishly, as if he had swigged one too many jars of whiskey. The giant beast took a step back, gaining balance and swung upwards, an unfamiliar technique for such a weighty sword. He one handed the hulk of iron with ease, it flung upwards and struck Rendal on the grill of his Balder helmet, it shattered into a million shard's. The fearless, naive, and some would say reckless Knight, was thrown several feet into the air, before crashing down onto the sodden earth. Clumps of mud showered down, a heavier streak of rain pounded and coalesced into a puddle around him; the dirtied water emitted a foul stench, one of upturned corpses, which poisoned the air.
Iron Clad stood, neither wincing nor clenching his side in pain but remained statuesque beside the fallen Knight.
He rose his Greatsword and plunged it into the soft ground, the top half of its body trickled with water. He breathed heavily, in pain? Dissatisfaction? Oddly enough he was not content, he felt no pride in felling this Knight. No man could ever come back from this, their pride would take too huge a hit, there would be no legacy for valorous Knight Rendal… or would there?
The rain soaked Iron Clad finally turned to the opening firmament and looked at its dazzling multi-coloured array. The great blue sea in the sky spread its waves of shimmering sapphire, overlapping the greys and blacks, surging across until a rainbow sparkled into life accompanied by a ray of sunshine. Iron Clad held his hands high and let out an almighty bellow.